No celebrations.
No cake, no song, no parties.
No progress. No hope?
One year on from the massacre that sparked the current violent spiral in the Middle East.
(07.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by DAVIDCOHEN on Unsplash
Spirituality
Poem 311 – Sheep, Sleep, Dream
Counting sheep?
That’s what we do when
we want to summon sleep.
We close our eyes and count
That bundle of black and white.
1, 2, 3…
And soon the bleating fades
Becoming clouds that float
In a dreamy eyelid landscape.
That one resembles a friend
I used to know before,
In a school that used to be
Big but now is small.
4, 5, 6…
The red bricks reconfigure
Become our childhood home.
We gather, play that game
We invented once, one lazy
Summer holiday.
I count, you run. We argue.
We laugh and laugh and laugh.
7, 8, 9…
My kite drifts higher and higher,
Outlined crisply against
The blue. I join it, weightless
And fly across the fields.
I’m met elsewhere by someone
Who doesn’t belong, not here, not now.
This interruption passes
Unnoticed. For now it makes sense.
10, 11, 12…
I’m pedaling on my bike,
Feeling great and weightless.
Roaming at will. Freedom.
I absorb the neighbourhood,
Visiting its corners,
Extremities and folds.
Its blanket smothers me.
13, 14, 15…
The face of a first girlfriend,
Holding hands, first kiss.
Long hair, guitars, the band.
Aspirations that
One day I’ll find that note
And take it around the globe.
16, 17, 18…
That sheep reminds me of
The teacher who inspired me.
See, that plant he gave me
Is growing up and up
like Jack’s beanstalk, it
devours it all. We run.
19, 20, 21…
It’s funny how the faces
We revisit, are all
The old ones, childhood ones.
Black devours white
until the morning light
brings day, and all’s forgotten.
52 and counting…
It’s National Poetry Day, and the theme is counting. I set out to write a poem about the Parable of the Lost Sheep, which is all about counting, but the poem wouldn’t have it and instead took me elsewhere. Poems do that. Not so long ago I was reminiscing with my parents, I guess that’s partly where this poem comes from – I’m 52 by the way. The older we get, the more we seem to spend in our childhood.
(03.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash
Poem 309 – Two Worlds
When two worlds collide
Just what is the solution
When the argument between
Defence and prosecution
Ignores what is offered
Ignores resolution
Is all about winning
Not peaceful conclusion
There’s no accommodation
And this generation
Remains stuck in the past
Follows the last
There’s no way out
No chance for doubt
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
Take out the doors
And blow off the roof
The victims the innocent
Along with the truth
The children are crying
Their parents are dying
Following the firing
Of bullets and bombs
Hope is undone
By the use of the gun
Can’t we please all step back
Get life back on track
Put down all our weapons
And stop the parading
And all the lie trading
There’s work to be done
If we are to find
Peace in our time
When two worlds collide
And help them align
A bit of a word splurge, this one. Definitely not my usual style at all, and probably a bit naff. A case of starting to write, following the flow, and seeing where it took me. And this is it.
(01.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Emad El Byed on Unsplash
Poem 302 – I Will Never
I shall never scale the heights of Everest,
explore the alien ocean depths beneath,
or skydive from the breathless edge of space.
I’ll never run the fastest 100 metres,
hop, step and jump into the record books,
or climb the podium of the Tour de France.
I will never win the Nobel Prize,
for scientific discoveries as yet undreamt,
or finally nailing down the theory of everything.
My paintings will not hang next to Van Gogh’s,
my verse be ranked with sonnets by the Bard,
or songs be played upon the radio.
My name will quickly fade from recollection,
there will not be biographies of me,
nor obituaries typed up in The Times.
But I will strive to love and that’s enough.
For love is all that’s truly asked of us,
and Love will be my harvest and reward.
Today I’ve been thinking about what it means to be fruitful as I’ve been planning various Harvest celebrations I shall be involved in. Paul’s words in Galatians 5:22 came to mind, ‘But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control’.
(24.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Poem 294 – I’ve Never Known Your Voice
The view across the lake,
from the crest of Cader Idris.
The eyes of my life’s love as
she glances in my direction.
Feeling B.B. King’s vibrato
and Gary Moore’s sustain.
The emotional release of
an encore’s delighted applause.
The rich aroma released
from freshly ground coffee beans.
The taste of blue cheese. It shouldn’t
work but somehow it does.
Snuggling up on the sofa
and finding another’s world.
Talking to a gathered crowd
and holding them in your hands.
Discovering flamingo
mouths are upside down
so they can eat with their heads
between their distant feet.
Black and white images
formed within the womb.
The sight of freshborn signets
their feathers still damp with shell.
I’ve never known your voice,
not heard you talk out loud,
and yet, it strikes me that,
you’ve never really stopped.
Someone mentioned to me the other day that they’d heard God speak, and this got me thinking. I’ve never had that privilege, and yet…
(16.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo NotFromUtrecht, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Poem 292 – The Weekend
There’s nothing so sweet
As the Saturday treat
Of lying in bed
Such a lazy head!
Off to church Sunday morning
No doubt I’m still yawning
Singing songs to our maker
There’s nothing much greater
But when Monday comes
And the alarm starts to drum
And pounds in my head
Oh how I long for my bed!
A rare treat of a lie-in this morning. Much appreciated.
(14.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash
Poem 290 – First Bite
Freshly plucked, I wipe the apple
upon my jumper (it’s first outing
this year). It’s sharpness suits the air.
Chomping upon its core (I always
eat apples whole), I find myself
wondering about Snow White and witches.
A single bite is all it took
to curse our heroine with death-
like sleep that lasts ’til Charming comes.
Should I worry that like Adam
I’ve brought upon us Autumn’s sleep,
a sleep that lasts ’til Spring’s first kiss?
After taking assembly today, a local head offered me an apple from a tree growing on their grounds. It was green and tart but lovely!
(12.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
Poem 288 – Colour Coded
Do you remember the days when cowboys
wore colour coded hats?
It made life simple when the good guys wore white and the bad guys all wore black.
Back then you knew who to cheer for and
just who you were supposed to boo at,
so when Star Wars came out it messed with our heads,
despite dressing Darth Vader in black.
He was the baddie, so this made sense,
but what about his sidekicks,
All dressed in white from head to toe –
just what were we supposed to think?
And now there is Batman, a hero in black,
haunted by demons and grim,
and what about the Hulk, who’s green and fueled
by a rage that lies deep within.
The binary was burst, the black and white blended,
our heroes, their creators, reflect,
’cause inside we’re the same, you and I, and the rest,
a colourful, motive-mixed, mess.
At our weekly drop-in lunch at church today, I found myself reflecting on the dress code in old black and white westerns. This poem followed.
(10.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Bailey Alexander on Unsplash
Poem 283 – Rituals
Reaching for you first thing
and putting on the kettle second.
Wash, then brush my hair and teeth,
then choose my clothes for the day.
A prayerful pause, a stillness,
as I boot the computer.
Reverently playing my vinyl
when I’m home and working alone.
Grinding the evening’s coffee
and offering up its aroma.
A chapter in bed before sleep
then turning to find you again.
The day is full of rituals
and every one a prayer.
Turning an LP this afternoon whilst boiling the kettle got me thinking about my daily rituals.
(05.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Yohan Marion on Unsplash
Poem 279 – Twenty-Five Years
Twenty-five years,
three weddings and
too many funerals.
Baptisms in the garden,
sometimes warm,
but usually freezing.
Broxbourne foodbank,
winter night shelters,
Big Picnics at the park.
Soul Survivor,
Greenbelt,
weekends away.
Two schools and
numerous toddlers
toddlering.
Neverending rotas,
conversations,
unexpected meetings.
Five Advent candles –
so, who remembers
what they mean?
Pastoral visits,
Drop-In lunches
and nursing home services.
Three electric guitars
and three road bikes
pressed into service.
Church redevelopment
requiring prayer and
grants for funding.
So many faces,
places, emotions
and activities.
So many, so much
and yet throughout,
one God, one church, one family.
Today I celebrated 25 amazing years as minister at Wormley Free Church. What a privilege it’s been! These verses don’t do it justice, but I’ve loved being here and looking forward to where our life together as a church family takes us next.
(01.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Ode for the Day 
