There Was a Knock on the Door. It Was the Meat, by Roger McGough (Selected Poems, Penguin)

There was a knock on the door.
It was the meat. I let it in.
Something freshly slaughtered
Dragged itself into the hall.

Into the living-room it crawled.
I followed. Though headless,
It headed for the kitchen
As if following a scent.

Straight to the oven it went
And lay there. Oozing softly to itself.
Though moved, I moved inside
And opened wide the door.

I switched to Gas Mark Four.
Set the timer. And grasping
The visitor by a stump
Humped it home and dry.

Did I detect a gentle sigh?
A thank you? The thought that I
Had helped a thing in need
Cheered me as I turned up the heat.

Two hours later the bell rang.
It was the meat.

This poem reminds me of the 1963 film The Raven, loosely based on Edgar Allan Poe’s narrative poem of the same name, starring Vincent Price, Peter Lorre and Boris Karloff. Following an initial build-up of suspense the raven (Peter Lorre under a spell) comes tapping at Vincent Price’s window and the story begins. Here, the meat comes knocking at the door and the preparation of dinner begins. The promise of horror in the movie is echoed by the potential for horror in the poem, which is defused by the poet’s matter-of-fact treatment of his unexpected caller. He doesn’t scream or shout or call for the police – it’s too late for an ambulance (or a vet) – instead he deals with his gruesome visitor with equanimity and lets it in.

He describes the meat as freshly slaughtered, thereby emphasising the idea of its bloodiness and attaching it in our minds to the fact that it was recently a living creature. For a moment we are acutely aware that the meat was murdered (vegetarians will no doubt agree). The meat crawls into the living room, so now we picture it rather like the severed hand out of The Addams Family; self-propelled, although in this case without the aid of nimble fingers. Already there is an imaginary trail of blood through the house. But the meat doesn’t pause; it is on a mission, it possesses no eyes but appears to smell its way . . . straight into the kitchen.

The horror-story arrival of a piece of bloody animal flesh on the doorstep is juxtaposed with the handy self-delivery of a potentially delicious roast dinner, and it is slightly disconcerting to find that they are the same thing. “Oozing softly to itself” the meat takes on the human imposition of a sympathetic character as directed by the words “softly” and “itself”.

However, our dispassionate poet is nothing if not sensible. If the meat is to be honoured – now that it is dead meat, and even though it may be on the way to developing an identity of sorts – then one should cook it, not mourn it. So he turns on the oven, grabs “the visitor by a stump”, throws it in and sets the timer.

The meat, without a voice, doesn’t have a say in the matter of its destiny, but the poet imagines that it thanks him. Of course, it might be his own thoughts assuaging his inner guilt as he roasts the uninvited lump of flesh. However, in his defence, the meat headed for the kitchen all on its own as if knowing its purpose.

Two hours later the oven bell rings. It is the meat again; there is something almost as disturbing about the meat’s readiness to be eaten, as there was about its arrival at the door and the idea that the meat is complicit in its own preparation for the table is reinforced. The meat demanded entry to the house, and now it demands exit from the oven. It is no less edible for arriving under its own steam, as opposed to being chosen from a supermarket shelf, so sit, eat, and be welcome, but hope that the poet has divested your meal of any carpet hairs and pavement grit before serving up his visitor as the main course.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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