Slouched on the sofa
Watching programmes on the box
With my other half
It’s the weekend. A night to relax.
(29.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Michael DeMoya on Unsplash
Poem 367 – A Forest in Miniature
Crouch down, zoom in, and you’ll find a quantum forest,
a reaching canopy in miniature splendour that
rises in vast and alien complexity.
This leafy spread isn’t formed of trees but lichen,
the mystical two in one and one in two,
fungus and algae cryptically combined.
Hidden in plain sight, these ecological
marvels stretch out, decorating graves
and bridges; nature the original street artist.
I noticed recently that, while I wasn’t looking, lichen has spread out its swathes across the railway footbridge at the foot of our road. It’s a weird and mysterious organism, a combination of algae and fungus, but what is the nature of their relationship and are they / is it one organism or two?
(28.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Poem 366 – Currently 2-0
I should be writing a poem,
But it’s been a busy day,
Dealing with toddlers,
Shifting food,
Discussing the Bible,
Talking to church members,
Now the day’s done, and
Liverpool are beating Madrid,
So this will have to do.
Hopefully that’s game, set and match (to mix sports!)
(27.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jannes Glas on Unsplash
Poem 365 – First Steps
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
Poem 364 – The Atlantic
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
Poem 363 – 24th November
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
Poem 362 – In Honour of Leonardo Fibonacci
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
Poem 361 – Tomorrow…
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)
Poem 360 – Seeking Form
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
Poem 359 – Curlew Crescent
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)
Ode for the Day 
