Pin on the poppies
Line up the flags
Lay out the wreaths
Grieve for the past
Stand still in silence
Remember the dead
Hold onto our history
Learn from those left
I had the privilege today of speaking at our local Scout Group’s Remembrance Sunday event.
(10.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
I am haunted, accompanied by ghosts,
the shadows from my past that lived and laughed
with me, shared my life, my joys and struggles.
These shades have made me who I am, they are
my friends, my skin, my thinking and my guides.
They aren’t to be exorcised but celebrated,
recognised, remembered, invited in.
At Halloween I celebrate my friends and family that went before me.
(31.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Erik Müller on Unsplash
The human mystery, the cryptic puzzle
of what makes minds and bodies tick.
The tick, tock, tick of chemical
reactions and emotional responses.
The mystery that makes us, us,
that charges love and triggers thought.
Conference is done and I’m home relaxing to House MD.
(30.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Catherine Hughes on Unsplash
We’re on the road to…
Somewhere, but we don’t quite know
Exactly where yet!
The second day of our church movement’s annual conference is done, and so am I – I help run it and only ever make it through with a combination of adrenaline, caffine and prayer! We’re on a journey over the three days of thinking about where we’ve come from, where we are, and where we might be heading next.
(29.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQiOA7euaYA
Photo by rafa espada on Unsplash
‘O that I may be
more and more useful
to the souls of my fellow creatures.
I want to be every moment
all life, all zeal, all activity
for God, and ever on the stretch
for closer communion with him.’
A life poured out fully.
Every single
last
drop.
On Monday I’m giving a talk at The Connexion conference on Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon. In my preparation I’ve been struck and struck again by the way she dedicated her whole life to her work. The two opening stanzas are her own words.
See also Poem 327.
(26.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Portrait by John Russell, used with permission of Trustees of the Cheshunt Foundation, Westminster College, Cambridge.
If only could go back and remix my life
so that it sounded like it was always meant to.
I could boost the passion, dial back the doubts,
urge myself forwards, embrace life more deeply.
I remember one quip in the playground, spoken
in haste and forty years on I still regret it.
Perhaps I could bring it down in the mix, so quiet
its shame is no longer heard, its punch not felt.
A pause could be inserted, allowing me
to think before I wrote that thoughtless letter.
The words were driven by the selfish moment,
and didn’t really reflect my ongoing feeling.
I’d certainly turn up my decisions for you, get out
out of my comfort zone, increase the effort.
In hindsight the focus needs to be shifted, like all
guitarists I tend to make it all about me.
Queen have been the soundtrack to much of my life. They’re about to release a remix of their debut album, to make it sound as they always wanted it to at the time. Made me wonder what else we could remix to make it sound as we’d meant it to.
(25.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Joel Chavarría on Unsplash
For such a time as this
a woman placed perfectly
within the social web.
Restricted by her sex
but bold in faith and hope,
she rejected expectation.
Ensnared by Love she weaved
compassionately a net
to catch her wary peers.
With tea and conversation
she welcomed with her chaplain
noble and politician.
Meanwhile the miner, unschooled
children, the poor and sick,
also received her care.
And as this web was woven
a grace filled spell was cast
entrancing church and country.
I’ve been reading up on the finder of our church’s movement, Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon. What a remarkable woman, to me, the Esther of her age. She deserves to be remembered so much more than she is – and a better ode than this!
(19.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo: Selina Hastings, Countess of Huntingdon by Unknown artist oil on card, circa 1770 NPG 4224 © National Portrait Gallery, London. Used with permission.
I encountered a stormtrooper
standing at our food bank.
I wasn’t expecting that.
He stood expressionless as
they always seem to be.
Who knows what he was thinking.
Was he plucking up
the courage to ask for help?
It isn’t always easy.
Or was he on a fact
finding mission? A watching
brief to assess choices?
Perhaps he was simply lost.
Again, that’s not unusual,
but I’m not so sure.
I didn’t know what to
say and so I asked
if I could take a selfie.
I’d like to think he smiled
under his helmet. At least
he didn’t shoot me back.
It’s a long story…
(09.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
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
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
