Spirituality

Poem 79 – We, The Echo

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Across the valley’s sides
The sound is mimicked as
A bird repeats its owner
Rehearsing copied phrases

These sounds, whilst not the same
As imperfections intrude
Decaying patterns fade,
Are recognisable
The second valve follows
The beating heart’s first drum

Tonight your people meet
Inspired by their God
The Father, Spirit, Son
Living in unity
Bound by their common love
That reaches outwardly

Our simple prayer remains
That as your love echoes
Across this valley’s sides
It’s found reflected here
Repurposed in our lives

Although we smudge your image
The paint is smeared as printed
We hope as we live out
Our lives amongst our neighbours
That they might recognise
The fumbled love we offer
Originally has
It’s source in you, the start
The Word in the beginning
Who set the echo off
And like an avalanche
May the cascade begin

(27.01.22)

Last night our church family gathered. We talked about who we are and the people we want to be and overnight this conversation became a prayer.
© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 69 – Ancient Roots

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I spat in a tube this morning
To find out who I am
And then that tube was posted
(Apologies postman!)
Of course there’s more to me
Than my genetic code
There’s everything that’s happened
On life’s long winding road
But I have always wondered
Where my tribe came from
Are my roots in Britain
Or do we have it wrong
Perhaps they are Germanic
Or Scandi, French or Switz
African or Asian
But whatever’s on my list
This fair land has shaped me
And others influenced
And through this cultural cocktail
My life has been enriched

I have always felt a ‘spiritual’ connection to the ancient past of our country, and am intrigued to know if my roots go back to the age of barrows and white horses, but whatever the result of my test, I won’t be disappointed as even through romantic eyes, I know this nation has never been racially pure but mixed and all the better for it.

(11.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 67 – In Transition

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I find myself in that point in between
Caught in the tension, in transition from
One state to another. Belonging to
None.

Restless I tussle, looking for home, but
There is no peace to be found in this place
Nowhere to lay my head and rest. I’m in
Exile.

This no mans land has no alms to share
No favour to give. Is this how water
Feels, not ice nor vapour, but constantly
Flowing?

But rather than despair, perhaps this calls
For patient endurance, believing in
The possibility provided by
Now.

To arrive, you first must travel through this
Junction. You cannot arrive without the
Journey, and so, let’s travel onward in
Hope.

So much of life feels like this at the moment. As we wait for the pandemic to pass, we’re in a state of tension between lockdown and normal, neither one nor the other. Of course, this is not restricted to such large scale fluctuations, but is a state we pass through in a myriad of ways every day.
(09.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 64 – Aladdin’s New Year

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The chimes of Big Ben ring as midnight turns
A sorcerer ushering in the year
Calling new lamps for old as in the tale
But can the past be ever truly left
Behind or does it haunt our every step
A shadow shading, or whisper shaping
The present intersected by the past
Two conjoined twins inseparable from birth
And so give thanks for what has been, for that
Has made you who you are and who you’re yet to be

Over the last two New Years we’ve wished for better ones to come, but regardless of what they’ve been like, these years are now part of us.
(01.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 62 – The Morning After

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There is no cordon around the house to warn
Nor grim faced officer to bar our way
But on the inside awaits a grisly scene
Come in and see the evidence arrayed

This is the room where the events transpired
Remains of celebrations on the floor
The shredded tatters form outlines around
The places where their bodies sat that morn

Now see upon the table evidence
Identified and ready to photograph
Betraying crumbs a trail perhaps to follow
Wine glasses marked by lips that last night laughed

Then out the back you’ll find their bins all full
Of waste unwanted, clues of what has been
And deep within the usual trash concealed
A cold carcass, discarded, bones picked clean

Back in again to question the witness
Who yawning talks us through the scene at hand
Identifying gifts and turkey bones
Such evidence echoed across the land

The morning after Christmas you could work out from the wreckage where everyone sat to open their gifts, reminding me of the white outlines marking where the body laid in police dramas…
(29.12.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 53 – The Word on the Street (Pt.2)

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The word on the street is a miracle
Powerful to transform and inform us
But despite this remarkable talent
It’s imprecise and prone to accident,
Misinterpretation and confusion
That is why when God communicated
It wasn’t through email, text or post but
Gift wrapped in human form, relatable
His Son became flesh and dwelt among us
Born in a manger, the Word on the street

Words are wonderful things. When you think what they are, just abstract sounds or marks on the page, it’s astonishing that they work at all, but they do and in stunning and moving ways. But they’re not perfect, we’ve all experienced miscommunication when we thought what we said made sense and was clear… Perhaps that’s one of the reasons for Christmas.
(07.12.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 46 – Advent One

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And so the Advent season starts once more
The annual wait for Jesus Christ our hope
To come in human form, the Word made flesh
Mysterious, incarnate, God with us
This year our yearning seems more keenly felt
A weary longing seeking something more
After two years of such disrupted life
Lived greyscale not in technicolour bright
With generations past and yet to come
We cry with one voice come Lord Jesus come

Today we lit the first candle in our Advent wreath and began our seasonal wait for the coming of Jesus. Like yesterday’s poem, this is an experiment with iambic pentameter, not my natural voice, but something I’d like to work on.

(28.11.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 45 – Christmas Lights

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They rolled the dice to choose a date to hold
November’s fayre a gamble keenly made
Who was to know this day from north to south
A fearsome wind would tear and whip and howl
Our volunteers take hold with all their strength
To stop gazebos chasing down the street
Cold visitors won’t stop but briskly pass
Their faces pale blood drained by biting teeth
The dark descends stall keepers packing up
Warm homes like sirens luring their farewell
The show may stutter, not what we had planned
But as I leave illuminated trees
Stand sparkling proudly ‘cross my cycle’s path
Not shivering nor shaking, standing strong
A testament to that first Christmas birth
Their light the darkness cannot overcome

Today our Churches Together group joined other organisations at the local town Christmas Fayre. Unfortunately, today was the day that Storm Arwen decided to blow, making the event a bit of an endurance test…

(27.11.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 43 – The Foodbank is Open

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Who withdraws from our bank?
You can probably picture the sort

I know I did, but then I saw and
Abandoned presupposition

Some breeze bold and expectant, bravely
Talking of Spurs or the traffic, whilst

Others trapped by nervous embarrassment
Hover, eyes down, glued to the door

Once in, they can’t help but spill their travails
Requiring gentle ears to collect them

Divorced architects, nurses out of credit,
The furloughed and pandemic afflicted

Cabbies with the Knowledge but
Know-how’s not enough to turn things around

From social housing, tents, flats,
Leafy suburbs, even mansions

We’re all just a coincidence from crisis, a
Cocktail of events, concocting the perfect storm

A multicultural meteorological event
With no natural immunity or vaccine

Who withdraws from our bank?
It could be you or me…

The local foodbank was started in 2012, distributing from our church Monday to Friday. It has taught me many lessons. I hope and pray it has made a difference to our guests. I know it has made a difference to me.

(25.11.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 42 – The UnProdigal Son

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I knew the story but wasn’t certain
Exactly what prodigal meant
So I looked it up and I’m glad to say
That my son is not it
Although he left university bound
He didn’t have the gall
To request his share of my estate
As if I’d met my end
I’m glad to say his student loan
Hasn’t been blown upon
Wild student parties and loose living
A mad freshers’ week fling
But even though that isn’t him
It definitely doesn’t mean
I don’t love him with a father’s love
And rejoice when he comes home

Our son has been home to visit for a few days, it’s been lovely to see him!

(23.11.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Picture: “The Return of the Prodigal Son”, by Rembran(d)t Harmenszoon van Rijn, c. 1669 (Public Domain)