Is Poem 101
The verse where fears are found?
It feels appropriate
To write that at a time
When doublespeak is heard
I never thought that I
Would see Orwell’s nightmare
Realised, but ‘war is peace’
Is spoken now abroad
Does two and two make five?
Of course not but Putin
Pedals his lies as truth
Portraying tanks as sheep
Their ignorance his strength
They say truth is stranger than fiction. Today we see fiction beginning truth.
(02.03.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 100 – Hancock’s Disciple*
Queuing, I wait to offer up my pint
Of haemoglobin, ordinary, red
And wonder how do interest rates affect
Deposits made? What bank charges apply?
Eventually I pass through triage and
Am strapped into my seat, arm bared, a cross
Between a theme park ride and electric chair
Before being lowered horizontal.
Engaging with the nurse in idle chat
Helps to distract my focus from the needle.
She looks a little stressed, perhaps she needs
It too. I hope it brightens up her day.
The jab. I wince feeling intrusion, pain.
It doesn’t last. Quickly relaxing I
Unclench and flow, my fingers moving to
My heart’s strong calming beat. I find it both
A reassurance and concern to note
How fast I’m done. I’m glad someone is there
To close my running tap and plug the hole.
To celebrate reaching my hundredth poem, I gave blood.
* Tony that is, not Matt! (https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5hjsjq)
(01.03.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 99 – 21 Goals
One arched iconic stadium
Welcomes two rivals to the pitch
With many in supporting roles
Holding up the thirty-two who play
The eighty thousand roaring on
Their hearts racing the ninety endless
Thrilling minutes then thirty more
Joyful, relentless and exhausting
And then as one they pause…
…breath held
As players line up one by one
In legal torture to decide
(this was always bound to be)
But surely none saw this ending
That after all those goalless minutes
The game would end with twenty scored
Leaving the goalies to decide
The outcome with a shot apiece
With trusted youngster shooting sure
And wily veteran striking high
It’s always tense being a Liverpool fan following a final, we never do it the easy way, but that was ridiculous(ly wonderful)!
(28.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 98 – Innocence
Do you recall those hazy childhood days,
Those lazy endless freedom days outside?
The den we made together in the hedge,
Found at the bottom of our road, our world?
Behind it stood a farmer’s field in which,
We used to scatter, hide within the grain.
I wonder if he ever saw us there,
And turned a blind eye to our escapades?
The pylons, alien, stood tall and strong,
Tempting investigation but warnings,
Upon ‘the box’ made us fearful. Likewise,
We never played with matches, afraid of death.
This was our kingdom, on our bikes we reigned.
The rules were ours, no adults interfered,
Until exhausted, dinner called us home,
Across the border full of tales to tell.
Was it really as I remember it, with blue skies all year and endless hours to play? Probably not, but the sense of that is strong.
(26.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 97 – Incomprehension
Today the sky is blue, a robin chirps
Flitting, his red breast skips into my view
And all is calm. Except it’s not. Somewhere
The tanks rumble forward. Missiles fire. Red stains.
How can this be? How can our world encompass
This contradiction? Why should I enjoy the sun
When members of my family unmet
Know only fear, uncertainty and try
To conjure up the bravery required?
To pour out verse cannot compare with what
Is asked of them, but what else can
I offer? I have no gun. Only prayer.
And so I call upon another who
Was subjected to unfair violence.
I cannot comprehend, but maybe he
Whose blood was also shed might understand?
The tanks rumble into Kyiv whilst here the sun shines.
(26.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 96 – Futility (or Breakfast with Putin)
I woke to hear of bombs
Rumours of war but not
Here. Elsewhere. Far away.
Eating my breakfast I’m safe
I think. I only hear
Vicariously. However
It still disturbs my meal.
I think how awful it
Would be to be woken
By such a bomb in person.
I tweet denouncing this
Then doom-scroll for a while
Thinking someone must do
Something. When finished I
Rise, hunger satisfied.
Sometimes, hearing the news feels a futile affair, desperate situations meet our inability to comprehend them or respond in a meaningful way.
(24.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 95 – The Scandal of Spring
Without our noticing, the velvet bud
Protrudes. This act of annual resurrection
From naked branch to clothed, a strip tease in
Reverse, so tantalising in modesty.
Before long, it will be scandalously dressed.
The bite of winter receding, our fruit trees are coming back to life once more.
(23.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 94 – Mercury’s Lament
Remember Freddie’s rhapsody
Nine classic minutes long to bring
Bombastic rock, triumphant pomp
The opera to the masses, darling
Before the storm a solo voice
With purity, soaring lament
In contrast with the bitterness
Contained within words of regret
Then crashing thunder interrupts
Violent vocals kaleidoscope
Inner turmoil, chaotic nonsense
Soundscape immense and intricate
Before Beelzebub attacks
The stargazer magnificent
Looks out beyond this racous gale
As finally the man repents
Be still cries out the axe wielder
And thus the storm is brought down low
Priorities fall into place
And whisper
…anyway the wind blows
This was going to be a poem about Storm Eunice, but slipped into something quite different.
(20.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 93 – Culinary Treasure
A fish ingot golden not brown
Alongside a portion of chips
Not fries but thickly cut and bagged
Salt sprinkled, paired perfectly with
A bite of vinegar splashed over
All wrapped in sweating paper, warm
Carefully rolled, corners tucked tight
And popped into a plastic bag
To take home quick, this British treasure
I drove the long straight drive to Bristol this evening. On arrival, I felt a portion of fish and chips had been earnt.
(17.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Poem 92 – On Their Shoulders
The patient scrape
Reveals slowly
What lies below
Intrepid travellers
Descend in time
To days long gone
Attentive eyes
Remain focused
Creative vision
Forgotten hints
Slowly produce
A growing picture
Forensic care
Identifies
Our ancestors
Now resurrected
Before us those
On whom we stand
At the age of four I proudly announces that I wanted to be a professor of archeology! The nearest I got was enjoying Time Team.
(16.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
