Francesca’s writing began in song and grew into poetry, which is performed on the page and to the ears. The liminality of her work is hard to ignore, expressed through her use of white space and the content of her poems; she sees her poetry as an act of rebellion, enacted through her stylistic writing. She recently spent an accidental year in Crete, teaching, writing and learning the Cello.
fscott_7 (@hotmail.com)
See Francesca’s poetry in its intended format here
homo sacer
oath broken/he treads
the hoot owl trail/wanders
into deep shade/his wolfish head
hallowed
he is traceless/cursed
i see him on the borderline
of forest/and field
colourless/whistling
against the wind
i stare till my gaze falls
through the sacred man
as though he were a ghost
he is the hunter/hunted
who has no friend
nor hand
nor root
just wolfish head
and padded foot
getting to no you
a reason to move to the city
the same that forced me out
you picked at the brain
till limbs stopped still
till lipsshut
till right hand mangled
till head tilted/throat cut
till love poured a stain
greedily soaked up
repeat
repeat
repeat
til crux
only laughter then
like a crescent moon
so far away
so high above
xania nights
of still
hours
horizontal/slack
scattered with detritus
of day
to
day
l o n g
l o n g
endless
evening/
after/
evening/
silence
presses against the shutter glass
the sheer volume of night
pushing in
until midnight
the rhythms pace
the heart blood march
the woozy heat
out the on cobbles the
on slope the of pavement
stray dogs
moths/mosquitoes
the wail of rembetiko calls
suddenly
we
all
dance in circles
reprise
we stamp our feet/wake up the worms
from their underground slumber
to join us in the spell we are under
bees break the rhythm
as we holler at the crystal sky
dark minds bind a thick black band
around our poison briar
scrawl lyrics across four leaf clovers
make melodies that ache
from hearts/broken chances/stolen
we wash ourselves clean with drink and echo
the songs we played
in our halcyon days
mother
we swirl through
corridors/wisps of stale
smoke/rolling past one another
trails of
vapour/bleeding into
one another
first im the crutch
then you/we swap
dont we
i am shut up
downstairs
in the garden room
listening
to leaves whisper
you are statuesque
above me
spread thinly/
on the sofa
watching the picture
flicker
middle distance
slept deep /heavy still
no rolling
over
morning came like a baseball bat/i am
still
tired/muscles ache heavy
contorted/i am
still
tired/gossamer whispers
outside the window
get in
tick/tack/tick/tack
a shift approaches
rushes through the threshold
like paper trains that
roll
through
the
stops
i adhere to the old routines
as black collared cross/walkers flicker in my side eye
i chose not to see
i search
line by/line/by line
black and grey/foreground and back
separate
crinkled brow
a heavy feature these days
each morning doubt marches the pages
endeavours to tap in to something
in my brains vaults
hacks at that same growth
a buried garden
to which i return
over and
over again
a place
where i may lay down
and there
an angel waits with me
meeting
a look in your distant eye
hands in my lap
where else would they be
what else/what else
from those vanished months
we agree on a feeling
grateful for the time
tweed and silk paisley
wrapped all around me
arms all around me
empty all around me
silver rings
chained/bound
we pass
six hands over the hour
i wake in morning
the night rests in pieces
passed tense
you went your way
and I went
crazy/wide eyed and
open
mouthed
a chest of ash
in a town of dead men/s
houses
ink animals ringed in
dissolving
/held my breath
went blue and dreamed
of open oceans
/drowned
in wandering pavements
/rolled
dice on wrong tables
/chained
by tooth
/hooked by line
sunk
by
chatter
last you stood opaque
in traffic light
your lies left sleeping like a worm
i drove back with more
than enough/analogue light
burning off the excess