The act of ironing a shirt
Can be a form of meditation
Each line and sleeve become a prayer
Crisp creases bringing satisfaction
A busy day, ending with some housework, means just a short one again today.
(26.02.25)
Poem 437 – Poem Generator
Randomly select
poetic form and metre.
Dash with rhyme to taste.
Liberally add simile
then sprinkle with emotion.
I wasn’t sure what to write about tonight, and so I wrote about that…
(25.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash
Poem 436 – Nothing Changes
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
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
Poem 434 – Ancient Stones
Standing stark and strong,
the weight of generations
tugging us through time.
Historic earth, a rod,
grounding our feet in place;
eternity in stone.
A silhouette, cold white,
engraved in fleeting lives,
eroded, lichen clad.
A throbbing weight, it’s heart-
beating our ears with gravity,
not breathing yet alive.
Tonight’s TV drama (Vera) featured three standing stones, reminding me of trips to Avebury and other ancient monuments, and the feelings associated with them.
(22.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 433 – Two Days
Driving, packing, moving and assembling,
Scrubbing, scraping, sweeping, lifting, mending,
Two days non-stop moving until now,
And I’m never going to move my bones again.
That’s it, the job’s more or less done. And so am I.
(21.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 432 – An Ode To White Van Man
Two men and a van
Bish, bash, bosh, hurrah, job done!
Put the kettle on!
Today’s removal men for our daughter were fantastic! If only the flat pack furniture was as straightforward…
(20.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
Poem 431 – Packing
Packing bags
Packing boxes
Packing cars
Packing trucks
Packing tools
Packing kettles
Packing hopes
Packing losses
Packing dreams
Packing memories
Packing fears
Packing love
Packing family
Packing friends
Packing stories
On every box
Our daughter’s moving this week, raising memories of our last move where as a young girl she wrote stories on every box.
(19.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 430 – The Crows
The black crows wheeled about and dived,
Three harbingers of doom descending
In perfect harmony, upon the man.
I knew not why they chose this wanderer,
Just what his crime or cause of grief,
But froze in horror as they harangued him.
Their cawing clawed along my back,
Paralleling their piercing talons,
Which, rampant, ripped his suit to shreds.
Brandishing his umbrella like a bayonet,
He thrust it furiously at the fiends,
But repelling them not retreated.
Around the corner he ran in terror,
Before, when out of sight, he screamed
A sound like shrieking foxes wailing.
At last I roused myself and ran
To offer help in fending off
These beasts, but found them gone, a feather
Left lying on the floor, the only
Evidence of their existence.
And of the man? No sign remained…
I never found the missing man,
Nor saw the hellish crows once more,
Except asleep in anxious dreams,
But even now I shrink in fear,
Upon the sight of silent birds
Aloft on wing or lonely trees.
Walking to church today I saw the crows sweeping in a curve, one before the other, in a downward dive. Starting to write about the sight, this is what came out. I didn’t intend to write gothic or alliterative verse, but that’s where it took me.
(18.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stary Smok on Unsplash
Poem 429 – Kenwood Bridge
The perfect vision
Arching delight
Curving crisply
Casting the light
Reaching over
Reeds and blue water
Alas this bridge
Is an imposter
To celebrate half term, we took some time today to visit Kenwood House and grounds. Over the lake reaches this beautiful bridge which can be seen from the house. Close inspection, however, reveals it is a sham – it is a two dimensional prop!
(17.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
