At the play tonight
Gandalf sat down behind me
And magic happened
Went to see the fantastic Nicola Walker tonight in The Unbelievers. Ian McKellen was also in the audience.
(22.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 707 – The Preacher’s Task
The preacher’s task is wrapped in mystery.
At first it seems straight forward, simple, but
On this familiarity there falls
A veil that covers what was clear before.
Then we are left to wrestle for the heart,
To twist and turn until we’re spinning, lost
Under the many layers of meaning,
And there we’re called to stay until we’re found.
Sometimes epiphany is hard to win.
We fight into the night and drag it out,
With courage bravely born of hope, refusing
To settle for another easy road.
At other times we turn to write but even
Before the pen is in our hands, the words
Become alive, a pulse that drives them fast,
A living stream that flows out of the book.
I’ve spent the decades preaching, and even now I find it an exciting yet elusive art.
(21.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Chris Chow on Unsplash
Poem 706 – An Apple Tree in Winter
The apple tree stands bare, its leaves
lie on the floor as if it has
undressed and dropped them there. Naked,
it shivers with us all. It’s cold.
Strangely, its apples stay suspended,
red orbs up in this grey-scale air,
a natural orrery. But these
bright lights must also dim and die,
their failing orbits causing them
to fall and sleep till summer’s rise.
Our apple tree looks odd right now, caught in between two seasons.
(20.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The numbering of my poems is all wrong, and so I’m leaving them unnumbered until I get around to correcting them…
Poem 705 – A Deep Dive Into Numbers
I’m losing all my numbers.
They’re falling off the page
and terminally descending,
cascading down the screen.
Perhaps it’s time to cross
them out, ignore them all
and do without? Or should
I take a dive myself
into the title depths
to number them afresh?
I’m not so sure I’m ready
to commit today,
and so I’m standing at
the edge and dipping in
my toe. Tomorrow? Perhaps…
Having filled in the gap previously identified, I’ve realised the numbers still don’t add up. It turns out there are still another 33 numbers missing or thereabouts, scattered amongst my poem titles. If only there was a way to quickly correct them all…
(19.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by lionel mermoz on Unsplash
Poem 704 – Prayer Meeting
Tonight we gathered:
Different faces on the screen,
From different places,
Different nationalities
And IT capabilities,
Different occupations,
Expectations, theologies.
Tonight we gathered,
United in our hope and faith
And prayed,
One family in Him.
Tonight The Connexion, the family of churches I belong to, gather online for prayer. It was wonderful to see the family again so soon after Conference.
(18.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash
Poem 703 – Childish Things?
Eight men, eight grown-up men at that, all sat
Around a table playing games. It seems,
A little childish perhaps, a desperate clutching
Onto passing days, of memories
Of living wild and young and fearlessly.
But here we’re free to put aside, for now,
Responsibility and simply be
Ourselves. To set aside the expectations
Put upon us by ourselves and others.
Right now the world reduces to the choices
Made, the turns we take, and all that matters
Is the fun we find, investing in each other.
We end rejuvenated, ready as
the table and the world expand again.
Today I travelled back from a weekend playing boardgames with friends. A wonderful time, thanks all!
(17.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 702 – Anticipating
We roll the dice
and all lean in,
our breath is held,
as pulses rise,
a gasp, a cry,
a ‘Yes!’ a ‘No!’
‘I hate this game!’
‘I told you so.’
The cards slide in
as turns are made,
collective groans,
delighted cheers,
as points are counted,
totals summed,
impatient waiting
to find who’s won.
A weekend away boardgaming, with the’evil’ 6 Nimmt card game being a highlight, with all its highs and delightful lows.
(16.11.25)
Poem 701 – Coastal Alarm
Today I wake to seagull song.
Their urgent, tumbling cries pierce through
sleep’s bleary mist with urgency.
‘Alack, alack, alack’, they wail,
‘it is the morn, be up, be up!’
And so I stumble from my bed,
to capture on the page their call,
and show I’ve heard and heed them well.
With that they’re satisfied and still.
No need for an alarm clock today.
(15.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Peter F. Wolf on Unsplash
Poem 700 – Light Rain Predicted
It says light rain, and so it is,
but can a rain that does not stop,
that pours relentlessly, a grey
insipid, haze of wet that soaks
through coats, and trouser pockets where
they drain, be ever truly light?
It is so fine it makes its way
through every pour and crevice that
present themselves, from seams to button
holes, and zips to ears and noses.
It says light rain, but I’m weighed down
my clothes and spirits drenched and heavy.
It looks like a long weekend of rain ahead… (For transparency’s sake, thankfully I’ve been in the inside looking out at the rain, imagining, so don’t feel sorry for me!)
(14.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 699 – Non-Poetry Day
Today doesn’t feel like a poetry day,
It feels disjointed, somehow dredged
With all creativity drained away.
Where is the meter in doing admin?
The rhyme in writing rapid emails?
The tempo in ticking off the tasks?
Somewhere along the way the stanzas
Blurred into an endless verse,
A universe of drizzly grey.
It’s not been bad, in fact it’s been
Productive, but efficiency
Has never inspired great poetry.
It’s been another day of ploughing through the tasks (although there have been some meaningful human encounters on the way).
(13.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash
