Beware! Bare flesh and filthy language lie
ahead. Hold firm if frightened of loud bangs.
Take notice, sexual naughtiness in store.
Greek legends clash in hungry rival gangs.
The author of this violent, grim discourse?
None other than the English Bard of course.
Written in response to the warnings by the stage door at The Globe for Troilus and Cressida tonight.
(28.09.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
On April the twenty third I feel I ought,
To write a sonnet honouring the Bard.
In Fifteen Sixty Four our Will was born,
Living ’til Sixteen Sixteen when he died.
Between these only fifty two short years,
In which to write his dazzling magnus opus,
His folio of world renowned great verse,
Still uttered by the Thames in his wooden O.
Creator of so many memorable lines,
And author of now oft used turns of phrase,
The master of the magical use of rhyme,
With which he artfully captured our human ways.
So why’s today named after some brave knight
And not this bright composer of such delight!
A sonnet on St. George’s Day.
(23.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The studied silence of commuters,
Construction workers crushed with suits,
Upholstered seats in faded colours,
Ear-pods, phones and dog-eared books.
An orthodox Jew and white haired woman,
Young men crushing energy drinks,
A foldable bike and terrified dog,
Covid masks, the missing link.
Abandoned news and empty cups,
Suitcases held, anticipation,
As one we brace against the brakes,
A carriage waiting for the station.
A poet writing daily verse,
Romeo seeking Juliet,
All of life crammed in one train,
From Montague to Capulet.
I had to travel into London for a meeting today. As always the tube was full of characters.
(26.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Pau Casals on Unsplash
To compose an ode in honour of The Bard
Whose famed lines ensnare hearts
From stages encircling this precious globe
As well as from upon it
Is a task too high to reach
Instead I shall write in praise of those
Whose mouths have uttered his enchantment
Weaving spells through speech inspired
To whisk us from this mundane life to
Distant islands, courts and faery realms
Owning this sacred space these mortals become
As gods with creator’s power to form
The world anew for a few brief acts
Transforming landscapes without and
Landscapes within
And here we dwell until the final cheer
Echoes from its stalls and as one
We rise in awe to praise before
Returning to our mortal homes
His lingering whisper remains
Shakespeare’s Globe is one of my favourite places, a haunt where magic still happens.
(29.10.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Ode for the Day 