Spirituality

Poem 593 – Free

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Here, I’m safe to cast aside my faces,
not letting them slip, but tossing them without
a thought onto a pile heaped on the floor;
peeling off the accumulated layers,
revealing the pink and tender skin beneath,
exposing scars and fragile dreams and joys.
I wander naked and without a care,
secure that you will never laugh and point.
This is no mutually assured destruction,
love predicated on the fear of tit-
for-tat, but mutually assumed devotion.

I’ve been writing a series of devotional notes based upon the theme of rest. It struck me that you can only truly rest when you are able to relax about being yourself. It is a privilege to be able to find others with whom you can do this.
(30.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andre Mouton on Unsplash

Poem 591 – An Existential Crisis at the Services

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A late night stop at the services
having just found the M4 was closed.
‘I guess you see all sorts in here?’ I asked.
‘Yes’, replied the woman in Costa,
‘The weird and the wonderful!’ She laughed.
I left with a life saving coffee,
wondering which, if either, was me.

A long day helping my daughter decorating. Diverted on the way home.
(28.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Blake Verdoorn on Unsplash

Poem 589 – Der Teufel

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Der Teufel prances at the roadside,
His pitchfork pricking passing cyclists,
Urging them ever onwards with
His insane eyes and inane chanting.

This Devil isn’t that of legend,
Instead an ever present fan,
Accompanied by his wild inventions
In every stage of every Tour.

And as the race comes to its end
On free TV here in the UK,
I find myself in the strange position
Of realising I’ll miss Ol’ Nick.

The Tour is so much more than just a race, for example there are many characters that make its backdrop. Didi Senft is one of them, a German who stands at the roadside each stage dressed as the Devil. Only on the Tour…
(26.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
I, Kuebi, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 575 – Church Picnic

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A lazy afternoon, spent languidly
flinging frisbees to and fro,
dodging those relaxing on
their chairs engaged in conversation.
A family of young and old,
at peace across our differences,
united by our faith and friendship.
The only errant note? Sharp wasps
attracted by the treats we shared.

A lovely day today with the first of our church summer events, an open air service and picnic at Forty Hall. A perfect day.
(13.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 568 – Under Pressure

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Sometimes it takes a drought to value water
Poverty to recognize our wealth,
Barrenness to celebrate the harvest,
The heat to appreciate the cold.

I do not pray to be afflicted,
I can’t believe that’s how you work,
But when those times come, as they will,
I pray that I will learn and grow.

Reflections from this evening’s service.
(06.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Maud CORREA on Unsplash

Poem 548 – Partings

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                Today like Moses     I parted the sea
          Only, it wasn’t water     instead waves of grass
     And I struck not a staff     but shunted a mower
           No horses drowned      although grasshoppers jumped
and I didn’t reach Canaan     just the end of the green

Poem 540 – Babel Reversed

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We gathered just as he had told us to.
It was nine o’clock, although you wouldn’t
know it from the crowds outside our room.
Within, rising anticipation could
be felt. We kept ourselves apart ’til ‘BOOM!’
a violent storm exploded nationhood –
look, tongues of fire descending on our heads,
folk hearing in their tongues the words we said.

‘They’re drunk!’ they cried, responding to our joy;
a joy that bubbled up from deep inside,
erupting in this giggling, gushing, noise.
At once impulsive Peter stood inspired,
declaring that it was the Spirit, employed
by Jesus Christ against whom they conspired.
His message cut them to their very hearts,
sundering Babel’s legacy apart.

It’s Pentecost today, the day the church celebrates the events of Acts 2, the giving of the Spirit and the birth of the church. Thought I’d try doing another ottava rima (see 578). Need to keep working on rhyme, it still feels contrived, but I’ll get there…
(08.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Cullan Smith on Unsplash

Poem 537 – The Dripping Bush

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Remember Moses met God in a burning bush?
Today I moved two blueberry bushes in
the rain, not really the same, and yet within
the falling drops I heard his jovial patter.
His words were splashing colour everywhere,
flowing down my collar and into my socks,
a rhythmic splatter announcing, ‘LET THERE BE!’

Inspired by collecting blueberry bushes in the rain from a local allotment.
(05.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mario Mendez on Unsplash

Poem 530 – Ascension Day in Lincoln

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Slowly we alight the sudden hill,
peeling back time as we ascend,
and as we do the Red Arrows fly by,
roaring past in perfect V formation.
They feel incongruous.

Timeless, above us all the cathedral reaches,
Imposing in its majesty it flies,
sundering our sense of time and scale.
Looking up, I lose identity,
and teetter on the edge of consciousness.

But even this transcendent edifice
is left behind. Upon its parapets
a peregrine perches, impervious to our whims.
Stretching, it commands the attention of
the distant minions gathering down beneath.

Meanwhile, one like a son of man ascends.
Upon the clouds he climbs to heaven’s throne,
and there, upon his head, the Ancient One
bestows an eternal crown and with it all glory
majesty and power for evermore!

We spent Ascension Day in Lincoln, where much to my delight we spotted peregrine falcons perched upon the cathedral. A truly awesome sight.
(29.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Rory Tucker on Unsplash