My father’s gun

imperfect face

My father’s gun

I went out and the snow lay like a sheath
Dumbing the soil and the houses
I wondered who would hurt another
And the woods cried life would hurt another
Again and again the sharp bifurcations
Of the black trees and the black earth
Lacerated the whiteness

I understood nothing as usual
But went indoors and wore my fox face
All day I spat out the pain
Of thorns and worms and people.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018


Cream of Antimacassar (Ninah)


Cream of Antimacassar (Ninah)

When you come to me with your garden shed problems
The railway line tracks, and the fact you are marrying
A woman who is not me, (yet we will still meet
After the honeymoon in Barbados)

I know
This is one of those dreams.

Whiteskin, whatever were your eyes like?
I hardly remember, yet you have the temerity
Of visitation, as if you had a right
To speak to my 18 year old self and make me spout
Tears of anger and jealousy

Which  feel delicious as fat apples
To my ungrasped breasts
And  my unkissed mouth

Tomorrow I will make the  day into soup
And stir it till you disappear.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018



Photograph of roses on rose dyed silk

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

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





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