Poem 240 – A New Day

The subtle scent of freshly woken grass
and crispness of the sky arrest me as
the door is opened on the dawning day.
Sparrows, already up, are catching the
proverbial early worm and the morning’s gossip;
the air is thickened with excited chatter.
Jostling students join them, calling out
greetings to newcomers in their growing flock.
I remember being in their number.
But now is not for melancholy thoughts or
nostalgic longing for carefree childhood days.
I wave goodbye to my departing wife
and note the soft cool air that curls around
my naked ankles; I’m still in my pajamas,
time to wash the night away and dress.
Cat Stevens comes to mind and Etch-a-Sketch
where with one swipe the old is wiped away
and the new is ushered in.

The smell of dew dampened grass greeted me as my wife left for work this morning, bringing with it the fading refrain of Morning Has Broken sung at a recent funeral.
(18.04.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sergio Otoya on Unsplash

Poem 229 – Twelfth Night

We decked the halls with boughs of holly
but now we’ve cleared them all away.
The cards have been recycled and
the decorations stashed today.

The holy couple’s journey’s done,
the shepherds’ tea-towels have been washed.
The wise men have at last gone home,
alas, the donkey costume’s lost

The streets outside seem strangely quiet
with no discordant flashing lights.
The pubs are empty, roads are still
perhaps at last a silent night.

It came upon a midnight clear
but twelve nights on it’s gone away.
It’s packed its bags and left you down
with feelings miserable and grey.

But even though the stable’s empty,
the carols sung, the manger bare,
that does not mean the story’s over
the chapter closed on this strange affair.

For from the school hall where our children
rehearsed their lines, received applause,
the Christ-child moved into our streets
and made his residence right next door.

‘The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighbourhood…’ John 1:14 (MSG)

I planned to try and write a poem for each day of the Twelve Days of Christmas, but life happened. 8/12 is not too bad though. Oddly enough, I started this one first and have been arguing with it throughout, trying to do it in rhyme, which felt appropriate, but without becoming too twee.
(05.01.24)

© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Greyson Joralemon on Unsplash

Poem 228 – Moses Goes for a Drive

There’s a river where the road is, a
rolling, writhing, river brown that
snakes around my wheels and threatens
to submerge me, drag me down. This
river wasn’t here before, it
caught me by surprise. Before I
had a chance to turn away, it
surged up to my fearful doors. No
turning back, I am committed,
I must stay the course. I hold my
breath, steady the wheel, lift up my
staff and hope and pray. Be bold and
trust that God makes waves and once more
saves the day.

On the 9th day of Christmas I found myself driving in Nottinghamshire through flooded roads brought about first by Storm Gerrit and then Henk. I found myself wondering what the consequences of mingling an electric car with flood water might be…
(04.01.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Original photo by Chris Gallagher on Unsplash

Poem 222 – Christmas 2023

If Christ was born today
he’d not be manger bound
but laid within the dust.

This year there’d be no shepherds,
nor angelic song,
sirens will sound the welcome.

With Banksy grafitiing
four bombers on a stop sign,
no dreams are required to run.

Joining the refugee train
I find myself pleading
where have the wise men gone…

This poem was inspired by the photo, a nativity scene outside Christmas Lutheran Church, Bethlehem in the occupied West Bank. Exploring the Christmas story with the events unfolding in the Palestine/Israel this season has had quite a different feel to it.
(25.12.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 221 – Between

The sun hesitates;
the damp ground is left longing.
This seasonal purgatory is
an advent pause that’s caught
between what was and what’s to come.
A time to hold our breath
and wait in faith and hope.

Walking back from taking a Christmas assembly at school earlier this week, I was struck by how gloomy it was. The day hadn’t quite managed to begin, and probably wouldn’t do so before night set in.
(09.12.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo adapted from Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Poem 217 – Prayer

A conversation
not a trade in facts.
A getting to know
and becoming known.
A comfortable pause or
provocative silence.
A chance to let rip
and tell it how it is,
at least,
how you think it is.
A generous gift
not obligation.
A time for distraction,
to recall all
those other things
you need to do
and some you really don’t.
Frustrating.

When I talk to Dad
it’s sometimes serious,
often not.
We tell our news and
tread the regular ground.
A joke is shared
I may have heard before.
It doesn’t matter.
I always finish
thinking I
must do
this more.

I was challenged to write a poem on prayer by a good friend. Difficult. Prayer is hard to pin down, besides I suspect this person prays more than I do. Recent conversations gave a way in.
(21.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 210 – Autumn Mornings

Zoe Ball speaks and yet the world is dark?
I double check in case the clock deceives.
Alas, it doesn’t. Zombie-like I rise.
The morning’s urgency has drained away,
its greyscale smear a strain upon my soul.
Even our pot plants share this weariness;
their flowers droop, they hang their heads in shame,
and outside in the dark the trees stand bare.

I’m not a morning man. Our alarm clock plays Radio Two to wake us up. It now sounds before the sun rises. This is not a good combination.
(25.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Sonja Langford on Unsplash (original in colour)

Poem 208 – Including Judas

My table stretches,
extends so all
can gather round
to eat.

Pictures of the Last Supper always feature a large table – it would have to be to accomodate the twelves disciples as well as Jesus! It always fascinates me that Jesus welcomed them all to share such an intimate and pivotal meal, especially Judas, who he knew was about to betray him. What is this? Foolishness? Naivety? Or simply an act of inclusive grace?
(See also the end of this post by by Nadia Bolz-Weber)

(02.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Image by Leonardo da Vinci – High resolution scan by http://www.haltadefinizione.com/ in collaboration with the Italian ministry of culture. Scan details, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3032252

Poem 207 – Stranger-Danger (or ‘To Peddlers of Fear’)

It started with a journey on
the road to Jericho,
a dangerous route through dark shadows
that gathered down below,
where gruff bandits would grimly wait
to bring brave travellers low.

One cudgel swing is all it took
to land a stunning crack.
It sent our traveller spinning round
and landing with a thwack.
They stripped him of his clothes and riches
ripped them from his back.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

But do not fear he’s not alone
behind him comes a priest,
the highest in the hierarchy
the first at any feast,
you’d like to think that he would stop
and offer hope at least.

But no, he crosses over to
the far side of the street,
then hurries past without delay
propelled by hasty feet,
you see, he fears that blood’s unclean
and he could be deceased.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

Next up a Levite walking fast
to catch up with his friend.
They both work at the temple and
he’ll meet him round the bend,
but look, he spies the battered body
and I guess, you guess, the trend!

His mate has made his mind up for him
not stopping to assist,
a guilty grin then moving on
he did not want to miss,
the chance to make their rendezvous
their plans, his needs, dismissed.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

So who’s up next in this our list?
You’d guess an average bloke,
someone who had a normal job,
one of the common folk,
but no, it’s stranger-danger time,
take care, this is no joke.

You see the next to come along
is not from round these parts,
he’s one of ‘them Samaritans’
no, he won’t have a heart,
’cause they’re a bunch of heretics
From true faith they depart.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

Without a moment’s hesitation
he stoops to check him out,
to wash his wounds and bind them up
without a single doubt,
then tenderly he lifts him on
his donkey strong and stout.

From there he risks a journey to
a nearby Jewish inn.
He gives the host two coins to start
if they would care for him
and promises that he’ll return
to ensure that they’re quids-in.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

This story ended with a question
to an expert in the law,
‘which one was like a neighbour
to the man left on the floor?’
He found it hard to say although
we know, he knew, for sure

‘The one who showed him mercy’ was
the most he could reply.
It’s easy to see good in those
we love, but hard to try,
to see it in the ones we hate
the ones we’d rather die.

You peddlers of the politics
of fear and hate and lies,
who spread a gospel telling us
who we must all despise,
I’m sure that Jesus would cry out
‘Please go and do likewise!’

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

A couple of years ago I discovered the joy of Bob Hartman’s Rhyming Bible. Having explored the parable of the Good Samaritan at church last Sunday, I thought I’d have a go at rendering it along similar lines, although mine comes with a little bite at the end, as befits Jesus’ parables and, dare I suggest, politics. It has a refrain, meant for everyone to read along to.
(30.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Photo by Ggia, dust spots/scratches removed by Kim Hansen. Edges cropped due to scan. Further restoration improvements using masks by Ggia., CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 205 – The Memories of a Time Traveller

When I was little, time stretched out
but now I find the past, present
and future are condensed and tight.
From here, my former selves converge
just like a Doctor Who special.
I wonder how it ends?
                                                Perhaps
it’s like a concertina flow:
relax, compress, relax once more?
What if, however, it’s a black hole:
relax, compress, compress, compress?
Is there a memory time horizon
past which our recollections are
so dense they can’t escape?…
When I was young the wars seemed so
far back, but now they seem so close;
my parents seemed so old, but now
I find they were younger than I am today.
A year is but a month, a month
a week, a week a day, time slides,
and like a fairground hall of mirrors
the path’s confused and found distorted.
Within the glass I see the man
that I’ll become, imposed upon
the timefree boy I used to be.

As Doctor Who once famously said that time isn’t linear, but actually is, ‘like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff‘. Maybe it’s something to do with having passed the half-century, but I’m certainly finding this to be increasingly true.
(18.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash