Sheila Aldous
Sheila Aldous is a North London girl with Devon in her soul. Although her previous career was in advertising on national publications including the Radio Times she latterly ran a B & B in Dorset. Sheila now lives on the banks of the River Teign and is inspired by life generally, but also the natural landscape, river life, local history and love & loss. She incorporates these aspects into her poetry. It was the history of the last invasion on English soil in Teignmouth that inspired Sheila to write Paper Boats, the Burning of Teignmouth and Shaldon 1690, her first collection published by Indigo Dreams. Sheila has an MA in Creative Writing from Exeter University. She has won several poetry and writing competitions: the Yeovil Prize, the NAWG, Riptide Journal and Happenstance 20. She was shortlisted in the Bridport prize 2018 and has been placed in others. She was Highly Commended in the Welsh International Poetry Competition in 2018 and again in 2019. She has also been published in several literary journals, such as Acumen and Orbis. Sheila reads her poetry in the UK and in France. Her second collection, a chapbook Patterns of All Made Things, is due to be published by Hen Run, an imprint of Grey Hen Press.
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The Light in Rembrandt’s Mother
After An old Woman called 'The Artist's Mother' by Rembrandt.
Eyes too difficult to read have seen it all;
she stares from a knowing dark space
the folds of glow and shade settle in her lines
and she shines in his illumination.
She could be anybody’s mother:
one who would scold at a misplaced collar,
at yellowed lace in need of a dash and splash
of lye, one who would tenderly admonish the dim,
spend her life with sheets on bleaching grounds,
whose heart would be spread with pride,
who would guide the brush she made
as it swelled with the trembling water of life
so hers would not diminish in a shrinking
multiverse, but would sparkle in furrowed light.
www.acumen-poetry.co.uk/acumen-94-may-2019/
After An old Woman called 'The Artist's Mother' by Rembrandt.
Eyes too difficult to read have seen it all;
she stares from a knowing dark space
the folds of glow and shade settle in her lines
and she shines in his illumination.
She could be anybody’s mother:
one who would scold at a misplaced collar,
at yellowed lace in need of a dash and splash
of lye, one who would tenderly admonish the dim,
spend her life with sheets on bleaching grounds,
whose heart would be spread with pride,
who would guide the brush she made
as it swelled with the trembling water of life
so hers would not diminish in a shrinking
multiverse, but would sparkle in furrowed light.
www.acumen-poetry.co.uk/acumen-94-may-2019/
The Bag
The Red Grouse lies low,
his call a warning for her to stay
in what is left of burnt heather,
to not follow whatever happens.
She looks for his handsome eye,
his red cap, his feathery claws;
in grey shadows she hides
in the moorland hollows.
She will know him, his scent blown
on a glass mist, his red stripe
that makes him hers,
the strength of his wingbeats.
At first light she will hear him
rise up, leave swift and low;
he will not heed her warning
to go back, go back.
She will yield to the moss
crouch down in the upland bog,
wait his return, his cackling call,
hide from the shooters.
Even in the blaze of the rising
sun, he will refuse a blindfolded
eye to armed men intent on a kill,
as he flies towards their fire.
At the beaters’ whistle
she too will lift herself up,
speed to the wave of flags
towards the line of guns.
And when the small bores
are spent, spent with fun money,
she will rest again in wait for him
shrug off the stain
the stain of what she is to them,
sink into the slough of
the shooters’ inglorious bag,
into her silence.
www.indigodreams.co.uk/for-the-silent/4594451393
The Bag
The Red Grouse lies low,
his call a warning for her to stay
in what is left of burnt heather,
to not follow whatever happens.
She looks for his handsome eye,
his red cap, his feathery claws;
in grey shadows she hides
in the moorland hollows.
She will know him, his scent blown
on a glass mist, his red stripe
that makes him hers,
the strength of his wingbeats.
At first light she will hear him
rise up, leave swift and low;
he will not heed her warning
to go back, go back.
She will yield to the moss
crouch down in the upland bog,
wait his return, his cackling call,
hide from the shooters.
Even in the blaze of the rising
sun, he will refuse a blindfolded
eye to armed men intent on a kill,
as he flies towards their fire.
At the beaters’ whistle
she too will lift herself up,
speed to the wave of flags
towards the line of guns.
And when the small bores
are spent, spent with fun money,
she will rest again in wait for him
shrug off the stain
the stain of what she is to them,
sink into the slough of
the shooters’ inglorious bag,
into her silence.
www.indigodreams.co.uk/for-the-silent/4594451393
Keeper of the Wings
You sleep in the lanes of rebel angels,
even your crooked mouth smiles
and plans. What plans have you plotted,
what secrets do you keep together?
You two embroidering the truth of butterflies,
sewing buttons on lips that bleed
with contrition, as you fly linking chains
with this someone better than me,
one who flies you over green spaces
to freedom. Where do you keep your wings
that will one day
take you away?
On another night you may tell me.
On another night I might let you.
www.orbisjournal.com/