An Evening At The Southbank Centre Poem by Simon M Hunter

For Joan Margarit

First movement: Larghissimo con moto

He shuffled on, that weary sage
Declaimed to us - a muddled version
Of poetry - “Enough! ” I rage
“Melodious? By whose assertion? ”
Meandering, the spell-less mage
Went on and on. Oh drear excursion!
The audience could wish for sleep
While deadly stanzas writhe and creep

Second movement: Vivace, ma non troppo (La russa)

A cheeky Russian came up next
Her native verses weren’t all bad
The English tongue however vexed
Her skill - she sounded rather sad -
And scratching heads we’re left perplexed
At why the hell we’ve spent a wad
To listen to this oozing rubbish
Poetic as a cruising mudfish

Third movement: Grave, morendo (Il russare)

The Eastern movement followed quick
Her aunties’ presents wrapped nearby
I wish she’d sent them back - her schtick
Insipid as a blackbird pie
That doesn’t sing, it makes you sick
She held her puny fist up high
The patrons clapped - Thank God she’s finished
Our love of poets much diminished

Fourth movement: Vivo con brio!

But then, at last! A poet stood
Transfixed us with your fiery beat
Lament for daughter lost - who could
But weep with you, admire complete
Prosodic harmony - I would
Give anything to match your feat
In Catalan, most musically
You made our evening beautifully