.png)
Ben Blench
back
next
the poet
Amsterdam-based freelance copywriter Ben Blench writes poems and songs to escape his day job. He's translated two books – Why I Love Tattoos and Why I Love Sex – and has had a poem published by Broken Sleep Books.
the poems
Alt text for a photo
of an out-of-phase moon
Frost on the treetops in the foreground
A baby-blue sky, clear except
For one small scrape of cloud
In the top right corner
Which isn’t a cloud at all
But a midday moon
Eight trillion tons of rock
Disguised as a thin foam disc
All awkward in the cold like
I’m not sure I belong here
Perhaps I should get my things
And quietly slope off
Half gone, half forgotten
But at the same time half not
Listen I think maybe
This isn’t making much sense
Let me try to spell it out:
It’s easy to miss a thing
As big as love first time
But you must keep looking, don’t stop.
Anthem for a
resurrected planet
Our pockets are stuffed with cash
And we are wandering along a beach
At the end of the day, a wonderful day
No sickness, no sweat,
You and me on the up
Striking out into life like the first day,
And you say kiss me, you hideous brute.
Through clean air we can see for miles
And it is a picture of togetherness
The landscape triumphant, unmolested
Filled with contented mothers
Babies cradled in their arms
Everything well built
And I just know that this time it’s going to last
Every nation’s flag is flying with a supreme lack of arrogance
That drowns out the advertisers’ claims
The sun swells with slow pride
As if all the systems that conspired to bind us
Have seized up and dissolved, as if
We have turned off the TV and thrown open the curtains
And for the first time in years we don’t feel like getting drunk
Finally, an upstanding woman is in charge of things
And there is change on the wind
Safe streets and clean rivers, everywhere bursting with life
And we’re all on our bikes, riding
Towards some beautiful unbordered country.
In the park
I want to tell you how weird it is to become a father.
Like suddenly finding yourself sunk on a long, stone bench,
the evening sun falling bronze on your shoulders,
the church bell calling: time to go.
Part of you leaps up and jogs away, over the bridge
towards a bowl of noodles, maybe, or a toastie.
Part of you coughs last night's cigarettes into the grass
and mutters, I don’t feel much like food.
And the other part just sits there,
tying and retying the laces in your two-hundred euro shoes.
Up on the disused chimney the stork clatters her bill
and all you can think is, I’ll set off in a minute.
I just need a minute. Just give me one more minute.
This kind of thing can go on for quite some time.
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb
S h a r e