Spirituality

Poem 836 – Holy Monday

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In deft defiance, an act of holy disorder,
The tables are turned within the Temple Courts,
And many moneychangers made to moan.

An act of targeted terrorism or
The perfect protest made to pillory
The priests’ hypocrisy in oppressing the poor.

In judgement Jesus stands for the Gentiles, calling
For peace and prayer, not spiteful separation,
Aiming his anger at their acts of partition.

Today is Holy Monday, the day that Christians traditionally remember Jesus’ protest in the Temple.
(30.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Anton Mislawsky on Unsplash

Poem 835 – A Palm Sunday Sonnet

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The red kite wheeled observing us below;
a skillful twitch of tail, a turn, a dive
to keep us in its view. We gathered so
that we might not forget just how you strived.
Your fight? To make your message plain that you
were not the coming saviour that we reckoned
on. From feeding multitudes with food
to handling ‘blind’ religious leaders’ heckling,
you laid out in deeds your Father’s call on
your life to rule by sacrifice not might;
a monarch on a donkey not a stallion
demanding love by deeds instead of right.
The kite joins children crying out in hope
its mewling anthem joins their pericope.

Arriving at church for our Palm Sunday service this morning, I was quite taken by the magnificent red kite flying overhead. Not my best (still trying to get to grips with rhyme), but it will do.
(29.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Avel Chuklanov on Unsplash

Poem 826 – For the Innocent of Iran

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The days are light and spring is here.
Winter now seems a distant coup
and so I was confused when you
proclaimed with joy, Happy New Year.

Nowruz Mobarak, ‘happy new day!’
On hearing playful birds’ fresh tunes
and admiring the new born blooms,
the penny dropped, it’s more sense this way.

And so I wish you hope this instant.
Whichever start you mark, I pray
that amongst the shelling you may stay
faithful, and find there hope persistent.

It’s the Iranian New Year today, or so I learnt from my new Iranian friend at our Conversation Cafe. My prayers are with his family and the ordinary people of Iran, those caught up in a war inflicted upon them by those in power.
(20.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Chris Linnett on Unsplash

Poem 824 – Potential

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I was only looking for something clumsily
knocked behind our exhausted kitchen units.
For once I’m glad of silly hamfisted blunders…
Taking off the wooden panel revealed
the cup lids lurking in a darkened corner.
Grasping them triumphantly I found
my fingers strangely damp and stained with earth.
Wet? It doesn’t rain down there and yet
the evidence suggests otherwise…
A mobile phone becomes a makeshift torch
illuminating spiderwebs and trash,
an eerie realm of quirky, eccentric shadows.
Contrasting with the dark are silver streaks,
glistening like precious ore deposits,
momentarily magical until
the mundane reasserts itself. This is
not wealth but water, treacherous and slick.
I search and search until I find the source,
the finest spray from an unassuming valve.
Even the mighty Nile begins like this,
and like a river, such current flows and spreads.
Do not dismiss the potential of small things.

Thankfully, we were able to fix it. Hopefully it will dry out without too much damage to the flooring…
(18.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Brandon DesJarlais on Unsplash

Poem 818 – Them Foreigners

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Sometimes, I wonder who the foreigners are?
The ones housed in a nearby hotel I’ve come
to know, whose humanity has touched my soul?
Who had to turn away, with shuddering shoulders,
fearful for their family in Iran?
The ones who persevered, despite their stuttering
tongues, to find a way across the gap?
Who strove to get a job and contribute,
caring in ways that we cannot or won’t?
Or those celebrating its closing down
by insisting ‘them foreigners aren’t welcome here’?

The more I’ve got to know our neighbours, the more I’ve seen our shared humanity.
(12.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Lisa Marie Theck on Unsplash

Poem 808 – Embrace the Grey

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As I’ve got older I’ve noticed
That grey has invaded my eye brows.
They are not alone.
Increasingly I find
It in my politics
And streaking my theology.
Gone are the days of black
and white and hairlines,
And close up I don’t see
So clearly anymore.

It’s not that I have lost
The idealism of youth,
I remain a dreamer,
But I have learnt in this world
Sometimes options are messy,
Not simply right or wrong.
This isn’t a dreary dullness,
An insipid washed out life,
But an edgy place of risk
That forces thought and faith.

I thought when I’d grown up
I’d know, you know, but no.
The certainties have gone
And all that’s left is hope,
And living on the line,
And love and love and love,
And nothing’s riskier than that.
And so I think and pray
And act and hope and trust
That Love is big enough.

Honestly demands me to admit that the older I get the less I think I know. Thankfully, amongst the debates and decisions, the question gets simpler, what does love look like here.
(02.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 807 – I Believe in Tomorrow

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Tomorrow bombs of confetti will
be dropped on those we disagree with.
Campaigns of generosity will
be inflicted on our enemies
and joyful marches will take place
protesting love for the stranger.
Tabloids will express a welcome
and social media will be social.
During elections our politicians
will say nice things about each other,
and spam bots will be used to give
good gifts to naive recipients.
Tomorrow the lion will lie with the lamb
whilst all colours will dance together.
I still believe tomorrow will come,
I do, but for now we just drop bombs.

I refuse to give up but sometimes it’s hard to hold onto hope.
(01.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Erik Brolin on Unsplash

Poem 799 – In Hoc Signo Vinces

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Whilst marching with your men, a mighty vision
rose up in the sky, a sign above the Sun.
Both crisp and clear this vision of the cross
emboldened you, bright burning with the order,
go forth and in hoc signo vinces.

‘Born again’, baptised by Eusebius
and strident with new faith, you set to war
the cross enshrined on shining shields and
having defeated all who fought your fearsome sword, you sit serene upon your throne.

But in your daring did you ever doubt
such conquest by the cross of Christ who sought salvation not by sword but sacrifice?
This man made mighty by humility,
his love will ever stand above your reign.

Outside York Minster sits a statue of Constantine, the Roman Emperor who’s ‘conversation’ led to Christendom, the joining of the power of the state to the church.
(21.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 798 – York Minster

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This mighty edifice imposes itself upon
the horizon, a brutal slab of stone. It thrusts
into the sky distorting gravity;
we stand before its feet and sway.

Above an array of monarchs, saints and grotesques
stare down at us, distorted faces worn
by age and weather. Their bulging eyes follow
our fleeting lives that form and fade with the wind.

For the last few days, York Minister has been the dramatic backdrop to our lives, what an amazing building.
(20.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026