Poem 216 – The Foodbank Nicked My Chocolate Cake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poem 208 – Including Judas

My table stretches,
extends so all
can gather round
to eat.

Pictures of the Last Supper always feature a large table – it would have to be to accomodate the twelves disciples as well as Jesus! It always fascinates me that Jesus welcomed them all to share such an intimate and pivotal meal, especially Judas, who he knew was about to betray him. What is this? Foolishness? Naivety? Or simply an act of inclusive grace?
(See also the end of this post by by Nadia Bolz-Weber)

(02.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Image by Leonardo da Vinci – High resolution scan by http://www.haltadefinizione.com/ in collaboration with the Italian ministry of culture. Scan details, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3032252

Poem 207 – Stranger-Danger (or ‘To Peddlers of Fear’)

It started with a journey on
the road to Jericho,
a dangerous route through dark shadows
that gathered down below,
where gruff bandits would grimly wait
to bring brave travellers low.

One cudgel swing is all it took
to land a stunning crack.
It sent our traveller spinning round
and landing with a thwack.
They stripped him of his clothes and riches
ripped them from his back.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

But do not fear he’s not alone
behind him comes a priest,
the highest in the hierarchy
the first at any feast,
you’d like to think that he would stop
and offer hope at least.

But no, he crosses over to
the far side of the street,
then hurries past without delay
propelled by hasty feet,
you see, he fears that blood’s unclean
and he could be deceased.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

Next up a Levite walking fast
to catch up with his friend.
They both work at the temple and
he’ll meet him round the bend,
but look, he spies the battered body
and I guess, you guess, the trend!

His mate has made his mind up for him
not stopping to assist,
a guilty grin then moving on
he did not want to miss,
the chance to make their rendezvous
their plans, his needs, dismissed.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

So who’s up next in this our list?
You’d guess an average bloke,
someone who had a normal job,
one of the common folk,
but no, it’s stranger-danger time,
take care, this is no joke.

You see the next to come along
is not from round these parts,
he’s one of ‘them Samaritans’
no, he won’t have a heart,
’cause they’re a bunch of heretics
From true faith they depart.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

Without a moment’s hesitation
he stoops to check him out,
to wash his wounds and bind them up
without a single doubt,
then tenderly he lifts him on
his donkey strong and stout.

From there he risks a journey to
a nearby Jewish inn.
He gives the host two coins to start
if they would care for him
and promises that he’ll return
to ensure that they’re quids-in.

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

This story ended with a question
to an expert in the law,
‘which one was like a neighbour
to the man left on the floor?’
He found it hard to say although
we know, he knew, for sure

‘The one who showed him mercy’ was
the most he could reply.
It’s easy to see good in those
we love, but hard to try,
to see it in the ones we hate
the ones we’d rather die.

You peddlers of the politics
of fear and hate and lies,
who spread a gospel telling us
who we must all despise,
I’m sure that Jesus would cry out
‘Please go and do likewise!’

It’s time to turn the inside out
and bring the outside in,
to learn that God sees everyone
with love despite our sin.

A couple of years ago I discovered the joy of Bob Hartman’s Rhyming Bible. Having explored the parable of the Good Samaritan at church last Sunday, I thought I’d have a go at rendering it along similar lines, although mine comes with a little bite at the end, as befits Jesus’ parables and, dare I suggest, politics. It has a refrain, meant for everyone to read along to.
(30.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Photo by Ggia, dust spots/scratches removed by Kim Hansen. Edges cropped due to scan. Further restoration improvements using masks by Ggia., CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons