Getting out the tents
Straightening out the poles
Counting out the pegs
Shaking out the folds
Cutting out the excess
Clearing out my soul
A lighter verse today – an antidote to the news – the canvas is beckoning! Preparing for a break in Scotland and then my annual pilgrimage, Greenbelt Festival.
(05.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Spirituality
Poem 244 – Now I’m 52
You know it’s your 52nd birthday
when you keep thinking it is Friday
when in fact it is Thursday.
Is my subconscious telling me
to simply skip over it?
Being an Englishman
I don’t know where to look
when people sing Happy Birthday,
how to configure my face,
or if I should join in.
You’d have thought I’d have
worked it out by now.
I celebrate by trimming nostril hairs
I never used to have and
stretching out stiff limbs.
Perhaps I’ll treat myself
to a proper coffee while I work.
As a child I received cards,
as an adult, thumbs up from Facebook.
Internet forums I once joined,
but have long since forgotten,
emerge from the mists of time
to offer congratulations.
Will I do the same one day?
A dusty poem popping up
in someone else’s Google search?
I do some sums.
Three score years and ten?
Just eighteen left;
that doesn’t sound so good.
Let’s change the parameters.
Doubling makes one hundred and four
and allows the same to come.
Possible? Perhaps.
And as every day’s a gift
and I’m a half-full glass guy
I’ll gratefully take every one.
Yes, happy birthday to me
and many more to come!
For some reason I’ve got it in my head that today’s Friday, when it’s Thursday, and more significantly (to me at least), my birthday…
(16.05.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Becky Fantham on Unsplash (you may need to change your window shape/size to see the picture properly…)
Poem 242 – Under Albert’s Mushrooms
Back then I lived next door,
yes, Albert was my neighbour.
On summer days I used
to laze upon his lawns,
take out my books, kick off
my shoes, pretend to work.
Before that, though, I caught
Slowhand playin’ the blues
beneath your famous mushrooms.
A family friend had to
queue for tickets as
they went up for sale
prior to my coming.
Three summers and exams
were passed and then my turn
to strut upon the stage,
trying not to trip.
Handshake, applause, job done.
Top billing? No, I shared
the stage with a thousand
others and many yawns.
Later, I returned to
peruse Parisienne Walkways
as Belfast’s boy gave all.
Jaws were dropped in unison as
that note was held and held.
And then to cap it all
a Beatle stepped on stage.
Guitars did weep. And me.
Later I brought the family
to battle Daleks and
laugh at stupid deaths.
And now I’m back to see
poets rise up in anger,
tears, and fears, and hope.
It’s the hope that lingers,
hope found in new worlds
created by their words.
As one we rose and cheered,
and flowed out on the streets
and found them changed, made new.
Over the years I have been to the Royal Albert Hall many times for a whole array of reasons, graduation, guitar heroes, the proms and on Wednesday night, poetry (see: https://www.royalalberthall.com/tickets/events/2024/the-poets-revival/). Boy, was that a storming night.
(05.05.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
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)
Ode for the Day 