Memory

Poem 616 – When I Was In Morocco

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‘When I was in Morocco’,
You’ve often heard me start,
Recalling long ago,
My adventures of the past.

I haggled in the souk,
Swapped tales in Marrakesh,
I walked forgotten routes,
Put physics to the test.

I fought with crazy gangsters,
Chased Nazis on train tops,
Sought fabled ancient treasures
And secrets time had lost.

I faced my deepest fears,
In pits of writhing snakes,
And crossed  precarious wings
On acrobatic planes.

I navigated maps,
Acquired through games of chance,
Survived the booby traps
And puzzles of the past.

But now I’m getting old,
I’m told those days are gone,
But in memories I’m still bold,
And in dreams, they still live on.

Watching the final Indiana Jones film tonight, it merged with my father’s ‘infamous’ stories of his time in Morocco.
(05.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 487 – Old Eyes

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A thousand faces stacked upon the desk.
Rewinding back in time, their faces flux,
the layers peel, year after year, devolving
to disclose the child back at the start.

Upon the floor I see myself, only,
at first I do not recognize this stranger.
The face looking up at me there is not
the face I wear today, its features shod.

But it’s always the eyes that give the game away
as eye to eye we size each other up,
mirrors of the soul reflecting upon
each other in perpetual recognition.

Whilst I’ve been working, my wife has been sorting through old photos next to me. Quite a trip down memory lane.
(16.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 356 – Nothing Is Forever, But…

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SONGS can be sonic portals, dioramas,
OF youthful memories long forgotten,
A door through which, released, our senses tumble,
LOST landscapes wherein we dance with arms outstretched,
a WORLD of angst yet somehow hopeful.

I’ve been listening to The Cure a lot recently, especially their latest album, the terrific ‘Songs of a Lost World’. Despite Robert Smith’s obvious awareness of aging and mortality, and their classic gothic sound, I find so much of their music strangely uplifting. (And yes, that is me in the photo…)
(17.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 248 – Back to the Future

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In Aymara they say the past
is not behind us but before,
it’s the future that’s obscured

This country’s one we know,
its peaks and troughs have been well trod,
we’ve walked them all our lives,

whereas the future’s yet
unseen, its contours strange to us,
continuous but obscured.

It’s hidden from view. Like drunks,
we stumble backwards tugging the veil
to find out where we’ve been.

A while back I read a fascinating article on the BBC website about the relationship between time and language and space. The way some invert our usual concept of the past being behind us and the future before us caught my attention.
(01.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Kaspars Eglitis on Unsplash

Poem 205 – The Memories of a Time Traveller

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When I was little, time stretched out
but now I find the past, present
and future are condensed and tight.
From here, my former selves converge
just like a Doctor Who special.
I wonder how it ends?
                                                Perhaps
it’s like a concertina flow:
relax, compress, relax once more?
What if, however, it’s a black hole:
relax, compress, compress, compress?
Is there a memory time horizon
past which our recollections are
so dense they can’t escape?…
When I was young the wars seemed so
far back, but now they seem so close;
my parents seemed so old, but now
I find they were younger than I am today.
A year is but a month, a month
a week, a week a day, time slides,
and like a fairground hall of mirrors
the path’s confused and found distorted.
Within the glass I see the man
that I’ll become, imposed upon
the timefree boy I used to be.

As Doctor Who once famously said that time isn’t linear, but actually is, ‘like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff‘. Maybe it’s something to do with having passed the half-century, but I’m certainly finding this to be increasingly true.
(18.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

Poem 201 – Genetic Verse

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Your verse hasn’t faded,
just merely passed along
Watson’s famed double-helix,
finding a new voice in me,
your son. Your words still speak.

I may not have your humour,
my poems don’t twinkle like
yours do, so mimicking
your eyes as you read them.
They have a different accent.

But underneath they share
that same urge to be spoken,
to find a way to be
formed and found and so heard.
Nature and nurture guide me.

I write and hear us speaking
shared turn of phrase, and see
a familiar gesture.
I smile in recognition
and wonder whose turn’s next.

Dad has always written verse, verse that’s made me smile and groan and think. Recently he’s found his fading memory has militated against this. I think he’s felt the loss. Dad, your poems have inspired mine. I hope that in some way through them you speak on.
(31.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Sangharsh Lohakare on Unsplash

Poem 121 – This Time

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This morning’s prompt
A photo from this date
Taken a previous year

A smiling face looks out
I watch you past, eyes meeting
The younger you responds

This frozen moment lives
Superimposed on others
The album of our life

The weft and weave of time
The strands that cross the years
Entwining us together

Every morning my phone reminds me of photos taken this day in previous years. Today’s featured an arresting look at the camera as you walked past.
(28.04.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 114 – Fading

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Here lies the stone that stood above my grave
Declaring this to be my resting place
But sadly it no longer has the strength
To stand and lies prostrate in peace like me

The lichen spreads rash-like across its face
Obliterating with the green ivy
My life, my wife, my children and my work
The final thoughts of those who paid the bill

Now who I was is legible no longer
As gradually the elements erode
The once clear words that hold me so
I slip from view and slowly pass from memory

We’ve been away for a few days, exploring my wife’s family tree. This involves visiting graveyards and poking around ancient churches. Straining to read old gravestones I wondered how we’re remembered when the writing’s finally gone.
(05.04.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 106 – Memory

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Not all bridges are forged in sweat and steel
Nor do they all traverse the globe but some
Convey us by our dreams and thoughts
Down secret passages unique to us

A scent transports us back to musty classrooms
Or changing rooms, slick with rowdy teenage bodies
Forgotten fragrances summon unbidden the past
Awakening lost relationships with force

The taste of lamb and fresh mint sauce steals me
To Sunday lunches at my grandparents’
The sound of knives chopping the herb just picked
With acid tang of vinegar poured over

Opening the photo album I’m once again
Surrounded by the Austrian Alps of Mayrhofen
I see you smiling at me from the lake
And savour afresh our early wedded life

These bridges are not solid in construction
As their physical counterparts may be
But shift as tidal waves flow on the sand
Capricious and yet precious in their rarity

My earlier poem about Brunel’s suspension bridge originally had other bridges in view. The discounted concept reappeared today.
(16.03.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 22 – Are We Not All Heroes?

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This summer we made pilgrimage
Briefly escaping Covid’s shadow
Blinking as we entered the light
Of Cardiff’s sun kissed halo

There with the tentative throng
We explored its proud sites
From the castle idiosyncratic
To mist veiled surrounding heights

We marched around it’s harbour
Leaning into the red dragon’s breath
That blew across boat filled waters
Our path encompassing its breadth

But as we walked we paused awhile
By a shrine with trinkets bedecked
Left in honour of a hero lost
By earnest admirers memory kept

Who was this man, what was his merit
The deeds that demand such respect?
Why Ianto Jones they did reply
Welshman of Torchwood, most adept

Puzzled I left for I knew of him
For he had graced my screens
A hero not of real life, you see
Concocted in another’s dreams

How can the death of one not living
Made up, existing just in story
Capture the imagination of those who watch
Achieving real life glory?

What of us I wondered as we left
Who battle daily to survive
Without such glamour yet endeavours true
Will our memories remain alive?

This summer we managed to take a holiday just outside Cardiff, a city I’d never visited before. I loved it, especially its castle whose eccentric internal decor was a wonderful surprise after its traditional outer shell. As a sci-fi fan I insisted on visiting Ianto’s shrine, a tribute to the character in the Doctor Who spin-off, Torchwood, who topically dies as a result of being exposed to a lethal virus. Seemed surreal that a character in a TV-drama should garner such respect when so many true heroes go unnoticed.

(02.11.21)

© Ben Quant 2021