Poem 909 – The Ballad of the Wake: Return to Bourne

A few days spent in idleness,
Raging upon this news,
He finally decided to return and fight,
To see if affairs he could aright,
Assisted by his companion Lightfoot,1
To correct this abuse.

And so to Bourne he did return,
Back to his father’s manor,
And there he found much gloom and fear,
Amongst the people he held dear,
At the death of their lord’s youngest heir,
Our Hereward’s infant brother.

He’d laid upon two thugs he’d found
Dishonouring his mother,
And in disgust he took them down
To restore her honour.

But in revenge they took their swords
And swiped his head away,
And took the face of this young lord
And stuck it on display.

‘Lost Hereward, return’, they cried,
‘A mighty man they say,
He would display his great renown,
Before the night’s dark veil came down,
When man and beast in beds are found,
And all his killers slay.’

Although Hereward is far from a good man, and I’m already struggling with some of the attitudes displayed in the original writings towards ‘foreigners’, I can’t help but sense an echo of the story of the Prodigal Son in these stories, a son banished to a far land because of his lack of respect for his family, only to later come to his senses and return. But here there is no Father figure waiting for him…
(11.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by British Library on Unsplash

Poem 784 – Roundel Labour

This is an experiment to see if I might
Be able to birth a roundel across nine lines
Whilst keeping its rhyming crisp and delightfully tight
…..I think it’s fine

I’m reassured this body can be divine
And leap from the page just like a bird in flight
Or flow across the tongue, the finest wine

It shouldn’t take a struggle or a fight
To bring this labour to life like Frankenstein
Requiring forceful lightning to ignite
…..I think it’s fine

If not sure what to write about, try out a new form!
(06.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alex Hockett on Unsplash

Poem 749 – Under January Skies

The winter’s sky, the bitter pale,
Bites our faces and bleaches soil,
Its cutting sun burns scars in our sight,
With crispness of air and blinding light.

The iron ground and crinkling step,
That crunches under frozen foot,
Is joined above by a piercing breeze,
Whipping shivering birds and naked trees.

And we, caressed by dying sun,
In melancholy are undone,
And looking forward count the cost,
Mourning the things that aren’t yet lost.

Inspired by a chilly walk and a line I read today.
(02.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Polina Kuzovkova on Unsplash

Poem 653 – Beware!

Beware! Bare flesh and filthy language lie
ahead. Hold firm if frightened of loud bangs.
Take notice, sexual naughtiness in store.
Greek legends clash in hungry rival gangs.
The author of this violent, grim discourse?
None other than the English Bard of course.

Written in response to the warnings by the stage door at The Globe for Troilus and Cressida tonight.
(28.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 651 – Heart Surgery

I met him in a queue once
a line inside a theatre
a few snatched words thats all
and yet he diagnosed me.

A handful of lyrics paired with
a simple tune – that’s all
it took to bypass my
defences, strike the mark.

My voice broke long ago
so why do I now hear
a creaking in my song as
I sing along this morning.

I’ve been enjoying the latest Divine Comedy album ‘Rainy Sunday Afternoon’ this week. I sense that he and I are hitting similar life stages right now.
(26.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 553 – Driving in the Sun

Driving home today,
my brain has turned to mush,
I’ll be hard pushed to say
anything that makes sense.

The Sun did not relent,
remaining loud, despite
the cloud, that meant it was
not quite as hot as thought.

I’m writing as I ought,
but nothing much profound
is found, within my head,
for me to say today.

And so I think I’ll stop
and sleep the night away.

It wasn’t as hot as we thought it might be today, but driving home from visiting family frazzled me somewhat nevertheless.
(21.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Rajiv Bajaj on Unsplash

Poem 548 – Partings

                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