Spirituality

Poem 429 – Necropolis

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Behind stone doors the dead sleep on,
two thousand years and more of slumber.
They’re waiting for the trumpet call,
but what’s another year to them?

Their clothes now hang long out of fashion,
the colours faded out of sight,
their tongue has fallen still, their names
forgotten to the mists of time.

Imagine if they woke today to
this world they wouldn’t recognise,
where billionaires fly out to space
and knowledge lives in webs online.

Where hearts aren’t weighed at judgement time
but swapped if ailing to save the living,
and gold’s exchanged for virtual digits
that dwell in plastic cards of credit.

But then they’d take another look
and smile that boney smile again,
as those that have still rule the roost,
humanity has barely changed.

On our Dalyan boat trip on the 7th, we passed the Necropolis. The ‘residents’ were buried some two and a half millennia ago. Life now is surely very different and yet, somehow the same…
(09.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 418 – Unaware

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Stepping out from safety’s bounds towards
The unfamiliar, outside the manicured lawns,
The Father carries the Son within his arms.
The stillness strange, all sounds ring out unreal,
An eerie feel pervades the morning air.
A squirrel seems surreal, a beast at large.
But from his seat he has no cares, the child
Has eyes only for his Father’s face, the two
Absorbed in conversation’s gleeful flow.
One points, the other laughs, they pass my bedroom
Window, both unaware that they have roused
My soul and stirred my weary heart with hope.

Walking in the last morning of Conference today I was more than weary; as always it has been demanding. The passing sight from my window picked me up, however, a glimpse of the love The Father has for all his children.
(29.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 417 – It Is Finished

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The deed is done,
the audience won, I hope,
the words delivered
without a stumble,
(well just a little one
when I became distracted).
And now I’ll sleep with thoughts
of friends and family in Him.
It wasn’t good enough,
it never is, and nor am I,
but He is all we need.

For the second year running I ended up stepping into the gap when a speaker couldn’t make it to our annual Conference. A late night scrawling turned into a poetry gig with a message – a first public ‘reading’ of my poetry.
(28.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 415 – Look At These Stones!

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Look at these stones!
They stand so proud, so strong, so powerful.
How could they ever fall or fail, these stones?
These men of steel, they’re always men it seems,
with dreams of empire celebrated by
their self-erected statues to their honour.

Look at these stones!
These city walls that reach up to the heavens!
These tall towers built on stocks and shares
that tear the timid down to clamber high.
Exchanging life for digits gleaned, they rise
demanding that we bow before them.

Look at these stones!
These AI gods we’ve built in silicon,
their algorithms fashioned in our image,
our blindness coded deep within their souls,
lurking unseen, unknown, because
we do not even know it in ourselves.

Look at these stones!
But even stones don’t last forevermore,
these brittle bones that break will fall away.
One day the oblivious wind will blow them down,
their monuments will fade, decay to dust,
and as the sun descends they’ll dissipate.

Look at these stones!
They are but sand and every one will pass.

This morning we reflected on Mark 13 in our service, in which Jesus responds to the disciples awestruck comments on seeing the Temple, surprising them by predicting its fall. It made me wonder what our stones are today.
(26.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jaymon S on Unsplash

Poem 412 – The Final Word?

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Tonight we finished Mark,
A tale of breathless action,
Inspired non-violent protest and
Vivid imagination.

That reaches across our barriers,
Draws in outcast and lost,
Embraces the rejected,
Values the poor and last.

The story that is Jesus,
The man from Galilee
Who stood against the Temple,
The powers and hypocrisy.

Was crowned upon a cross,
This sentence makes no sense,
Thus overturned the tables
And died a traitor’s death.

That builds to its crescendo,
Its resurrection scene,
And then abruptly ends.

I’ve been running a group exploring Mark’s Gospel, made up of church goers and non-church goers. It’s been a really intriguing and insightful journey.
(23.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

Poem 706 -Blessed are the Poets

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Blessed are the poets, those
Committed to verse not violence.
Blessed are the sonnet seekers,
The writers of limericks not slander.
Blessed are the hawkers of haikus
Over the dealers in harassment.
Blessed are the simile speakers,
The makers of metaphor not meanness.
Blessed are the rhymers, rhythm
Keepers, word smiths, dreamers, rappers,
Revealers of a world unseen.
Blessed are the poets.

Written on National Poetry Day, on a day of war in Gaza and Ukraine and an attack on a synagogue in Manchester, whilst the far right rises, and power seeking populists posture. Longing for a better world.
(02.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

Poem 698 – Impossible Tightrope?

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Attempting to both
Move into the neighbourhood
And be a pilgrim

Walking the tension
Between putting down deep roots
And living lightly

Trying to invest
In other people whilst not
Losing his footsteps

I’m currently reading Joanne Harris’ new book Vianne, which explores the risk of losing freedom by putting down roots, and in so doing captures the tension as some Christians present it between being ‘in this world but not of it’.
(24.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025