Poem 444 – Old Gods

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Psalm 19:1 NIV
The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Raising my smartphone to the skies I search
the heavens for their ancient inhabitants;
modern tech becoming a prayer calling
the old gods to be modern occupants.

Small Mercury, messenger to the gods,
flits faintly between the horizon’s distant flames,
hiding from sweet Venus’ advances
as she shines upon young lovers’ nocturnal games.

Above, King Jupiter reigns from his heavenly throne
causing me to crick my neck not bend my knee.
Finally, hawkish Mars asserts his strength
his face flushing in his angry fury.

This revelation thrills me as I learn
the identities of these distant glowing bulbs,
I revel in the glory of these prizes
as they’re poured from creation’s laden treasure vaults.

I was introduced to the Stellarium app recently. I took it out for a whirl at 6.30 this evening to discover I could see four planets in the sky with the naked eye. Amazing.
(04.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by isaac sloman on Unsplash

Poem 442 – Life Cycles

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Past.
The tree drank deeply of the earth’s dark soil,
its roots absorbing water from secret distant pools.
Stretching its wooden limbs it reached out branches,
all striving for the shining sun’s bright rays.
From sapling to its full grown majesty
it slowly grew, unfurling limbs then leaves.

Present.
This table’s dead; no sap or life flow here.
Its extendable leaves now lie in twisted pieces;
they’re warped by age and wear and wrenched by boots.
Redundant, I throw the separated branches
into the boot to drive it to the dump,
hurling them into the designated coffin.

Future.
The future is as yet uncarved, unknown.
Will it be pulped, transformed to card or paper?
Or maybe mulched, returning nutrients
back to the earth to nourish future roots?
Out of its greatness, greatness may return;
as earth to earth, from death comes life again.

From and afternoon spent taking old and broken furniture to the local ‘dump’ (recycling centre), sprang thoughts about the cycle of life.
(02.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

Poem 441 – Inevitable

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Oozing, the glue seeps from the hole
I pricked because the lid was stuck.
I wiped its stream along the join
and held the pieces tight, hoping
my fingers wouldn’t do the same.
Fortuitously, for once, they didn’t because
the gooey flow continued, despite
stopping squeezing it some time before.
Grappling with my spare hand I tried
to wipe it off and stem the flow.
Bits of cloth stuck to the nozzle,
whilst goblets adhered to my digits.
Letting go of the join I went
to clean them off, only to find
the wayward pieces sprang apart.
Cursing, I grabbed them. A big mistake.
Now cloth and glue and wood and fingers
combined to make an unholy mess,
whilst in the corner of my eye the
determined adhesive freely flowed.
This time the glue securely bonded.

Reaching for the glue today I found the lid had stuck to the tube – not surprising, it’s glue after all!
(01.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Scott Sanker on Unsplash

Poem 440 – The Extent of My Knowledge

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I am ignorant of the life you’ve lived.
I am ignorant of the world you live in.
I am ignorant of how you feel.
I am ignorant of what for you is real.
I am ignorant of what has moulded you.
I am ignorant of what controls you.
I am ignorant of its expectations.
I am ignorant of its revelations.
I am ignorant of your aspirations.
I am ignorant of your hesitations.
I am ignorant of the shoes you chose.
I am ignorant of the shoes you’re given.
I am ignorant of what you want.
I am ignorant of what you need.
I am ignorant.

Inspired by my conversations today in both pastoral visits and at our Conversation Cafe. I’m astonished by how little I know of the world, and how little I appreciate or recognise the experiences of those around me.
(28.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ben Weber on Unsplash

Poem 439 – A Poet’s Self Portrait

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The poet lifts his brush and, looking in
the mirror, examines himself with detailed care.

First stroke, a daub of colour describing appearance.
A skinny build, slim jeans, a preference for green.
Once full and dark, the hairline’s now receding
as eyebrows morph, becoming peppered white.
A patch of red upon the cheek that flares
and hazel eyes, that yellow when run-down.

The second stroke, lays down habitual hints.
Five calloused fingers from running down six strings.
Rubbing his back reveals the daily lifting,
or Sunday morning kit lugged from the car.
A tendency to slouch, a life of study.
Perhaps the knees should be more worn than this.

The third and final stroke stares deep within,
tracing beyond his stoic exterior.
A war of looming textures and clashing colours
explores the shades of grey, the constant tension
between the love of self and love of other,
that errs towards the one he knows it shouldn’t.

Laying down his brush, the poet ponders
just why it is we’re quick to catch the blemishes.

On a walk today I found myself wondering what a poetic self-portrait would look like. I suspect it would be more revealing than this, but I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet!
(27.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ahmed Raza Kz on Unsplash

Poem 436 – Nothing Changes

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Wandering through the city streets we noted
the men of war (all men) posturing upon the
capital’s many pillars and pedestals.
Testosterone fuelled, they thrust out chests and chins
and clambered upwards, competing to be highest.
Later, under Trafalgar’s column, we witnessed
politicians and pop stars gather in protest at
Putin’s bare-chested invasion of Ukraine.

Three years on from the invasion of Ukraine.
(23.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Borja Verbena on Unsplash

Poem 435 – The Other London

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Beneath these streets another London lurks
that secretly exerts its influence.
This realm is not inhabited by fae,
some Neverwhere or Long London, but born
of flesh and blood, the footsteps walked before us.

Laid in a myriad of layers, its culture
manipulates our lives, its stretching fingers,
reaching through our paths, our clothes and speech,
are inescapable, a net ensnaring
this famed landscape both for its good or ill.

I’m currently reading Alan Moore’s ‘The Great When’ – what a terrific book it is, in the great tradition of urban fantasy like Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ and Clarke’s ‘Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell’. Strip away the fantasy, and I suspect these readings aren’t so far from reality.
(22.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Benjamin Davies on Unsplash