Poem 218 – I’m A Winging It Man

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                                                                I’m a
winging it man, no pressure, a just in time fella,
you must just trust your guts, no sweat, don’t fret.
We’ll get there in the end if I don’t send
you round the bend before we wend our way
towards our final destination.
                                                            I need
a deadline to demand my desperate
attention, to draw together inspiration.
There’s nothing like a red line in the diary
to generate that sense of do or die and
finally draw together focus.
                                                                    However,
I must remember others work differently than I do
planning out the when and where and why to,
pinpointing places, stages, steps and times.
Maybe, perhaps I ought to be more pliant,
and for our sake give it a try too.

As we head into Advent, in my line of life it begins to get rather busy with deadlines hunting in packs. Sometimes I wish I was one of those more organised types, but I fear I tend towards working on one thing at a time and a lot of flying by the seat of my pants. Whilst I find this last minute chaos generally works for me, I’m aware that those who are of a more thinking ahead of time nature can find it difficult if not infuriating! Right now, I’m living on adrenaline.
This one’s an experiment in over the top, repeated an obvious rhyming. To be spoken aloud and fast.
(25.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Poem 217 – Prayer

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A conversation
not a trade in facts.
A getting to know
and becoming known.
A comfortable pause or
provocative silence.
A chance to let rip
and tell it how it is,
at least,
how you think it is.
A generous gift
not obligation.
A time for distraction,
to recall all
those other things
you need to do
and some you really don’t.
Frustrating.

When I talk to Dad
it’s sometimes serious,
often not.
We tell our news and
tread the regular ground.
A joke is shared
I may have heard before.
It doesn’t matter.
I always finish
thinking I
must do
this more.

I was challenged to write a poem on prayer by a good friend. Difficult. Prayer is hard to pin down, besides I suspect this person prays more than I do. Recent conversations gave a way in.
(21.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 216 – The Foodbank Nicked My Chocolate Cake

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Oh, dear, I found out late
The foodbank nicked my chocolate cake
Oh, no, it was not funny
But apparently it was quite yummy
They scoffed the lot
and stuffed their tummies
and left behind
this plate all crummy
But oh, how, I laughed out loudly
When I found they’d eaten the wombat’s brownie

I’m writing this at the end of a fantastic day hosting Paul Cookson the performance poet, with shows and workshops at two local schools before back here at our church. Just before the show we discovered that our foodbank had accidentally given away our refreshments and decided that ‘The Foodbank Nicked My Cake’ would make a great title. Here’s my quick stab at this in pale imitation of Paul’s children’s verse. I’m afraid you’ll have to have been at his gigs to get the punchline…
(17.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by iMattSmart on Unsplash

Poem 215 – Waiting for the Poet

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I’m waiting for the poet
I’m twiddling my toes
I’m impatient don’t you know it
just walking to and fro
I hope he won’t be long now
’cause he’s coming to my home
and I fear I may have broke it
by adopting an rather awkward rhyming scheme
that doesn’t really flow as it should

Excited to have Paul Cookson, an inspiration for me with his daily poems, coming to stay tonight before before visiting our local schools and then doing a gig in the evening for us. …He arrived just as I wrote the last line!
(16.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by 13on on Unsplash

Poem 214 – Kayaköy

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Trespassers, straying in your walls, we spot
your hidden guard perched in his sentry box.
The lizard keeps his watch o’er Kayaköy,
beneath the spotlight of the bleaching sun.

What is it he protects? The crumbling walls
of empty homes abandoned long ago?
They’re just imperfect fossils, partial shells
picked clean, relics with nothing left to steal.

Perhaps this patient watchman wastes his time?
Maybe. Unless. Have we misread the scene?
Perhaps he guards not there from us but us
from ghosts superimposed upon these bricks:

ghosts, answering the church bells’ Sunday call,
bent over roasting stoves preparing lunch,
selecting apricots from market stalls,
and playing in the streets with shrieks of joy.

These streets witnessed entire lives played out:
first steps, first loves, first jobs, first homes, first child,
grey hairs and wrinkles, growing old, last breaths.
These silent streets still sound their passing sighs.

Until abruptly change came with a dictate
that ripped them, tore them, leaving their shades behind
echoes of families exiled without choice.
A way of life abandoned, torn, replanted.

These ossuaries remain, witnessing to
the cost that’s always paid in conflict by
the innocent. By those caught up without a voice
or choice. Their ghosts cry out in pain and warning.

In our recent trip to Ölüdeniz in Turkey, we hiked through the wood by our resort to Kayaköy, a ‘ghost town’ resulting from the Treaty of Lausanne which brought to an end the Greco-Turkish War of 1919–1922. In it was a protocol for a population exchange between the two countries (see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kayak%C3%B6y). Visiting the town was an eerie experience. It was a very still and empty place, but at the same time, in the corner of your eye you could almost see its former inhabitants living out their daily lives. And yes, there was a lizard. I do not know enough about either conflict to judge the rights and wrongs of events, but I can’t help but find myself making links between the past, there, and events in Gaza today.
(13.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 213 – Three Dots

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suspended high,
a state of suspense,
moment of grace,
as waiting, poised,
caught in between,
the paragliders
hang above
Ölüdeniz,
three dots…

(02.11.23)

Looking towards the sea over breakfast, three paragliders caught my eye. For a moment they simply hung there, seemingly stationary, as if magically hung in midair.
© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 211 – Ascending Donard

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Booted we seek to climb,
assert ourselves, impose
our will. Slieve Donard howls.
Fierce tears define its shape,
sharpen it’s angst and contours.
Woken, it’s rage defies
our rise and pushes back.
Determined, we persist
and brace against the gale.
Our worlds compress until,
heads bowed, each walks alone.
This wild and reckless peak
doesn’t surrender meekly.

Recently I met with flatmates from university days to go walking in Northern Ireland. Our first walk was a climb to the peak of Slieve Donard, the highest point in Northern Ireland. The weather raged as weather should on such a walk. It was truly magnificent!
(30.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 210 – Autumn Mornings

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Zoe Ball speaks and yet the world is dark?
I double check in case the clock deceives.
Alas, it doesn’t. Zombie-like I rise.
The morning’s urgency has drained away,
its greyscale smear a strain upon my soul.
Even our pot plants share this weariness;
their flowers droop, they hang their heads in shame,
and outside in the dark the trees stand bare.

I’m not a morning man. Our alarm clock plays Radio Two to wake us up. It now sounds before the sun rises. This is not a good combination.
(25.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Sonja Langford on Unsplash (original in colour)

Poem 209 – River Reynard

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The early morn.
Two foxes sprinting
fluid and fast.
Coursing the street
their game of tag
washes its banks.

4am. I’m up early to catch a plane, walking to the local train station. In my peripheral vision I spot a red blur. Two foxes with more energy than me fly past.
(06.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Wen Zhu on Unsplash