Finola Scott’s work can be found on posters, tapestries and postcards. She is widely published with poems in Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Fenland Reed, Lighthouse, New Writing Scotland. She won the Uist Poetry, Dundee Law, The Blue Nib Chapbook competitions and was runner up in the Coast to Coast pamphlet competition. Stanza Festival commissioned a poem for a multi-media installation. Red Squirrel published her debut pamphlet in October. You can read more on FB Finola Scott Poems.
Thin ice Winter Olympics Vancouver 2010
I say yes but not my idea of fun an ice rink stadium packed with flag-flourishing fans while lycra'd skaters whirl-twirl below twinkle lights at my side he pitches low and steady in racy padded anorak he's not my usual but I fancy him so let him take me to sit high above neon ice slush as the star below swirls twirls kicks that beat going for gold .slice-scribbling the ice in scything sweeps the champion leaps her lutz-triple toe-loop combination leaves her blue dress fluttering and our pulses racing that fast flow free style . always best my heart hop-flips as his hot leathered hand presses my woolly waist yes my choice I fancy him so let him take me result the perfect score Published in The Veiw from Olympia '20
A bloody crib can't believe I took it from that solemn house clotted with icons. The routine of prayers,the tick tock Angelus of childhood visits. Bleeding Jesus and his Mum watch me spill granny's gravy greasy on her persian rug, stare out from heavy frames spotting how I hide the fatty lamb. Sure to clype to the angels who log all details in St Peter's ledger. Now beside Santa on my mantlepiece it's just another story of family, faint memory of wild travels & adventures. As the psychedelic frame dances the mariachi through Advent, I plan turkey con carne for Boxing Day. Peel open those tiny cardboard doors, no jack-in-the-box fright but a plump baby held sure. Published in Belonging Project Glasgow Woman's Library '18
So, the darkness approaches. I could talk of enveloping black of the rip and reveal of the veil of stripped furrows & iron earth of barren trees, growth numbed of days blink-blind short of fur and leather on the wing of claws' clatter at thresholds. Instead I think of the star bright canopy of hoar-silvered morning webs of a horned moon hooking night of rooms flamed by flirting candle, of velvet nights cooried at the fire of each other's skin. My arms open Welcome Published in Writers' Cafe Issue 3