Earthworks painting by Veronica
Existential White Rabbit
Everyone wishes the moon would talk to them
Secretly, they believe they know her better
Than all her many lovers
Thom sings our favourite lullaby
The book falling from his hands
Into our laps, it is our book.
drink me, go on
it’s black as night again
moon clock, I digress;
O Inchoate Bloody Universe
Where we search for magic
That isn’t there.
In Dome Way, I see the attic
Where the telescope resides
The satin box, his things, his mysteries…
I’d sit in the dark again shivering
Just to hear the peeps of that crazy owl
The one you called Ethelbert-
How I miss the crease above your thumb!
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2017
Painting by Veronica Aldous
Your hair that I hid in
By all that is thin, shaded, worn
I will search the gold air
Until I say the wrong thing
Why do you not stop?
At the next corner
He hesitates and disappears.
Veronica Aldous 2017 all rights reserved
Photograph ‘Orb’ by Veronica Aldous
Varanasi Windows- Watercolour and collage on paper by Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved
The citadels beneath the Indus spiritises
My waking hours, as if just out of reach
There we go about our business
As if no calamitous anvil dropped
No bell clanged in a broken key
No drowning occurred, no cessation
Of the rhythmic pulses of co-existence
We hang the washing, eat and talk,
But deep under here, in sleep
I walk the labyrinthine snaking depths
Hear the ancient booms of sinking cargoes
Covered in ashes and dusted with pigments
Draped in tattered silks I come and go
Tending the other, the elsewhere
Kneeling to plant corals and pearls
That he he may know that he is sought
Beneath the terrifying ebb and flow.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved
In porphyry tables her reflection passes
No one to hear her songs or sighs
Flowers explode and wither on surfaces
Coating the inlaid marble with pollens
She lights seven tapers struck in time
To the rhythm of the cajón’s beating heart
The archway leads to a hot green ocean
Where days are swallowed by tides and spume
Dream here a while in sussurating embraces
The bone pavilion glints out at sea.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights reserved
what is it like to lie in the attic concealed with the covering
of dust upon the dust cover?
I’ll tell you: the nights come one on one the little stars rise
their eyes alight on the whitening shape
of me up there with the spiders and the carcases of moths
but I’m quite happy with my lucubrations, my stump of candle
the scratchy pen, the torn up cloth I use for writing, drawing
you won’t see my art- its all invisible, except the scrap
I’m working on, it takes me years to get the details right
but line on line and word on word the pieces come together
I’m making it slowly, there’s cosmology in my fingers
the stiller I lie and the smaller my movements-
the better the outcome
if you come up those wooden stairs, you won’t find me there
I am not discernible , I am wrapped in shrouds, I’m ectoplasm
shadows of shadows and beetles on the window pane
you’d think I was a worn out chair-
I ‘m up here waiting for moulds to erupt into flower
the cracks in the walls to whisper some secrets
I’ve got so little and I only want you
and you’re so slow coming, I wish you were here
sometimes I whine and whimper because I love you
that’s quite annoying-
especially for the visitors who are downstairs
sometimes I sing and that’s much better
then they knock upon the ceiling
shout ‘shut up, shut up!- o you noisy crow!’
In memory of Bart Wolffe 1952-2016
He delighted in my work and in particular, this poem about exile and separation… and love.
This is from my book ‘Mortal’ which he edited.
Love is not the word for it, we had a very deep close relationship which was indefinable; as deep as the forest which surrounded us. We had our own language which we mostly never bothered much to speak… forest tongue, whitebird, mudtalk, owlish…
The real communication was made without words.with no one else around. You follow?
Even when on our own we spoke through poetry, each sending each other smoke signals, messages, coda.
I didn’t own him , he didn’t own me, there is no need to stake any kind of claim…no one owns anyone.We are gifts to each other, sometimes burrs, sometimes flowers, pine needles, leaves.
Always a seed comes and takes root. First the two leaves, then something else, an ancient rule which is the principle of life….
Veronica Aldous 10 August 2016 All Rights Reserved
She Dreams of Three Guitars
Along the Unpath, covens whisper of the caves
Reaching up to grasp the olive groves
Mouths ready for the unripe harvest
Strum the guitar number 1, maja
For amber colonnades
Reaching back to violet skies…
Here on the market, thieves sell honesty
It’s a heavy basketful, they lean
On consciousness, dead weighted eyes
Strum guitar number 2, duende
Above chasms and gorges
A bright bird drops red cherries…
A dark field where she wanders
Which door is hers, which door?
Where did she leave her fine ambition?
Vaquero, guitar number 3 por favor.
In the magenta sunset
When the green ray hits the ocean floor
Three gold bodied senoritas
For you Cortez, for you…
Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights Reserved