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Ben Blench



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 Sexand has had a poem published by Broken Sleep Books.

the poems

Alt text for a photo
of an out-of-phase moon

00:00 / 01:02

                        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

00:00 / 01:33

            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

00:00 / 01:11

            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

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