Back home, unpacked,
clothes in the wash,
me in the wash,
kit stowed away,
crashed out upon the sofa.
After five days
outside beneath
the big blue sky,
inside feels strange,
confined, cut off, unnatural.
And yet I know
I’ll soon adjust,
quickly revert,
freedom exchanged
for familiar shackles.
Back from Greenbelt, it’s lovely to be with family again, but being inside feels odd.
(25.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The last song is done
The stage will be dismantled
Your presence lingers
I wrote another poem today, but I’m not so sure about posting it, so here’s an end of Greenbelt haiku.
(24.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A simple slip of tongue produced
A gem of wisdom, profound adage,
After the laughter let it sink in,
‘It takes a child to raise a village’.
It takes a child to raise a village,
A simple soul to teach the wise,
The joy of life to lift the spirits,
An open heart to make us nice.
The awestruck face that greeted me
Striped back the pretensions that I relied on,
When walking along the roadside verge,
We stopped to admire a dandelion,
Eyes wide with wonder woke the weary,
My cynicism drained away,
I saw again as I used to see,
I wish this innocence would stay.
Instantly, children come together,
From strangers quickly friendships form;
Covenants of grace are forged in fun,
And from the games new life is born.
It doesn’t matter who they are,
Their colour, creed or place of birth,
Collisions occur, but are quickly
Forgotten and replaced with mirth.
We’ve long believed the well trod lie,
That wisdom comes with age, until
Much to our surprise we found the truth,
It takes a child to raise a village.
I listened to the excellent Adjoa Andoh at Greenbelt today. A slip of the tongue inspired this poem, married to an encounter with a three year old friend on a walk over day. (*Matthew 19:14)
(23.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jochen van Wylick on Unsplash
As starlings start to murmur
We party under the watchful
Eye of the Gazan Lighthouse
Dreaming of a day
When all can dance together
Flocking from all nations
One human family
It’s been a cracking first full day in the Greenbelt field.
(22.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I’m sat beneath the trees,
surrounded by a throng
of glorious angels, waiting
to forge hope together.
Something special’s brewing,
As heaven becomes unveiled;
It isn’t as far away
As we used to think it was.
Martyn Joseph sings and
A young girl dances,
Lost in the melody
Our hearts become conjoined.
Greenbelt. The tent is up, dinner eaten, and I’m at the Angels’ Reception (those committed to giving regularly to Greenbelt). It’s going to be good.
(21.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The annual question
Is there enough gas to cook?
This year? A gamble.
I’m off to Greenbelt on Thursday, my annual festival retreat. Getting some of the kit together today I was faced with the usual question.
(19.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Sleeping bag grappled.
Tent dried and packed,
along with a random item to be
rediscovered next time.
Rubbish disposed of,
green and not.
Excess taken to the foodbank.
Car sought in a car park
stripped to the bare essentials.
Give thanks when I find it.
Satnav set for ‘Home’.
Strange, this is home too.
A porcelain toilet will be nice though
and a proper cup of tea.
The wristband stays on,
I’m not quite ready yet
to say goodbye.
Greenbelt’s over for another year, and what a cracking weekend it was, despite having four seasons in as many days!
(26.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Dragonflies flitting round the poet
A daughter dancing in the glade
Steam rising from the canopy
Shelter sought and thinking remade
Floral dresses accompanied by wellies
A speaker on Zoom surprised by the loos
Unexpected powercuts
A God who leaves us free to choose
Familiar faces seen once a year
Lost stories found in glorious song
The wind and rain at last dismissed
Joyous epiphany, here comes the sun
Snapshots from the last couple of days at Greenbelt. The weather continues to be a feature, but I’m optimistic that the wet and wind is more past us.
(24.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Last night was the night
that the storm came to town
shouting, ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff,
and I’ll blow your tent down!’
But we weren’t deterred
by the threats that she made
we gathered here regardless
ignored her tirade.
So she huffed, and she puffed,
with all of her might,
she blew at the tent,
through all of the night,
it wibbled and wobbled
like one of mum’s jellies,
it lost all its structure
like a middle aged belly,
but every single time
that she thought she had won
it would pop right back up
to the place it’d begun!
Storm Lilian visited Greenbelt last night, with 40mph winds. The star this morning is a slow one as the site is made safe – much festival kit was not put up beforehand just in case. It’s not going to put use off though!
(23.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
The tent is up, pegged square and neat,
the sun for now my companion.
I am relieved, there’s nothing worse
than setting up when it is raining.
The wind is twitchy. Like a restless
child, it can’t sit still, but worries
at the tent. I worry too.
Somewhere that butterfly has flapped
its wings and storms conspire.
The canvas flexes but holds for now,
an intake of breath before.
Inside it sounds a little like
the sea washing at the shore.
I close my eyes content and rest
awhile in hopeful anticipation.
I’ve arrived for my annual pilgrimage to Greenbelt Festival. We’re promised the whole array of English weather! Although I’m a little worried about high winds, I’m really looking forward to what’s in store.
(22.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Ode for the Day 