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

Poem 203 – Before

The lull before the storm, dark clouds are gathering
I’m waiting for the punch(line), my stomach’s tumbling
Holding my breath, as butterflies are swarming
I check my watch, anticipation’s clawing,
Its second hand is creeping, time is dawdling
It’s slowed right to a stop, and I’m left…
……………………………………………………………..dangling
The wait’s more painful than the actual happening

I suspect we all know what it’s like in the build up to a significant event: an interview, exam, funeral or moment of personal conflict. I don’t know about you, but usually I find the build up worse than the climax. I don’t usually rhyme like this, but this time it accidentally fell into that rhythm. Like most poetry, best spoken out loud.
(09.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Agê Barros on Unsplash

Poem 199 – Greenbelt Portaloo Roulette

A midnight queue
to use the loo
the final act has faded.

Where could it be,
this lavatory,
on which my bum descended?

A Kettering field
in which we yield,
our hearts and minds upended

A place of grace
but a trial I face
‘cos without a trace
the toilet roll has ended!

Greenbelt Festival is home to me, a place I’m pulled back to year after year to meet friends, have my soul restored, and enjoy a thoroughly good time. This year was no exception. The combination of talks, music, camping, and yes, poetry, is good for me. Home now, I’m missing it all, all that is except the portaloos…. Here’s one written at the end of Saturday night.
(29.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 198 – Silence

Sometimes, the most eloquent prayer is silence.
It says I cannot feel your pain because
I do not walk the path you tread, it’s yours.
In ignorance, I have no words to give;
those I possess will not suffice, meaning
speaking belittles your experience.
And so, like Job, I hold my hand across
my mouth to offer you the best I can.

As a church minister, I frequently find myself with people facing suffering. I’ve learnt that the best thing to say is often nothing at all. The best thing is to simply be there with them.
(17.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

Poem 194 – The Importance of Space

We gathered round and peered.
The husband said, ‘It’s deep,’
I nodded in agreement.
‘It’s deep so I can fit on top.’

I backed away to give
him space for thought. A moment’s
silence, and then, amen,
the hole was filled with prayer.

Leaving, I noticed that
his arms were full of nothing,
as was his car, and home,
his sentences left…

Sometimes the nothing hurts,
but not always. Sometimes
it takes familiar shape,
its contours reassuring.

I haven’t posted a poem for a while, partly because I’ve been distracted with other things, and partly because I’ve been grappling with this one. It started off as a poem about the importance of giving others space to be, but ended up as something else. I worry it’s a little glib, I hope not, but I don’t think I can take it any further right now.
(16.07.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Valentin Lacoste on Unsplash

Poem 192 – An Artist? Me?

I wonder if the street artist
who paints the lines along the road,
finishes with a signature,
a declaration: ‘This is mine!’

Or does the cashier get a credit
in recognition of the music
performed skillfully day by day
extemporaneously at their till?

And how about the office temp
who chisels out the perfect script
incisive words carefully cut
and sculpted on their laptop screen?

Or what about the manager
who orchestrates the staff,
conducts with policies and emails:
please take a bow for your performance!

There’s something in the way we’re made,
embedded deep within our soul,
that leads us to express ourselves:
the truth is everyone’s an artist.

A throw away joke over our church drop-in lunch about signing road markings got me thinking…
(23.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Grooveland Designs on Unsplash

Poem 190 – Outside These Walls

Unmanicured, my garden dances,
a field of sunlike dandelions,
swaying to a salsa beat.
No doubt my neighbour thinks it’s wild.
It is. This is nature’s rhythm.
It’s raw, untamed, and improvised. Wild-life.
Inside, I ache. Fettered, I wish
to join them but it’s too late and so,
instead, I watch the sparrows flit
between their stalks in freedom songs.

I’m a lazy gardener, and so need little encouragement to join #NoMowMay, in fact I’ve strayed into #NoMowJune (sadly the alliteration isn’t as good…) It turns out that being lazy is good for our barren garden, now it’s full of life.
(07.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 189 – Who Am I?

Who am I?
I am how others see and shape me, friends
and colleagues, neighbours, enemies. I shift expression, slide to meet whoever stands
before me now. I am your husband, friend
and lover, sharing lives, and tears and dreams.
You’ve had my best and worst. I wonder what
you see, you who knows me best, who am I?
I am my work, my nine to five and more;
it’s how we catalogue and frame the other.
I am the teacher’s son, the scientist’s too,
designed by nature, nurture, chicken, egg.
Does anybody know the essential me,
the one beneath these morphing layers?
                                                                                I don’t.
He is not there, he doesn’t exist. I am
only because this web creates, remakes me.
I am I and you and him and we.

Who is the real me? A counterpoint to my previous poem (Poem 188 – Exposed). Those of faith might spot another allusion and contrast.
(23.05.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Hermann Wittekopf on Unsplash

Poem 182 – Scarred

Our scars are pinned upon us,
a transcript of past hurts
inscribed upon our flesh
so that we don’t forget.
This catalogue of incident,
like DNA, describes us.

Below, a deeper inventory:
the scars torn in our hearts,
witnesses to past pains,
which also carved our character,
etching personality.

Easter morn and scars
still marked the risen Christ.
Incongruous wounds? Not these.
Without them he’s reduced,
Messiah undone, no victory won,
a shadow of a saviour.
They’re how we know it’s him.

One day we’ll also rise,
but will our grave-born bodies
enjoy disfigurement,
stigmata of past battles
displayed in celebration?
Or will our newborn skin
be left bereft and clean?
If so, I have to ask,
will we be recognisable?

An Easter poem. Will the life to come render our current experiences irrelevant, or do they count, even the tough ones. A sequel of sorts to Poem 181. I might come back to this; it’s not quite there, but close enough to express my thoughts.
(10.04.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Tom Jur on Unsplash