The Songstone

One of the joys of living in another place is the local food, so I am amazed when I see other expats purchasing flabby farmed salmon; there are excellent barracuda steaks right next to them  at half the price and  with twice the taste. My barracuda recipe for 2 Two barracuda steaks Yoghurt Mustard (wholegrain works best) Chives, roughly chopped Garlic, finely chopped Salt and pepper Gently fry the steaks (about 5 minutes each side depending on thickness) in olive oil and the garlic. Mix the yoghurt and mustard and add salt and pepper to taste. About 3 minutes before the steaks are done pour the mix over them and let it heat through. Sprinkle the chives over the top and serve on a bed of rice or with mashed potatoes and wilted spinach. Nothing to do with fish, but Old Actress has made a lovely recording of Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite . I have a vested interest here, as it was my suggestion she do it.

By popular request, Betjeman's Myfanwy :

A certain lady poet has declared that chavs can't vote, because we're too impaired: distracted by the 'Sun', by beer n fights to know the difference 'tween 'trician n 'phile 'Bollocks!' I say, they're paedos, n it's right to treat 'em all as though they're fuckin' vile. We see that votes from crumbly citizens put in the Tories, time and time again, thereby denying us a decent future through education, art, museums, culture. So wild we are, n beastly chippy too, don't give a fuck, n quite determined to crush, to the best of our ability, snaggletoothed legions of senility.

Another oldie, this time from about 2007 and the infamous Paddy Field, Guangzhou: 'Nnnerrr,' said Roger, like old Wilfrid Bramble 'Grammar schools, nnnerrr, hanging. South Africa used to be great, that’s where I would ramble when the ni-nnnerrr were down, in the sixties. Pah! It’s no good today, crime and disorder. Nnnerrr, I was apprenticed, kids now no plan. Even the beer don’t taste like it oughta...' 'G’night,' I said quickly, and fled from the man

I wrote this the day after seeing 'Antichrist', about 18 months ago, and read it at the Poet's Café in Reading that night. Let us say the applause was more 'Thank God he's finished!' than 'Encore!'. I publish it now as an appropriate beginning to Holy Week. for Lars von Trier   The maenad cuts Her clit with scissors, pulls  blood from His prick. Tiresias nods and laughs  at agony in woody places, full  of nothing new. The gynocide is crafted  by three beggars, and Satan’s church is nature.  Grief is a Deer, her stillbirth hanging aft.  Pain is a Fox that gnaws its belly – state  of chaos. Despair’s a Crow that never ends  until the maenads climb a lonely hill to rend

The Indian barber takes great care to snip and clip my scanty hair. He stares amazed at my blue eyes, chats to his neighbour, who's surprised. 'I've made a bet they're real. Oh, sir, don't disappoint!' I don't demur: afraid to risk his mood being uglier, with cutthroat razor at my jugular.

There's an obnoxious little crow flapping round our school. Foulsmalls is the corvid's name; she stinks of spite and stool An ugly bird, of evil mien, she pecks and caws and claws. Her frizzy feathers, frazzled face are fairly fatal flaws This crow is desperate for a mate (her beady eye's on me). Her halitosis, though, is such Don Juan himself would flee For gossip, innuendo, cant Foulsmalls is your bird; a vicious tongue, a nose for dung: her beak's in every turd

With apologies to those who hate this recording (MM)... Part 1 Part 2

An ordinary New Jersey boy, nineteen. In Brittany the shrapnel shell that killed your pal, engendered dark, shut down a sheen of innocence. Your generation filled our stories, and some thanks that war was stilled are owed. These lines, inadequate between your monuments, my humble gift; a mean repayment from a rhymer all unskilled in awe, remembering your laughter: deep chuckles you left around like colored light, I knew why they all loved and cherished you. Nursed well enough by grandma, always true, to see you to the rest. Eternal quiet, at Arlington an honored guest’s asleep.

'TIS true, 'tis day ; what though it be? O, wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because 'twas night? Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, Should in despite of light keep us together. Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If it could speak as well as spy, This were the worst that it could say, That being well I fain would stay, And that I loved my heart and honour so That I would not from him, that had them, go. Must business thee from hence remove? O ! that's the worst disease of love, The poor, the foul, the false, love can Admit, but not the busied man. He which hath business, and makes love, doth do S uch wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

Another oldie, from a few summers ago. I understand he no longer works there... Library bar, Thorpeness, Suffolk 'You open?' we cheerily cried at the empty room. 'Suppose so,' came the scowled reply Two pints followed soon. 'The front door’s locked, so we didn’t know if you were open.' 'That's not the front, front’s round the back can’t serve you if you don’t know that!' 'Fucking place is a dump,' he said 'the committee? They're all lemmings I wanted bands, music all night but this inbred bunch is much too tight to spend a fucking penny.' 'So,' said I, 'could you tell me why the Artisan's Cup stopped in '81?' Said he, 'I couldn’t give a fuck and you two boys are out of luck cos I’ve cashed up. It's half past eight so fuck off now or I’ll be late!” © Simon M Hunter 2010

There is a shitty, crooked dwarf within the Élysée; greasy, sweaty palms by night and platform shoes by day. This scumbag bleeds his country dry; takes bribes from millionaires and when the paysans ask him, 'Why?' 'Gippos! Fault's all theirs!' 'Let's clean the country of this dross, woman, child and man! We'll make la patrie  pure again!' (It worked for old Pétain). Laval's ghost, and Gobineau's crack their sides with glee. Liberté, fraternité... (but just for you and me). You wicked, vicious, little man. And France, you're guilty too; you sit and stuff your cheese and wine, 'Alors? Et qui êtes-vous?' You'll strike for pay, the working week, the rights close to your heart. Manifester pour les autres? You couldn't give a fart. No more brie , no, not for me. You fascists pay a price: contempt and bile, scorn and hate - you Vichy-loving lice. © Simon M Hunter 2010

Although readers of impeccable taste may justifiably feel that this blog offers all they need there are others out there. This is a brief glance at some of the things that have caught my eye recently. The hugely talented AZ Foreman   reads and translates poetry from almost every language under the sun, up to and for all I know including demotic Ket, and is always worth a look. Still with poetry the people over at Politely Homicidal   are always entertaining and often brilliant; the webmeister, Mish, is an amazing resource for all things art-related. John Wells's phonetic blog  I have mentioned before and will no doubt do so again. For anyone interested in the sounds of language (and what poet isn't?) a basic knowledge of phonetics is a sine qua non. John deals with queries from all over the world with clarity and firmly-held conviction; you may not always agree with him, but he'll always make you think. Megan Hesse at Sugary Cynicism often makes me laugh with her sca

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear.

False though she be to me and love, I'll ne'er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change. In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past. William Congreve. 1670–1729