First year of poems:
Three hundred and sixty five
Taking baby steps
They might not have been written daily, but that’s a year’s worth done. I’m definitely still finding my way, trying things out, a toddler of verse, but I’m having a lot of fun doing so.
(26.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Fernanda Greppe on Unsplash
The black rises and falls, like living onyx.
Immense and thick, it breaths and broods, an alien
being in whom we sit so small and vulnerable.
We steer, propelling ourselves forward, but know
our motions are inexorably tied to its.
One idle flick, one twitch, would see us thrown
and sink into its oblivious arms and folds;
so vast this creature knows nor loves us not.
Going out on our small boat to seek dolphin in the Atlantic was a humbling encounter.
(25.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Thomas Vimare on Unsplash
In our family, I suspect like many others,
the night before Christmas Eve is Christmas Eve Eve,
but what about the night a month before?
By now I have compiled a list of all
the tasks, and services, and carol concerts
to be conducted within that month.
There are cards to write and gifts to find and pack,
a turkey, cake and pud to source and cook,
and house to tidy before the family come.
This wall of tasks stands seemingly impregnable,
demanding time and creativity,
an imposing rock face needing to be scaled.
It will be daunting, how can we do it again?
What can I find to say, when all’s been said
and done? The pressure builds and builds.
However, the reckless thrill of expectation
draws me on, the joyful promise of
a labour’s end, found in Messiah’s birth.
We might not have started Advent yet, but there’s no getting away from the fact that the countdown has begun…
(24.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Edi Bouazza on Unsplash
This
Is
Not a
Nonet. It is
A Fibonacci verse, in honour of
Fibonacci Day. Get it? No? Check the date –
Unless you are British not American, in which case I fear it’s nonsense!
The Fibonacci sequence is a sequence in which each number is the sun of the previous two, starting 1,1,2,3 just like today’s date (ignore the year).
(23.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Original photo by Hans-Peter Postel, CC BY 2.5, via Wikimedia Commons
I will fly with the freedom of a soaring bird,
sweeping through the air with grace and speed,
Do somersaults down the high road,
leaping over fences and running along walls.
Jump up and down like an excited child
unable to contain their glee.
Touch my toes with my nose and
curl my torso impossibly tight.
Stand up and sit down because I can
and then do it all over again.
Pick my clothes up from where I dropped them
and hang them in their proper place.
Pretend I’m Usain Bolt and, with cocky confidence,
sprint down corridors and pull his pose.
Lift twenty crates of food with just one hand,
and juggle with them as if they were balls.
Tomorrow, I will do all these things and more,
but today I’m sitting still.
Unfortunately, the back is not so comfortable today, ah well, tomorrow….
(22.11.24)
Wanted, one form for today’s poem:
Though villanelles are living hell
Limericks won’t do the trick
Sestinas are too mean
Haikus always lose
Pantoums confuse
But free verse
Is per-
verse
I had no idea what to write about today, so I thought I’d experiment with a new form and see where it took me – apparently to a poem about choosing form in the form of a nonet.
(21.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Javier Gómez on Unsplash
A home from home, now distant and yet familiar.
I could not reproduce it accurately, it’s been
so many years since I last played there as
a boy, however, objects, clips and scents
remain, impressions deeply embedded within.
Neatly pruned roses with subtle scents,
a maroon coloured football with white pentagons,
a fold up chair with padded back and handles,
a fence over which the neighbour and I would play,
and books of Brooke Bond Tea cards full of adventure.
The ghosts of a cat and Uncle L, their faces
blurred but their unseen presence looms large and real.
Chopping mint and adding vinegar for sauce,
roast lamb, potatoes and carefully cut carrots,
an after dinner butter mint stuck to the teeth.
How can it be almost half a century since I last played in my grandparents house in Bedford?
(20.11.24)
It wasn’t a case of twist and shout,
instead an innocent bend and twinge
and the immediate realisation that,
‘Whatever that was, I shouldn’t have done it!’
This hunch was keen and true, and moving
I knew at once I had returned
back to square one’s vicinity.
Ah well, who wants to be able to sit
unaided and sneeze without electric
spasms? These add such spice to life!
I only tried to pick up my gilet…
(19.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Inge Poelman on Unsplash
Opening the covers,
the end seemed far away,
but now the pages turn
more quickly; the epilogue
is closer than the start.
I long to read your lines
more deeply, to understand
their meaning and import,
so that our entwining lives
may be mutually enriched.
When all is said and done,
when the story has been told,
let it be known that I’ve
known love and fully loved,
for love’s our one true end.
Following on from yesterday’s poem and The Cure’s latest album.
‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love’ (1 Corinthians 13:13).
(18.11.24)
SONGS can be sonic portals, dioramas,
OF youthful memories long forgotten,
A door through which, released, our senses tumble,
LOST landscapes wherein we dance with arms outstretched,
a WORLD of angst yet somehow hopeful.
I’ve been listening to The Cure a lot recently, especially their latest album, the terrific ‘Songs of a Lost World’. Despite Robert Smith’s obvious awareness of aging and mortality, and their classic gothic sound, I find so much of their music strangely uplifting. (And yes, that is me in the photo…)
(17.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Ode for the Day 
