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
Spirituality
Poem 62 – The Morning After
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)
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
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
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
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
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)
Poem 29 – I Think?
Where do my thoughts come from
Are they simply distillation
Of experiences lived and situations seen
A concept torn from conversation shared
Meme like infection spread
Is it true that there is nothing new under the sun
Were they never really mine
Merely a compilation of others’
Mashed, macerated and recompiled
Should I think therefore I am
(As someone once thought!)
Instead read
They think therefore I become
Uniqueness simply a statistical recombination
A regurgitation of what has been before
Is it not possible that in my being
Some organic Hadron Collider
Crashes borrowed insights
And from the impact sparks
Something new
Something me
Sitting down to write today having read a few poems online written by others and mulling over what to write, it struck me how hard it is to write something truly original. The words of the Teacher in Ecclesiastes came to mind:
What has been will be again,
Eccles. 1:9
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.’
Is it true that we have nothing original to offer?
(08.11.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Poem 27 – Silence
It is not empty, so
Those in matured relationships
Need not feel obliged to
Fill every moment
With words
They can simply be
Not threatened by silence
Nor disturbed by
What is left
Unspoken
Content to be vulnerable
Before the other’s thoughts
Trust fills the gaps
And plasters over
The pauses
I’ve been married for 27 years. This week in isolation has underlined the simple yet profound pleasure of simply being in the same room together. Thank you K. As a Christian, this pleasure and these verses point towards the human-divine relationship too.
(06.11.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Poem 17 – Finally, Time for Bed
Past the pumpkin hour
And I’m dead beat
All day long
I’ve been on my feet
My bed is calling
A duvet treat
I’ll see you in the morning
Wash, rinse and repeat!
Day one of a three day conference I help run for our church movement. Always fantastic, an inspiring family gathering, but always full on…
© Ben Quant 2021
Ode for the Day 