Poem as Introduction
This is not a poem. This is the introduction
the shhhh! and sitting logistics before a sermon,
this is where I give you a way in
a key for the lock, but
like the best trailers, try not to give away
too much plot.
No need to focus. Relax, enjoy the easy bit
before your mind is bullied to attention
made to feel this or infer that
because this is Johnny Cash in Fulsome Prison saying
Hello. I’m Johnny Cash
not him singing how he shot someone
just to watch them die. That
would be a poem. Which this is not.
Savour the see-through meat of this introduction.
This is Barry McSweeney about to read Pearl
stopping to mop sweat, dressed all in black, he told us
he had given up drinking. This is him
getting his hand stuck in his pocket
having made a fist in there with the lint and cigarette lighter.
Eventually working himself free,
he pulled out a scarlet handkerchief like a bloody pirate flag.
I forget his poem.
I remember his introduction.
To be clear: this is still the introduction.
This is just us talking, this is me sidling up
misdirecting a juggernaut of meaning,
holding your gaze while kneeling down
to light the blue touchpaper.
I’m opening my arms
so you approach for a hug, and when close enough
I might tickle till it hurts or squeeze till it hurts
or lay too much truth on you so it hurts, whichever.
This introduction is also a warning: the poem’s intent
is for you to feel the umami trauma
of eating a pretty deer you shot and filleted yourself
but don’t go there yet
we’re shooting the breeze, this is behind the scenes,
the half-cut warm up act for a primetime gameshow.
This is the laid back introduction.
This is the sweet tea and small talk before a seance in the fifties.
The table shakes and lifts
there’s a stream of bubbles from her next door,
it comes out of her nose, and that is the poem.
This isn’t that, this is not nasal ectoplasm.
This is the polite hello and slice of battenburg.
This is the route in, the introduction.
This is artisanal. This is the shaming, sad realisation
of what little gets remembered and how much forgotten.
And now: the poem.