Literary Reminders



saties bird 1.jpgLiterary Reminders

You are already loved, by the blue hour
By the cold road when you wept

Into his coat sleeve
Snowflakes all round
With the shops mockingly colourful

Tess walked on in the unweeded garden
Cracking snail shells which foretold  her demise
Angel Clare such a useless article, with a harp

Of all things.

She took to her bed with a man

She didn’t know and that was

A rum story.

I caught a cold from a French film

Wrote my own subtitles
The cat in the car park understood
Why I had taken up smoking again.

Home is sometimes exactly

Between the light on a hoarding
And the Imperial Dragon Chinese Takeaway.

You were there all along, Monsieur
Sweet and true
Anything is possible

But usually it is the simplest solution
Which is also the most beautiful.


All Rights Reserved Veronica Aldous 2019

The painting is also by Veronica and is called ‘Satie’s Bird’ It is available on Etsy for £350, please contact me if you are interested in purchase





How ink will help me understand



How ink will help me understand

So long to arrive, stamped FORGOTTEN
The pale blue vellum, the dark words
Each beautifully formed curlicue, a flourish
To assuage long spent terror, tears.

The messenger was a page
This was hidden in his things
He meant to post it, or he did
Look, here’s the doghead stamp, the imprint
Inside he says how much you meant
The unspent years.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

When will it End?


Pio and Almedo in the rotting courtyard
With the game of draughts between them
The huge banana palms in greenlit haze
From cigars Hypatia brought them

Sipping rum and trading whore-stories
She better not hear, the big bottom
Of all bottoms, as the sun falls
Behind her bottom
And night cicadas squizzle in the pots
Of dirty lilies and here come hot sausages
From the sausage and hot fat bars
As red and blue lights hit the little pool
In which Pio keeps his rum cold
Among Hypatia’s koi made of pvc
Best not disobey such wives
Almedo says…

This and all the other dreams
Of being 91,92,93
Still nipping women’s necks
But ridiculously crocodile-arsehole wrinkled
Plucking small guitars and singing
My love, my preciosa lily-
However did we ever get  so old?


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018




She left grapes bluing and blurring
Glaucous surfaces with the rose red juices
Coagulating in their limpid cells
Much as I kissed her, so she goes

Here is our oval dinner table
Repeating the shining blossoms
From the cherry tree beyond the window
The letter pressed beneath a bowl

A cup of emerald and silver lustre
That last she touched, I never clean
I saw her once on the esplanade
It was her cinnamon hair, I swear

My bed is a museum of shivering shades
At night she comes to me and sings a fado
Tenebrous as the hills beyond the city
Her chemise in my arms, her arms…

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

Painting by Veronica Aldous – Caribe

O crosses


O crosses

The newel post swathed in coats, is skins
That long for human frames to walk them
Out of doors

Once I embraced it tenderly, I swear
I felt love from the linty folds
The  hard tree beneath

How many shucked skins we have
Always peeling off our parts
Hanging our hope up

On some inanimate man
Making a fetish of our dreams
The blue sky over the kissing gate!

And I still feel you in deep night
Strung inside me , singing

As the cold house shudders in contraction
The heat quite gone from its timbers.


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





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