New book- Mortal by Veronica Aldous

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My Etsy Shop Update

Veronica Aldous Arts

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I have some paintings and poetic jewels on sale at my Etsy shop with a  10% discount  for the new shop opening!
Please do take a look …

Veronica’s Shop


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10 o’clock Paralysis



10’clock Paralysis

The tin dog barking his guts out
The three notes like a cracked gong
She can feel him bashing along
The corridor, his tail striking the dado
In miserable happiness
He has been heard by a woman
With no key, no heart to get up
Go out, feel the sun striking the retina
The fat mud extruding as glorious wormcasts
His ministry is one of just sitting it out
Till something changes
Which it always will-

And now he has commenced howling
To prove this very fact.


Veronica Aldous 2018 all rights reserved

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The Blue Whale


The Blue Whale

At last a harpoon took my breath away
There was no sigh
In this expedient sea,
The weight was all, the flesh, the oil
The barbarous implements
Deconstructing heart, lungs and liver
A cavernous mystery unfolding
Beneath the massy corpuscular facts
The nave, a transept, the entablature
Of my very bones.

I am still hunted,
I sail above the visitors
Gazing into my interstices
A network of echoing chambers
Tunnels and alien tumuli
The crystal of my organ voice

Will I give the past
To their open mouths?
They will not leave unhouseled-

Four notes still booming in their brains.



Veronica Aldous All rights reserved 2018

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The crushed violets in your drenched hand
smell of nothing, the ionone numbs the senses,
Like ghosts they cannot wither, being as they are
already gone into some nervy hinterland.
Josephine, you called me, the shadow on my breast
blue like a bruise or a bird’s wing, or something
chemical. The more you called, the less I thrived,
as though the name were not freely given
but stolen from another’s face, a mask.
Such wasted flowers I never asked for
Still reappear unasked –
Like dust or sweat they faintly linger,
Now I wear my hair pinned tight –
to stop it coiling round your finger.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

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I was thinking of visiting you
By now you will be mystified by leaves
Haunted by squirrels and small slow maggots
Fingering and boring into the sainted bark.
I feel you in the sunset when the shadows
Skitter over my hands and upturned face.
In the night I hear your low thrumming breath
The way of sleeping which is simply rusting
Composting dreams into mole hills.
Bracken sprays its spores across the humus
The deer rise astonished
Their bright muzzles wet with nuzzling
The mush of viridian and sap green grass.
I truly think the forest took you.
I swallow the juice-truth and it neither comforts
Nor disturbs; as in a deep wisdom
Or a mournful song, or the peet-peet
Of the little owls, or the spread of light
From a lit orb; I could go on
Weeping into the chasms of my heart
Stumbling along word paths
Searching in all the godly places-
The stupid lost loving little life of a beetle.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018.
Picture shows detail of a winter scene by the artists and poet

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The Little Ones


We didn’t tread this way
Because we chose it, rather
It was the way the wind blew down
The ginnel into the heathland
Bending the soft cocksfoot and fescue
To a whitish silver footpath
That we wound down
Pushed by forgotten fists
And slaphard shoves

This crooked stump of half rotten wood
The squat of fungi and shy beetles
Did you think we do not want a fireplace
And two painted smugfaced greyhounds?

We do have sharp stingers
And the antidote, kind dockleaf
A couple of rusted knives and a dug up pin.

Yes, it is the whyplace and the halfpath
And we do like crooked things now
So don’t come when we are skiving rabbits
About half past foggy in November.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

Photograph of handmade fibula by Veronica

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Very Important Notes



Very Important Notes

Summer brittled her, cracking her ribs
As balsam disgorged its black seeds
Into the western tributary
She lay on her back beneath bracken
Serpentine in its ways and habits

‘The sun is also a star, the moon a mere mimic
I wish now, I had pressed my hand into the pargeting
Before the vandals came and smashed the heads
Off cherubs and nymphs; there are spirals
In my brain which make me unique but useless –

But anyway, it is some kind of comfort.’


Veronica Aldous  all rights reserved 2017

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