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Best Poems Written by Frances Scott

Below are the all-time best Frances Scott poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Frances Scott Poem

Three Stages of a Fire

I  

A spark is shot
Deftly, from between two fingers.
It sits, wavering on its bed
Like a lone star
Against the black,
Cold coals.
Chuckling, a candle flame shows
Its little golden head.
Sleepily, it reaches for its mother
And she, flickering, crackles her tongue
As the scorching hand upon her breast grows
And spreads.
Curious and hungry,
flamma explorat.

II  

A fire is mature, suddenly
Superior. Its arms extend,
It works, briskly it burns.
Like a tiger
It inhabits its cage.
Laughing, a blaze rises
To greet a brittle friend.
For another 
And another
Blaze yearns.
Alas! Any tears would hiss
If the glowing cheeks reminisced a kiss.
It is Love The Fuel on which its life depends.
Selfish and beautiful,
flamma vivat!

III  

The embers sift, tenderly
Nursing the staggering
Foolish old flame
Who must be coaxed to nibble and feed.
No light livens the hearth, haunted now,
Merely shadows.
In faded fame, amidst dusty fortune
The patient lies.
And it ponders as all its dazzle dies
Who taught me to hate?
Was it lack of love or lack of life
That finally dampened my fanciful play?
Slowly,
Painfully,
The gargoyle face is smothered in ash,
The soft powder of its parents fate.
And death waits
Eerily
Still
Until another is born in the grate.
Tired and lonely,
flamma extinguet.

Details | Frances Scott Poem

I Am Drunk In My Bed By Every Speculative Adolescent

My space ship of a lamp shade,
This little cardboard room.
What genius exists here,
In the abscence of the moon?

Details | Frances Scott Poem

Moorgate To Temple, Circle Line

There is a man sitting opposite
In a red and black striped shirt.
His eyes are a little mincey
And his forehead frowns
Of its own accord.
He smells a bit like Christmas.
He is not a summer man.
He is married.
His wedding day was happy,
Many friends attended.
He was young and now he is old
And the wedding ring grows inwards
As the wrinkles expand.
His hair is thinning.
When he looks in the mirror
He is a little shocked.
But his infant depression
Is distracted by the smell of autumn
Leaves outside.
He is going to a lover,
He has that pretence about him.
But his hands betray some intelligence
Which his small and wonky nose destroys.
The best thing is
That he has no idea
I am writing this.
I don’t like his shoes.
I will stop now.
It seems awfully mean.

Details | Frances Scott Poem

Ode To Boreas

Boreas!
What a bully you are.
You push your burdened mist
Against our proud brick walls,
Whipping up words in torrents.
Spiraling, spitting
Surf more appropriate
For the weathered cliffs,
The wispy eye of the sky.

Yet you provoke in me
Such wanton desires.

Details | Frances Scott Poem

5th September

It has been raining
All the day.
But now silence.
Stillness
Where just before
The drops a  rhythmic downwards breeze
Poured,
And gave us quiet melody to our thoughts,
Are suddenly no more.

The trees, stilted now,
Waving hesitant.
This new, patternless breeze
And our lives are a little more boring
As the clouds sweep past
And leave us alone.

No accompaniment seems to last.