Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to support@standmagazine.org

This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Sarah Wimbush Two Poems
Meat Puddin’

Take shin, kidney, an onion. Dice.
Cradle beef suet in your palm; shred
into flour with Daddy’s rabbit knife
lace-edged with rust. Add spring water.
Pullt goo into a ball.

Roll into a circle with a besom end.
Scoop the mas and press onto the dough.
Gather like a pack-up. Flute the rim
with a lick of ale to seal together.
Gi the dumplin’ skin a slap.

Turn onto a floured pudding cloth.
Tie a double knot. Slide into the cauldron
water thrilling over scavenged vonga,
one eye on the blip-blip-shudder till dusk.
Lift puddin’ arht b’t knot. Untie.

Ease the moon into an Imari bowl
haggled to a farthing from Black’s pot barrow
on Retford market. Cut into a clock.
Add cooking liquor and salt –
n’ then lass, eat wi carrots, tatties, swede.


mas: meat          vonga: coal


Grai

How the mare watches you
watching without blinking,

the shire horse dragging her away
like a bundle of rags.

How the knackers placed the muzzle
behind the dark pool of her eye

a new thought blown
across her vision. The simplicity

of soil and water
and man    splitting her shank

after three lads… no four
forged a pig’s squeal from a piebald.

And the shouting    the shouting
as they had tossed the rope’s hoopla

over the royal sweep of her neck –
the peculiarity of those whinnies  

the light’s attention
drawn to her dragon breath.

At a time of no shadows,
tufts of grass

down at the hawthorn’s groin
where the field unearthed a bog.


Grai: horse

This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to support@standmagazine.org
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