Tonight I lie to sleep in my parents’ house
having defeated the attempts of the sofa bed
to prevent me from doing this horizontally.
Head bolt upright? I don’t think so! Neither
my feet to the floor. In increasingly frenzied moves
our engagement played out, a midnight wrestling bout,
featuring twisted limbs, contorted faces,
until at last, it finally yielded its secrets.
Just wrestling in a poem before midnight…
(05.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Krista Mangulsone on Unsplash
The simple joy
of waking up,
remembering,
then going back
to sleep.
It’s always nice having a day off after a Sunday!
(26.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kate Stone Matheson on Unsplash
A book, a cup of tea,
Bird song for company,
And the breathing silence
Of a sleeping house.
The silence is alive.
Listening, I take stock,
Take note of vital signs:
The rhythm of its clock,
The creaking of its ribs,
Airflow through passages.
Slowly she starts to stir;
Occasional murmurs grow
In frequency and strength
Until a final stretch
And up, at last, it gets.
I was up first today, and had my breakfast on my own. This poem started then, both as a reflection on the quietness, but also a chance to play around a little with rhyme.
(14.04.25)
Counting sheep?
That’s what we do when
we want to summon sleep.
We close our eyes and count
That bundle of black and white.
1, 2, 3…
And soon the bleating fades
Becoming clouds that float
In a dreamy eyelid landscape.
That one resembles a friend
I used to know before,
In a school that used to be
Big but now is small.
4, 5, 6…
The red bricks reconfigure
Become our childhood home.
We gather, play that game
We invented once, one lazy
Summer holiday.
I count, you run. We argue.
We laugh and laugh and laugh.
7, 8, 9…
My kite drifts higher and higher,
Outlined crisply against
The blue. I join it, weightless
And fly across the fields.
I’m met elsewhere by someone
Who doesn’t belong, not here, not now.
This interruption passes
Unnoticed. For now it makes sense.
10, 11, 12…
I’m pedaling on my bike,
Feeling great and weightless.
Roaming at will. Freedom.
I absorb the neighbourhood,
Visiting its corners,
Extremities and folds.
Its blanket smothers me.
13, 14, 15…
The face of a first girlfriend,
Holding hands, first kiss.
Long hair, guitars, the band.
Aspirations that
One day I’ll find that note
And take it around the globe.
16, 17, 18…
That sheep reminds me of
The teacher who inspired me.
See, that plant he gave me
Is growing up and up
like Jack’s beanstalk, it
devours it all. We run.
19, 20, 21…
It’s funny how the faces
We revisit, are all
The old ones, childhood ones.
Black devours white
until the morning light
brings day, and all’s forgotten.
52 and counting…
It’s National Poetry Day, and the theme is counting. I set out to write a poem about the Parable of the Lost Sheep, which is all about counting, but the poem wouldn’t have it and instead took me elsewhere. Poems do that. Not so long ago I was reminiscing with my parents, I guess that’s partly where this poem comes from – I’m 52 by the way. The older we get, the more we seem to spend in our childhood.
(03.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash
There’s nothing so sweet
As the Saturday treat
Of lying in bed
Such a lazy head!
Off to church Sunday morning
No doubt I’m still yawning
Singing songs to our maker
There’s nothing much greater
But when Monday comes
And the alarm starts to drum
And pounds in my head
Oh how I long for my bed!
A rare treat of a lie-in this morning. Much appreciated.
(14.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash
Frankie Boyle is on our bus
Berating latecomers for holding us up.
He declares he’d have said no
if it wasn’t for their children.
I believe him. Relenting he moans
under his breath. Loudly.
A heckler winds him up.
He has a go at him too and then
is sent back to apologise.
He’s not having a good day
and you sense it isn’t over…
Our latecomers cannot whisper.
At four am they still haven’t mastered it.
I might become Frankie too.
My neck compresses every time I relax,
and although my legs go to sleep, I cannot.
The rain begins and the wipers break.
But just as all looks grey the Scottish
hills emerge to save the day
and all is good. Except for Frankie.
He has to find a replacement bus
for those going to Glasgow…
Overnight we travelled to Edinburgh on the Megabus. If I’m honest, I’m not quite with it yet today! I hope our conductor has a better day…
(12.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
The light switch flicked and only we prevail
And as we sleep as one, one breath we breathe
I don’t recall when I forgot to marvel
Before, we talked and read, then after, we leave
And as we sleep as one, one breath we breathe
Miraculous contained within mundane
Before, we talked and read, then after, we leave
The ordinary matters and, shared, sustains
Miraculous contained within mundane
Two pillows bound together by one sheet
The ordinary matters and, shared, sustains
Your daily life around my form completes
Two pillows bound together by one sheet
I don’t recall when I forgot to marvel
Your daily life around my form completes
The light switch flicked and only we prevail
This poem takes the form of a pantoum, a Malaysian form with eight lines repeated in a strict order, and is inspired by Pádraig Ó Tuama’s post on the ordinary. After almost 30 years of marriage, the simple act of sharing everyday life and daily routines, such as sleep, is simultaneously both ordinary and surprising.
(30.11.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Krista Mangulsone on Unsplash
We like to think that time is constant
The regular tock of a ticking clock
But in night’s depth that rhythm is
Vandalised
Jarred
Disrupted in strange discomforting ways that stretch the hours until you fear they must have
Snapped
Whilst dark
It’s light enough to see the time
Its face shines from the bedside table
As laying I wrestle with surreal
Fractured thoughts that flit and tussle
Uncomfortable limbs that ache and toss
And tasks for urgent morning attention
Yet unlike mine it does not age
But gazes fixed upon my weary
Brain that cannot comprehend
Its strange nocturnal ways
Not the best night’s sleep last night and no real idea why. Watching Doctor Who’s Flux finale got me thinking about the nature of time and brought last night to mind.
(05.12.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Past the pumpkin hour
And I’m dead beat
All day long
I’ve been on my feet
My bed is calling
A duvet treat
I’ll see you in the morning
Wash, rinse and repeat!
Day one of a three day conference I help run for our church movement. Always fantastic, an inspiring family gathering, but always full on…
© Ben Quant 2021
Ode for the Day 