Jeremy Benson

Some day she’ll be ready…

Read two books at once, one with each eye.

⬆️ @thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social may be of interest? #poetrycommunity

Late stroll. The park in the dark, gazed on by a universe of light-pins. A row of concrete blocks queues patiently by a building site, hoping for work tomorrow. In silhouette a round-topped signpost is a person dangling directions from its arm. A new driver’s green P.

A bare-branched tree against a sky of wispy cloud.

The sky’s veins.

It’s one of the things that makes football so compelling: however good your team is, there’s still jeopardy from bad luck or a bad run of form, and however bad they are you still think you’ve got a chance in any particular game, or that things could turn and they suddenly start playing well.

Pantograph Crank had a small, devoted following in the 1980s and 90s, but realistically they were never going to play the main stage at Glastonbury.

Presumably they join in when he gets to the chorus?

In the foreground are some berries: I’m not sure what type of berry they are, but they’re dark blue and clustered on otherwise bare branches with thorns, with beads of dew visible on one or two of the closer ones. In the background, out of focus, are grey, cloudy skies and a green field. It looks colder than it actually was.

Autumn walk.

Goodness - he was only fifty.

Late stroll. Winter quietly practises breathing chillair on my face. A blank roadsign awaits instructions. Shadow-blotches paint the path, a memory of streetlit leaves. A trench edges its way up the pavement, followed by a slow-marching row of orange guard-barriers.

I thought the saying was ‘full flow’? Or is ‘full throw’ something different?

The Year A blank page, time’s pen hovers; nature takes us, glancing back, as still the year awakes… Out of stubborn earth, anticipation Springs like coloured fountains, weaving telling threads from greygrey clouds; life’s trees begin new rings: we gorge our dark sweet eggs and honeyed breads… While waters trickle, chuckling forest eyes watch Summer butterflies, which flutter-roam in yellow fieldscapes, under life’s vast skies: our languid laughing days, late sunsets home… When fruit-red apples fall on misty ground (a-strewn with wistful crunch-leaves), nature stills as life’s Autumnal streams all tumble round: we bonfire, scarfed against the gnawing chills… With branches stark beneath blue Wintry skies, the frozen river holds its breath, and starts life’s shiv’ring dusk, avails the year’s demise: those clearnight carols, frosts that sing our hearts… Time’s page now full of dancing - nature read its steps - but we must turn, and look ahead… (September 2025)

The Year: a new poem.
(I wrote a few words about it here: jembenson.substack.com/p/the-year)

When I’m playing Quordle I can’t decide between Lairs and Liars as my opening word, so some data on that would be useful… 🤣

It’s extraordinary. I was lucky enough to play in a performance of it when I was a student. I saw Rostropovich conduct it at the Royal Albert Hall in the 1990s, and was at the 50th anniversary performance in Coventry cathedral in 2012.

You take it way more seriously than me… But nice to know that my assumption (guess) was right.

The platform at Kettering station in the pale November afternoon sunshine. Red pillars hold up the canopy, dutifully standing behind the yellow line.

Perhaps the saddest thing about leaving Twitter is standing on a random station platform and not being able to tag Ian McMillan into a tweet claiming (wrongly) that Paul Simon wrote Homeward Bound there. (I’m on the very spot here at Kettering where the song was conceived.)

Looking southwest from Waterloo Bridge with the London Eye lit up in purple left of centre, the South Bank Centre to the left, boats in the foreground with lights reflected in the dark Thames, and the Elizabeth Tower in the distance towards the right.

Looking east from Waterloo Bridge with the lights of the City reflected in the Thames, and St Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. Dark trees on the embankment in front of the National Theatre can be seen to the right.

More #London at night.

Also the Agnus Dei is heartbreaking.

As did Byrd.

As was Rachmaninov.

If you see this, post an album cover with a vehicle on it.

Leicester ‘last minute goals’ City… 💪
#LCFC ⚽️🦊💙

I moved the phone while taking the picture so the picture is a series of near-vertical squiggly luminous lines of different colours against a dark background.

#London at night….

Those stones look to have been trying for a while to work out how to squeeze through.

#handwriteyourpost
@mirandakeeling.com

On a street corner, three solemn-looking men stand together in deep silence. One of them reverently holds a ginger cat tea cosy.

‘Arise’ used to be my regular opening word, but I switched the first two letters a while ago (‘a’ is more likely to come second, so a greater chance of a green.)

The Year A blank page, time’s pen hovers; nature takes us, glancing back, as still the year awakes… Out of stubborn earth, anticipation Springs like coloured fountains, weaving telling threads from greygrey clouds; life’s trees begin new rings: we gorge our dark sweet eggs and honeyed breads… While waters trickle, chuckling forest eyes watch Summer butterflies, which flutter-roam in yellow fieldscapes, under life’s vast skies: our languid laughing days, late sunsets home… When fruit-red apples fall on misty ground (a-strewn with wistful crunch-leaves), nature stills as life’s Autumnal streams all tumble round: we bonfire, scarfed against the gnawing chills… With branches stark beneath blue Wintry skies, the frozen river holds its breath, and starts life’s shiv’ring dusk, avails the year’s demise: those clearnight carols, frosts that sing our hearts… Time’s page now full of dancing - nature read its steps - but we must turn, and look ahead… (September 2025)

The Year: a new poem.
(I wrote a few words about it here: jembenson.substack.com/p/the-year)

Mark Anthony Turnage and Rachael Hewer take applause with the cast and conductor at the end of this evening’s performance of their new opera at the Queen Elizabeth Hall

Mark-Anthony Turnage’s new opera The Railway Children had some lovely music, great acting especially from the 3 children, & real drama & cumulative power - I found the ending genuinely moving. A bit hard to follow the intricacies of the story on one watch, but hope to have a chance to hear it again.