Alliterative Verse

Poem 781 – Four Years

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Four years of yearning, of young men sent to war,
since tanks on tracks raised trouble in the streets
and reason ran away as they rolled in.
Of mighty men who make games of all our lives,
who push people like pawns upon chess boards,
greedily grabbing land for their own gain.
Of tears that tear a track down mothers’ cheeks
and bombs that blow their boys to smithereens
and drones that down their unborn naive dreams.

On 24 February 2022 Russian forces entered the Ukraine marking the start of the current phase of the war between them. A poem in alliterative verse seemed an appropriate way to mark it, an ancient style to mark a modern conflict; somethings don’t really change.
(23.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jade Koroliuk on Unsplash

Poem 799 – In Hoc Signo Vinces

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Whilst marching with your men, a mighty vision
rose up in the sky, a sign above the Sun.
Both crisp and clear this vision of the cross
emboldened you, bright burning with the order,
go forth and in hoc signo vinces.

‘Born again’, baptised by Eusebius
and strident with new faith, you set to war
the cross enshrined on shining shields and
having defeated all who fought your fearsome sword, you sit serene upon your throne.

But in your daring did you ever doubt
such conquest by the cross of Christ who sought salvation not by sword but sacrifice?
This man made mighty by humility,
his love will ever stand above your reign.

Outside York Minster sits a statue of Constantine, the Roman Emperor who’s ‘conversation’ led to Christendom, the joining of the power of the state to the church.
(21.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 787 – This Magic Place

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An annual act of anticipation,
Selecting dates for Shakespeare’s stage,
That wooden Globe in which the world,
Is magically made in marvelous ways.

The scent of sawdust tickles my senses,
The sound of sonnets, rousing song,
Hushed silence for soliloquies,
The prayers of people pulled along.

Each night it never fails to win,
Its wistful ways, this wondrous O,
And later on its legacy lingers,
This glistening gold whose tendrils glow.

We’ve been selecting dates for the Globe’s summer season ahead of it going on public sale tomorrow. A favourite place.
(09.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 770 – Rest Awhile

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The winding week is done, its work is over
The veiling night draws near, now dim the light
Its time to take account of all its triumphs
And put its problems prayerfully aside

Once ready, rest awhile and rediscover
That peaceful place that every person needs
Recall your core, your heart, your cornerstone
And gladly let the God of grace within

It’s Friday night!
(23.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

Poem 680 – Season’s End

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The crest of winter creeps across the land.
Soon will come the crenellations of white
that edge the fringes of the frozen fields
andd lace the country lanes with a glistening sheen.

We walk. Fingers unused to the cold welcoming
the warmth afforded by coat pockets when thrust
into their hidden depths. Despite the carpet
of autumnal leaves, the light’s subdued, dialled down.

Our conversation hushed, we huddle close
contemplating the coming chill. Even
the birds are so, as summer songs are silenced.
The world draws in and waits for winter’s veil.

We shared an enjoyable walk this morning. The sun is out today, but the signs are there that the seasons are turning.
(25.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sue Winston on Unsplash

Poem 679 – Run!

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When cares collide, sometimes I cram them in
a tin. Tapping the lid down tightly, I hope
to keep them contained, concealed and under control
until I have the time to take them out
and dust them down to deal with them. Sometimes
the tin begins to tremble, threatening
to pop its top and pour its contents upon
the floor, a flood of feelings exploding violently,
crashing indiscriminately without a care.
Beware of what might happen if you wander
nearby when noticing this introvert
begin to blow!

Don’t worry, I’m ok, just messing around with alliteration!
(24.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Toby Elliott on Unsplash

Poem 674 – Twilight Driving

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The autumn light’s a nowhere liminal place.
The grisly rain descends in grimy grey,
its slimy fingers obscure my vision’s scope.
Passing figures flicker into view
then fade, phasing both in and out like phantoms
haunting the highway in their hazy dusk.
It’s time to temper haste and take no risks.
I turn my wipers on, weary and worried
that I might slip and strike some passerby
before I see them. I slow my speed and pray.
Fearing my vehicle’s veered into a violent
twilight realm, been trapped or transported
to find itself amongst the fickle fae
(how I fear their wily ways!), I wish that I
could wake at once to morning’s welcoming light,
and fix my thoughts upon finding my way to you.

Evening driving in autumnal drizzle.
(19.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Justin Cron on Unsplash

Poem 482 – Pètanque

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SMACK! Smashed gravel flies.
A shower of shards are scattered
as the boule descends.

Crashing into its target,
it sends it scything across
the crunching gravel court.

With pumping fists, the players
cheer, opponents groan,
their pole position lost.

One final fling, all hope
is pinned on nicking the nearest
boule placed by the jack.

A pause for silent prayer
before the bending player
looses their last chance…

Today we spent a lovely sunny time with friends, culminating in a tight hand of petanque. We lost, joy won.
(11.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash