Poem 692 – Three Sandwiches

A Bacon Sandwich:
Two slices of bread with meat in between,
The perfect blend (forgive me veggies),
Both perfectly complementing each other.

A Marken Sandwich:
Two gospel stories intertwined,
The second tucked inside the first,
Giving meaning to each other.

A Human Sandwich:
The symbiotic network
That comes from living in community,
Identify found in relation to each other.

We’re looking at Mark’s Gospel at church and how he structures his narrative to communicate to us. Tonight we talked about the Marken Sandwich.
(18.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash

Poem 656 – Character Forming

Cut through time to take a look,
examine me under the microscope,
assess my passage from the start,
the journey taken, years of growth.

Like rings within an ancient tree
revealed in hindsight by the axe,
or brickwork courses growing taller,
each one stacking on the last.

Or painted walls, each layer giving
deeper colour, gaining richness,
our lives mature, as we grow older,
building on their early promise.

Look carefully, see the DNA,
the chemical chains that snake through years,
parental nurture shaping outlook
the constraints of our family tree.

The trail is present from our birth,
outcome foreshadowed from the start,
our final face beneath the first,
foundations shaping who we are.

A combination of decorating and a nostalgic trip through our children’s school records, led me to reflect upon how much of who we become is present in who we were.
(13.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Joel & Jasmin Førestbird on Unsplash

Poem 650 – Past/Present Identity

Yesterday we delved into the past,
Chasing ancestors down ancient Devon streets.
Today, instead of lost ancestors, we found
The present in your picturesque terraces.
A surprise collision in Appledore’s Market Street
With contemporary branches of our family tree,
Reminded us that the past begets the present,
That gravestones generate identity.

Someone reads my poems! Much to our surprise Kate’s cousins read my poem about Bideford and got in touch because they were also in the area. Today last and present met.
(07.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 642 – Free

Here, I’m safe to cast aside my faces,
not letting them slip, but tossing them without
a thought onto a pile heaped on the floor;
peeling off the accumulated layers,
revealing the pink and tender skin beneath,
exposing scars and fragile dreams and joys.
I wander naked and without a care,
secure that you will never laugh and point.
This is no mutually assured destruction,
love predicated on the fear of tit-
for-tat, but mutually assumed devotion.

I’ve been writing a series of devotional notes based upon the theme of rest. It struck me that you can only truly rest when you are able to relax about being yourself. It is a privilege to be able to find others with whom you can do this.
(30.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andre Mouton on Unsplash

Poem 606 – Revealed

I’ve known you for a year or so.
But then you turn to look at me,
Your identity is still unclear,
Personality unknown.

What lies behind those searching eyes?
What thoughts are hid, emotions felt?
I can but guess, they dwell obscure,
Kept veiled behind a lack of words.

Until today, that is, for then
I heard your voice. It caught me by
Surprise; you are not who I thought
You were, but now at last you’re heard.

One of the toddlers spoke to me for the first time today. It’s always fascinating to discover how the person it reveals matches up to your expectation.
(25.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

Poem 237 – i am

my neurons’ pulsing electro beat
the rhythm of hormonal flow
my parents genes and nurture’s feat
the past drags me along in tow

i’m born my culture’s bastard child
a pinch of this, a dash of that
in tension with each other held
the product of a life compact

my jobs, my pets and what i ate
the microbes that within me grow
my prejudices obstinate
the lingering trace of where i go

i find within a tug of war
between these different identities
to separate them is to tear
it’s never i, it’s always we
it takes the world to raise a child
and this child is never truly free
from each and every one compiled
but no regrets, they made me me

For all sorts of reasons, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about identity, the sense of being distinct but influenced by so many factors. Sheldrake’s ‘Entangled Life’ raises the question of whether or not we are more network than individual. Provocative.
(21.03.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Alina Grubnyak on Unsplash

Poem 189 – Who Am I?

Who am I?
I am how others see and shape me, friends
and colleagues, neighbours, enemies. I shift expression, slide to meet whoever stands
before me now. I am your husband, friend
and lover, sharing lives, and tears and dreams.
You’ve had my best and worst. I wonder what
you see, you who knows me best, who am I?
I am my work, my nine to five and more;
it’s how we catalogue and frame the other.
I am the teacher’s son, the scientist’s too,
designed by nature, nurture, chicken, egg.
Does anybody know the essential me,
the one beneath these morphing layers?
                                                                                I don’t.
He is not there, he doesn’t exist. I am
only because this web creates, remakes me.
I am I and you and him and we.

Who is the real me? A counterpoint to my previous poem (Poem 188 – Exposed). Those of faith might spot another allusion and contrast.
(23.05.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Hermann Wittekopf on Unsplash

Poem 188 – Exposed

I shed my face,
the one I placed
upon my face
this morning. Here,
with you,
                    it lies
discarded it’s
unnecessary.

The truth beneath
revealed, my veins,
and flesh displayed
to you. No need
to pause,
                    exposed,
stripped back, you stand
naked before me.

Watching the ease shared between Paul Whitehouse and Bob Mortimer in ‘Gone Fishing’ I found myself reflecting on the nature of friendship.
(20.05.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash

Poem 169 – I Collect People

I collect people.
Not in an album like
a stamp collector, or
macabre jars like some
demented serial killer,
but in my memories.

Childhood friends stand by
eccentric teachers that
inspire and shape my path.
Loved relatives are filed
with heroes of the stage
and teenage heartbreakers.

Congregation members,
that walked with us awhile,
together with neighbours
who passed our window daily,
their names undiscovered.
Did they know each other?

Time to time I take
them out and dust them down,
revisit, reminisce.
These familiar faces,
both intimate and distant,
make up my life’s matrix.
I am in reference to them,
embedded and defined.
There is no island life.

A conversation at church about personalities who have been part of our family over time prompted the phrase ‘we collect people’. This stuck in my head and eventually prompted this poem.
(20.02.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Raj Rana on Unsplash (Original in colour)