Bulbous bombs of water
explode on contact with
the ground, or windows, or clothes.
Penetrating cover
and piercing any armour,
they always find a way.
Skin momentarily holds them,
keeps them back, but in
the end even this is
futile and our bodies
become infiltrated.
It’s raining outside. We have a leak at church.
(08.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Eutah Mizushima on Unsplash
No celebrations.
No cake, no song, no parties.
No progress. No hope?
One year on from the massacre that sparked the current violent spiral in the Middle East.
(07.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by DAVIDCOHEN on Unsplash
Perhaps next time I head to town
I’ll sing spontaneous songs out loud,
Burst into a ballads on the bus,
Rap nursery rhymes whilst in the rain.
Rather than moan perhaps I’ll try
A love song waiting for the lift,
Or scream some skratt to skip through time,
Or hum a hymn in hopefulness.
To stop succumbing to cynicism
I shall just jump around to jazz,
And bounce my way through big band blues
And leap to looping Latin beats.
And then as night descends I’ll try,
Some mellow murmured soulful number,
A gospel grace before at last
A lullaby to light day’s leaving.
I had free tickets to see Joker: Folie à Deux, which recounts the lead character’s demise through song (incidentally, in contrast to most reviews, I thoroughly enjoyed it). This got me thinking.
(06.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Nadim Merrikh on Unsplash
Behind a post, up in the gods,
Feet by my teeth and knees tucked in.
Head near the ceiling, bag on lap,
I’m breathing fast, the air is thin.
Twisting hard to see the view
As music fades and lights are dimmed.
But I don’t care, as curtains rise,
A hush descends, the show begins.
In the West End tonight to see a show. This poem written in haste before we were told to turn our mobiles off.
(05.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Tonight we quizzed,
Wore bread, threw tea,
Hung necklaces
Of shoes in glee.
Tonight we cheered
And did our best,
Played games with bread,
Bemused our guests.
Tonight we made
Ourselves complete
And utter fools
With spoons and feet.
Tonight we won,
Yes everyone had fun,
And when we left
We left as one.
Tonight we enjoyed our own version of Taskmaster at church as part of our harvest celebrations. Very silly. I hope the owner of the glasses forgives me!
(04.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Counting sheep?
That’s what we do when
we want to summon sleep.
We close our eyes and count
That bundle of black and white.
1, 2, 3…
And soon the bleating fades
Becoming clouds that float
In a dreamy eyelid landscape.
That one resembles a friend
I used to know before,
In a school that used to be
Big but now is small.
4, 5, 6…
The red bricks reconfigure
Become our childhood home.
We gather, play that game
We invented once, one lazy
Summer holiday.
I count, you run. We argue.
We laugh and laugh and laugh.
7, 8, 9…
My kite drifts higher and higher,
Outlined crisply against
The blue. I join it, weightless
And fly across the fields.
I’m met elsewhere by someone
Who doesn’t belong, not here, not now.
This interruption passes
Unnoticed. For now it makes sense.
10, 11, 12…
I’m pedaling on my bike,
Feeling great and weightless.
Roaming at will. Freedom.
I absorb the neighbourhood,
Visiting its corners,
Extremities and folds.
Its blanket smothers me.
13, 14, 15…
The face of a first girlfriend,
Holding hands, first kiss.
Long hair, guitars, the band.
Aspirations that
One day I’ll find that note
And take it around the globe.
16, 17, 18…
That sheep reminds me of
The teacher who inspired me.
See, that plant he gave me
Is growing up and up
like Jack’s beanstalk, it
devours it all. We run.
19, 20, 21…
It’s funny how the faces
We revisit, are all
The old ones, childhood ones.
Black devours white
until the morning light
brings day, and all’s forgotten.
52 and counting…
It’s National Poetry Day, and the theme is counting. I set out to write a poem about the Parable of the Lost Sheep, which is all about counting, but the poem wouldn’t have it and instead took me elsewhere. Poems do that. Not so long ago I was reminiscing with my parents, I guess that’s partly where this poem comes from – I’m 52 by the way. The older we get, the more we seem to spend in our childhood.
(03.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash
ONE day left to go,
TWO hours, in truth, give or take,
THREE lines to countdown….
It’s National Poetry Day tomorrow. This year’s theme is Counting. I’d better get this posted before the second line becomes inaccurate!
https://forwardartsfoundation.org/national-poetry-day/
(02.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Braden Collum on Unsplash
When two worlds collide
Just what is the solution
When the argument between
Defence and prosecution
Ignores what is offered
Ignores resolution
Is all about winning
Not peaceful conclusion
There’s no accommodation
And this generation
Remains stuck in the past
Follows the last
There’s no way out
No chance for doubt
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
Take out the doors
And blow off the roof
The victims the innocent
Along with the truth
The children are crying
Their parents are dying
Following the firing
Of bullets and bombs
Hope is undone
By the use of the gun
Can’t we please all step back
Get life back on track
Put down all our weapons
And stop the parading
And all the lie trading
There’s work to be done
If we are to find
Peace in our time
When two worlds collide
And help them align
A bit of a word splurge, this one. Definitely not my usual style at all, and probably a bit naff. A case of starting to write, following the flow, and seeing where it took me. And this is it.
(01.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Emad El Byed on Unsplash
Let’s get the obvious out of the way,
the biggies like thou shalt not kill,
or covert thou neighbour’s wife or ox.
(I’d like to think that surely now
we’d not equate a cow and a woman
or see them both as property).
And then there’s those that allegedly linger
Like not eating mince pies at Christmas
or providing a range to practice archery.
But what exactly is the etiquette
regarding bumping into one’s hero
in a queue for the urinals in the interval?
Is a nod of the head appropriate?
I would guess so. My quandary is,
what is our stance on autographs?
A real encounter at a Duke Special gig. None of us were knew how to respond to his presence.
(30.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash
All was dark in the moment beforehand
As if only we were abroad
But somewhere a whisper awakens
Bidding workers to attend to their chores
Stoke up the furnace ’til it’s ready
Then prize open its door just a crack
So a halo of pink might outline roofs
Now released, there’s no holding back
Its torrent boils over the floodgates
Pours into the skies in a flash
A writhing of rust and vermillion
Persimmon and cadmium clash
It’s urgency rages in anger
Like a blazing volcano erupts
It’s fierce stallions charge onwards relentless
Against night’s forces resisting its thrust
The darkness regrouping intensifies
Its blackness seems blacker than the grave
But nothing can hold back dawn’s progress
Triumphant its glories cascade!
As fast as the battle was opened
Dawn’s turmoil is over and done
Morning’s light is finally upon us
Its peace has been violently won
I enjoyed revisiting one of first poems the other day, and so decided to do it again today with ‘Poem 5 – Sunrise‘ from 12.10.21, again reworking its rhythm and trying some rhyme.
(29.09.24)
Ode for the Day 