I spat in a tube this morning
To find out who I am
And then that tube was posted
(Apologies postman!)
Of course there’s more to me
Than my genetic code
There’s everything that’s happened
On life’s long winding road
But I have always wondered
Where my tribe came from
Are my roots in Britain
Or do we have it wrong
Perhaps they are Germanic
Or Scandi, French or Switz
African or Asian
But whatever’s on my list
This fair land has shaped me
And others influenced
And through this cultural cocktail
My life has been enriched
I have always felt a ‘spiritual’ connection to the ancient past of our country, and am intrigued to know if my roots go back to the age of barrows and white horses, but whatever the result of my test, I won’t be disappointed as even through romantic eyes, I know this nation has never been racially pure but mixed and all the better for it.
(11.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 68 – The Classroom Drummer
Remember the noise the ruler made when
You thrummed it on the side of the desk?
That drumming sound that slid upwards as you
Drew the springboard inwards crescendoing?
I swear I heard that as I walked amongst the trees.
I looked around but there was no classroom
Comedian, no scruffy school boy here.
Confused I turned again with searching eyes
But still no culprit was disclosed until
Skyward I lifted my attention, where
A flash of red revealed the avian punk
Headbanging yobbish rhythms on the branch.
Today, my afternoon walk was accompanied by the sound of drumming amongst the trees. I didn’t actually spot the culprit, but I knew who it was.
(10.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 67 – In Transition
I find myself in that point in between
Caught in the tension, in transition from
One state to another. Belonging to
None.
Restless I tussle, looking for home, but
There is no peace to be found in this place
Nowhere to lay my head and rest. I’m in
Exile.
This no mans land has no alms to share
No favour to give. Is this how water
Feels, not ice nor vapour, but constantly
Flowing?
But rather than despair, perhaps this calls
For patient endurance, believing in
The possibility provided by
Now.
To arrive, you first must travel through this
Junction. You cannot arrive without the
Journey, and so, let’s travel onward in
Hope.
So much of life feels like this at the moment. As we wait for the pandemic to pass, we’re in a state of tension between lockdown and normal, neither one nor the other. Of course, this is not restricted to such large scale fluctuations, but is a state we pass through in a myriad of ways every day.
(09.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 66 – The Cardboard Prometheus
The lid slides off with satisfying heft,
Revealed within an array of precious parts.
Opened, the board becomes the table’s heart,
The pulsing centre round which we congregate.
The rules its brain which regulates carefully,
Instructing every thoughtful turn we take.
The tokens, hormones, eliciting response,
Conducting celebration, dealing pain.
But on their own these parts remain mere props,
Empty, devoid of life, like clay awaiting,
Prometheus to spark them into life.
So what impulse provokes initiation?
It’s those who in anticipation play,
Whose mutual endeavour generates.
I’ve tried solo boardgames and computer games, but nothing beats playing with others. For me, at least, it is the social aspect that brings them to life and makes them a life giving activity.
(03.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 65 – Tsundoku
The Japanese possess a word for when
You grow a stack of books to read one day
A day that constantly remains a day
Away from now. That word is tsundoku.
I guess there must become a point in time
When tsundoku flows into tsunami
A crashing pile that floods the room and pours
Ideas and plots across the polished floor.
This is a word that belongs in my house. I have many of them!
(02.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 64 – Aladdin’s New Year
The chimes of Big Ben ring as midnight turns
A sorcerer ushering in the year
Calling new lamps for old as in the tale
But can the past be ever truly left
Behind or does it haunt our every step
A shadow shading, or whisper shaping
The present intersected by the past
Two conjoined twins inseparable from birth
And so give thanks for what has been, for that
Has made you who you are and who you’re yet to be
Over the last two New Years we’ve wished for better ones to come, but regardless of what they’ve been like, these years are now part of us.
(01.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 63 – The Master Chefs
We traded favourite flavours
And swapped celebrity chefs
Compared inherited recipes
Until we had full sets
One trusted only Berry
Another Delia Smith
Some bish-bash-boshed with Jamie
But I like Nadiya best
A quick doodle today after over heating a conversation at foodbank about cookery.
(31.12.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Poem 62 – The Morning After
There is no cordon around the house to warn
Nor grim faced officer to bar our way
But on the inside awaits a grisly scene
Come in and see the evidence arrayed
This is the room where the events transpired
Remains of celebrations on the floor
The shredded tatters form outlines around
The places where their bodies sat that morn
Now see upon the table evidence
Identified and ready to photograph
Betraying crumbs a trail perhaps to follow
Wine glasses marked by lips that last night laughed
Then out the back you’ll find their bins all full
Of waste unwanted, clues of what has been
And deep within the usual trash concealed
A cold carcass, discarded, bones picked clean
Back in again to question the witness
Who yawning talks us through the scene at hand
Identifying gifts and turkey bones
Such evidence echoed across the land
The morning after Christmas you could work out from the wreckage where everyone sat to open their gifts, reminding me of the white outlines marking where the body laid in police dramas…
(29.12.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Poem 61 – The Touch of Frost
The touch of frost caresses me, running
It’s icy fingers across my earthly skin
And tracing limb and fold they penetrate
With cold embrace that draws from me a moan
Its bitter kiss breathes chill into my bones
An intimacy that lasts until love thaws
We woke today to find the outside world white with frost, a magical scene, at least from the warm indoors that is!
(22.12.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Poem 60 – North Shropshire
Fun and games at
The children’s bash
But after the sugar rush
Comes the crash
Forgive this cheeky four-liner, but waking to the news today, it just popped into my head….
Every parent quickly learns the mistake of pumping their children full of sweets at a party, but perhaps Boris is only just discovering the consequences.
(17.12.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Ode for the Day 