suspended high,
a state of suspense,
moment of grace,
as waiting, poised,
caught in between,
the paragliders
hang above
Ölüdeniz,
three dots…
(02.11.23)
Looking towards the sea over breakfast, three paragliders caught my eye. For a moment they simply hung there, seemingly stationary, as if magically hung in midair.
© Ben Quant 2023
We land.
It’s dark.
Just silhouettes
and hints
suggest
the scenery.
We arrived late tonight for an overdue and needed holiday. Wonderful hints of the hills and sea around us.
(30.10.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Booted we seek to climb,
assert ourselves, impose
our will. Slieve Donard howls.
Fierce tears define its shape,
sharpen it’s angst and contours.
Woken, it’s rage defies
our rise and pushes back.
Determined, we persist
and brace against the gale.
Our worlds compress until,
heads bowed, each walks alone.
This wild and reckless peak
doesn’t surrender meekly.
Recently I met with flatmates from university days to go walking in Northern Ireland. Our first walk was a climb to the peak of Slieve Donard, the highest point in Northern Ireland. The weather raged as weather should on such a walk. It was truly magnificent!
(30.10.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
I felt it then, the first time that I stepped
outside the plane in Lungi International.
Enveloped by a suffocating blanket,
I stood, arrested by the heavy air.
The skies were dark, I could not see its palms,
but soon I found that mine were damp.
This pattern would repeat each morning as
we left our air-conditioned chalets and
exclaimed ‘it’s hot again’, as if surprised.
As if…
These vibrant midnight scenes still tarry.
The virgin walk across the unknown runway
towards conflicting voices, thick and urgent.
The chaos. Papers waved. Bribes sought. Unmoored.
Sidestepping through the scrum to find our car.
Escape. A momentary peace behind the windscreen.
We drive past twinkling kerosene and figures
emerging from the darkness, eyes lit up,
rushing to meet the ferry at the harbour;
meeting instead a herd of cars. We sit,
the mercury rising, ‘midst the midnight hawkers.
Cicada lullabies meet drowsy eyes.
The ferry never comes. ‘It’s broken down.’
This news does not inspire my confidence.
‘Don’t worry there are two’, I’m told, ‘the other
will soon arrive.’ Alas, that’s late as well.
Strapped in, I sleep a stuffy, restless sleep,
one eye half open so as not to miss
the novelty, the other stupefied with heat.
A decade on and home, I find September’s
unexpected heatwave stirs up old ghosts
wakes up, recalls, these vivid memories
of sticky hands and distant drowsy streets.
* As Sierra Leone is sometimes known by its people.
Walking out in the hottest day of the year yesterday awoke memories of my first moments in Sierra Leone some twenty years ago.
(11.09.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Temperature plummets
and so whimsical winter
makes.poetic.snows
This was actually written way back before ‘Poem 1‘, but using what3words to locate my car and tent at Greenbelt reminded me of it. The gates and signposts in Lea Valley have what3words identifiers on them to help locate them. One not far from us is the magical ‘makes.poetic.snows‘. This was begging to be put in verse (but hopefully not into practice, not too soon anyway…)
(01.09.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Jessica Fadel on Unsplash
This vaulted canopy, cascading wave,
cathedral to the men who crafted ships.
Your hall of mirrors draws past scenes towards us
and paints them in an overlapping vision
so ghosts of shipwrights, echoes of the age
of sail, now walk with us beneath your cage.
Their sweat lined muscles stretch and strain in labour,
slipways delivering hard won art down birth
canals to Father Thames, whose eager arms,
outstretched, lap forwards to receive them.
We recently spent a happy day exploring the historic docks at Chatham. At the heart of them stands 3 Slip, this magnificent building in which the boats were built. It’s vast and glorious – ignore the floor in the picture, that’s a mezzanine level erected so you can view the roof. It didn’t take much to imagine the sights, sounds, feel and smells of the place as it was when it was open.
(16.08.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
The closing chapter,
the final leg,
I’m almost home.
No longer looking
back but forward,
my destination
hoves into view;
the uneven creasing
of the spine
accompanied by
evasive wriggling.
Compelled I pick
up speed. I find
I’m skipping words
and tumbling over
myself to reach the
closing full stop.
But even as
I strive, inside
a simultaneous
braking competes.
Although my story
draws me on
I find I do
not want my journey’s
end. Not yet.
I’m currently reading Simon Armitage’s ‘Walking Home’, the account of his journey along the Pennine Way, enabled by the hospitality of strangers and poetry readings. Towards the end he recounts the unexpected feeling of not being elated at approaching home, having slipped into the habitualised routine of walking; a feeling not confined to walking.
(27.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Lucrezia Carnelos on Unsplash
The first to step these steps stepped forward cautiously
Warily they trod not knowing what they might find
But those who followed drew faith from those who crossed before
Their hesitant tracks became a guide to confidence
And soon a path carved deep was etched into the land
Markers were placed identifying its location
Presently stones were laid to make the tread secure
And along the avenue buildings began to spring
The bustle grew, the noise of thoroughfare, as traffic
Started to flow along the freshly tarmacked road
Past houses, shops, and families at play and war
Suburban sprawl, sprawled out, the belt loosened as when
Our Sunday lunch digested we kick back replete
And sit silently wondering how we came to be
There in the first place, ignorant of those cautious pioneers
Over the last year I’ve discover the fantastic writing of Robert MacFarlane. His poetic prose musing on the nature of walking, the landscape and language has captivated me – if you’ve not discovered him yet go now and go find him! His book, ‘The Old Ways’, was the first I found, which led me to this verse.
(30.11.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
A pigeon coo accompanies the cries,
Of urgent sirens wrestling for attention.
Although distant, their wail reaches across,
To where I sit in Euston’s Tolmers Square.
This serendipity, this place of peace,
A patch of green, affords some small respite.
Chairs rattle as a barman sets his tables,
Outside in preparation for midday.
I catch snatches of conversation from,
Engrossed commuters passing quickly by.
The Tube rumbles below my weary feet,
Whilst up above the whine of hybrid cabs.
No more the peel of oranges and lemons,
But still distinct the cry of London calling.
Today I headed into the capital to meet with colleagues. I arrived early. Exploring the local area, I found one of London’s many peaceful squares to spend a few minutes before heading in.
(29.04.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
I carry memories of this land,
It’s fingerprints impress upon me,
And looking back it springs to life,
With speed and vivid recollection.
Oppressive dense humidity,
Immediately dampens both my palms.
Salone’s sweet earthy scent invades,
My nostrils, dust my garment lines.
A grimy vulture perched nearby,
Awaits upon a skip hopefully.
It makes me nervous, is it me
It waits for? Shooing it away,
I hear across the rusty roofs,
The sounds of hustling street vendors,
And traffic, loud with horns forming,
Customary queues down Kissy Road.
Elsewhere a coastal paradise,
Untarnished white and vacant sands,
Where fishermen haul in their catch,
Dragging bright painted boats to land.
Enthusiastic introductions,
Their welcome offered up in song,
Loud ululations, fast drum beats,
With laughter loud and handshakes long.
Despite Ebola’s touch and times
Of bitter strife, this is a land
Where riches can be found but not
In stones, the people are its diamonds.
Sierra Leone is a special country for me. Despite its many struggles and traumas, it is also a country full of life. The latest Marillion album caught me by surprise with a track about it, bringing back all sorts of memories (listen below).
(25.04.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
*The affectionate abbreviation often used for Sierra Leone
Ode for the Day 