It’s finally done
The never-ending
task has reached
its end, full stop.
Conclusion signed,
sealed and delivered.
One question left,
that’s all. Tonight?
Just celebration.
Celebration and sleep.
Celebration, sleep,
and joyful emptiness.
This morning was viva day take two. Last chance saloon. This time I passed!
(28.04.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Today’s a day for not looking,
for refusing to see. A day
of pretence, for living in distraction.
A day of denial, refusing to
acknowledge what waits. A toddler
holding its hands over its eyes so
it can’t be seen. Today,
I shall not feel the weight
upon my back. Today,
I dam the dike with a finger,
adrenaline stoppered for now.
Today, I write verse. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow doesn’t exist.
Not yet. Tomorrow must wait.
Tomorrow I sit my doctoral viva retake. I should be revising.
(27.04.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Gabor Koszegi on Unsplash
A life of neglect,
has wrinkled this skin
compounded by COVID
and war in Ukraine.
Shaken and stirred,
my body is bounced
from boulder to boulder,
more rumble than strip.
More crater than pothole,
Neil Armstrong’s at home here.
My limbs are disjointed,
my wheels are untrue.
How deep is that puddle?
How firm is that footing? Can
my padding take pummeling
much longer like this?
A crack in the cranks,
a snap of the shins,
I clasp on my cape
of the stars and stripes
and on the cusp of loud cursing
leap into the abyss…
As my training for the Ride London-Essex 100 continues, I’m becoming a little tired of the impact of the state of the roads on body and bike…
(20.04.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Docob5 at English WikipediaW, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Two couples, groups of four,
arrange themselves upon
the floor to dance. Caller’s
instructions given, they walk
it through, counting their steps,
fierce thought performs on faces.
The music starts and now
they charge whooping; tonight’s
for plowing on regardless!
We were at a family barn dance this weekend. Happy Birthday Emeyle and Jade, thanks for a highly enjoyable evening!
(17.04.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Joel Wyncott on Unsplash
Our scars are pinned upon us,
a transcript of past hurts
inscribed upon our flesh
so that we don’t forget.
This catalogue of incident,
like DNA, describes us.
Below, a deeper inventory:
the scars torn in our hearts,
witnesses to past pains,
which also carved our character,
etching personality.
Easter morn and scars
still marked the risen Christ.
Incongruous wounds? Not these.
Without them he’s reduced,
Messiah undone, no victory won,
a shadow of a saviour.
They’re how we know it’s him.
One day we’ll also rise,
but will our grave-born bodies
enjoy disfigurement,
stigmata of past battles
displayed in celebration?
Or will our newborn skin
be left bereft and clean?
If so, I have to ask,
will we be recognisable?
An Easter poem. Will the life to come render our current experiences irrelevant, or do they count, even the tough ones. A sequel of sorts to Poem 181. I might come back to this; it’s not quite there, but close enough to express my thoughts.
(10.04.23)
What does it mean, this scene so strange?
Darkness descends to shroud the skies
Creator enters creation to die
The pregnant earth gives birth once more
A way from heaven to earth is torn
Centurion spies the Son and mourns
In death, it seems, a kingdom’s born
A short verse inspired by Matthew 27:45-54.
(06.04.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Dylan McLeod on Unsplash
With oriental flare,
the grebe attracts attention.
Her sublime looks and slender
lines are carefully honed.
Exotic, not like other birds,
she owns her stage.
Checking all eyes are on
her, paparazzi ready,
she poses
to applause.
I don’t get to see these so often as other birds, but always appreciate them when I do. So distinct, they demand attention.
(30.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Bengt Nyman, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Stood by his office window, the silent
partner waits, serene and straight.
Beneath his greying brows, two keen
and wizened eyes, gaze out.
He waits. And waits. And waits. Until
incisively he strikes; a single
dart with ballet dancer poise.
Replete, he struts away.
So often we almost walk past these ‘old men’ of the river without noticing they’re there. Such graceful birds.
(29.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
New born, an angry punk
with shaven head, bright red,
shrill, urgent and demanding.
Nearby the parent swims.
Respectability
acquired, grown-up, it hides its
defiant past beneath
a comic exterior
of bloated feet and drab
commuter dress of black
and white.
But stray too close and watch
the rebel wake. With gun
fire spray of clacking beak
and furied charge across
the water, this crazy street
fighter fights mean not clean,
the threats soon flee now fly.
Behind with arms aloft
it cries its battle cry,
uncouth obscenities
of bloody consequence
should you once more defy
its patch. Return? You’ll die…
The violence is only momentary,
the furious flapping soon fades,
replaced by a tentative cease-fire.
With peace restored you might
reflect the scene just seen
was more a case of Benny
Hill than Al Capone.
But my advice is keep
this to yourself. She’s watching you.
I’ve always enjoyed looking out for coffee since reading Arthur Ransom’s ‘Coot Club’. Living here, I’ve really got to know them, watching their life cycles and displays thoroughout the year. Bonkers and loveable.
(28.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Charles J. Sharp, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
The closing chapter,
the final leg,
I’m almost home.
No longer looking
back but forward,
my destination
hoves into view;
the uneven creasing
of the spine
accompanied by
evasive wriggling.
Compelled I pick
up speed. I find
I’m skipping words
and tumbling over
myself to reach the
closing full stop.
But even as
I strive, inside
a simultaneous
braking competes.
Although my story
draws me on
I find I do
not want my journey’s
end. Not yet.
I’m currently reading Simon Armitage’s ‘Walking Home’, the account of his journey along the Pennine Way, enabled by the hospitality of strangers and poetry readings. Towards the end he recounts the unexpected feeling of not being elated at approaching home, having slipped into the habitualised routine of walking; a feeling not confined to walking.
(27.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Lucrezia Carnelos on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
