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Scott Elder studied at the American University in Paris, lived as a street musician in Paris and London, then worked as a mime artist in France and Portugal before taking monastic vows and spending twelve years in a Buddhist hermitage in France. He now lives in Auvergne with his teenage children. Since 2014 his work has been published on both sides of the Atlantic, placed or commended in numerous competitions in the UK and Ireland, and shortlisted in the Bridport, Fish, Plough, Aesthetica and Troubadour Prizes. His debut pamphlet, Breaking Away, was published by Poetry Salzburg in 2015, a first collection, Part of the Dark , by Dempsey & Windle in 2017 and his second, Maria, was published by Erbacce Press in 2023. A third is due out in Spring of 2026 by Salmon Poetry in Ireland. Website: https://www.scottelder.co.uk/
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INTRODUCTION
In an attempt to introduce this selection of poems it might be said that they seem to tread on that fine line between obscurity and a fresh expression of life, that gift we share together. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t, and if there is any meaning in them, I’m generally the last one to become aware of it. Being a bit of a musician, my attention may slightly be more oriented to the way things sound than to what they mean.
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Scott Elder: Twelve Poems
DIEPPE
A quarter past two and you wondered if
your body were a breeze or a breath of moonlight,
if your children drew on the tide in the harbour
or the dew-covered garden in their dream work.
They lay like feathers in a single bed. And you, at once
the lady in the window and the woman moving
down the cobblestone lane to a pier beyond
the bulwarks and pilings, blending, step upon step,
your own colour and form into that nightscape.
(First published in Coffee House Poetry )
WITNESS
The direction of flight and the wing’s
flutter confirm the origin of fire
still raging in your ear.
The kick and bite of a .340 Magnum—
a brutal entrance. The world—
a freeze and a cringe, a fox
in full leap, suspended in time,
the physics of resistance, acceleration and fall,
fused, and you
pinned to the edge
beyond the clearing, still listening
to the wind creeping through dawn.
(First published in Cake)
INDIA INK
It’s just an illusion, she murmurs.
The words press against an antique mirror.
They seem to have a life of their own,
imploring a likeness, an echo.
Time lapses. An heirloom carpet, a child,
her child, caught in suspension.
An ellipse at the point of his pen.
Pen and fingers fused, and him
seated on the carpet
glimpsing through the mirror
the darkness in his mother’s eye.
(Published in Part of the Dark Dempsey & Windle Publishing)
AT ONCE THE RIVER
i lethe
When her ragged breath became a sighxxx we enteredxxx incandescent
two bodies cut flatxxx dark water xxx warmxxx embracing each pore
deepnessxxx a thrillxxx loosening our gripxxx I touched her hand
it stained my ownxxx twilight coloursxxx she saidxxx she spoke in shreds
eternity filled each lisp and slurxxx I listenedxxx host and guest
till the river became our saviorxxx and slumberxxx my Lord
ii acheron
her hand was ancient as water itselfxxx ankles knees belly waist
the river swelled to meet her lipsxxx what shadow is this
that spills me herexxx bitterness dripped from the tips of her hair
she smiled once and then foreverxxx as if meeting a forgotten lover
what shadow is this that links me soxxx a warmthxxx familiar
as a scent rememberedxxx only upon its re-encounterxxx a breath
fleetingxxx a riverxxx slidingxxx the whole of it beyond her reach
as might an echoxxx in mist
iii phlegethon
how long did she sleepxxx certainly not an eternity
after allxxx she’s herexxx is she notxxx as miracles go
a river might turn into a sea of milkxxx this one’s blood
and fire howlingxxx she strips to her feetxxx follows her steps
to the river’s edgexxx and leapsxxx eyes raging
Rosie’s no different from fire or waterxxx this she knows
iv cocytus
everythingxxx the roomxxx bedxxx her hands and thoughts
dissolved in sound xxx a roarxxx a stormxxx in a bell jar’s grip
and poofxxx she’s ankle-deep in tearsxxx the river wails
to no availxxx she’s deaf xxx and only feels a body’s slip
deeper and deeperxxx the water fills her emptiness
and leaves her tender as a new-born nymph
v styx
dusk or dawnxxx whicheverxxx sun’s an abstraction
the ferryman tooxxx there is a bankxxx and on it she kneels
this is no riverxxx her thoughts stir like bubbles rising
the morass is thick of them each shoulders a murmur
kiss your index xxx to feel its presencexxx no fingerxxx no lips
breathless comes the ferrymanxxx breathless she steps in
(First published in Aesthetica Creating Writing Anthology)
A PIECE OF CORAL
There’s no charm in this
but I keep it close
xxxshe paused to slip her index
xxxthrough a lock of greying hair
one day I’ll toss it back
because I, too, am the sea
xxxshe scowled and looked aside
and can only speak of moments
as they move through me
xxxsilence tightened to a knot
in the twilight xxxasail-less sloop
inched into the bay xxxits little piston
a faint throb xxxan incantation
we listened xxxblind as thistle
and when came the end
we listened to the wind
as if we were water
or maybe, xxxyes the sea
(First published in York Literary Review)
BREATHLESS
…death in a spiral arising from root,
where, my dear, did you lay your foot?…
A tick in the clockwork
it’s never the same
harmonics of cogs
the dolorous clink
iron to iron
your sister leans in
and looks beyond your deepest edge
you listen
silent as years gone by
she intones love
throat and breath
each pause falls in a splash of light
both moon and voice
flicker in darkness
is it this, you wonder
(for the very first time)
it’s not the words
but her lips that reply
pulling you breathless
from root and drift
a smile begins to fill her eyes
(First published in Irisi Magazine)
THE DAY THE COLD GOT IN
was like this:
my brother was on the floor
playing chess xxxthe rug:
a worn-out Persian pulled from a bin
I sensed a squeeze at the door
stuffed the cracks with wadded paper
and my brother played on
(he always decides at the end who wins)
the cold was a rising tide
I got on my knees to say goodbye
grabbed the fiddle and busking gear
and left him to decide
(Published in The Rialto)
IN THE MAELSTRÖM
First the fissure, then the fall
one little cog has given up
a bit of iron in a pool of oil
the concrete floor is weeping
underneath: a breath of earth
you attune your ear to whispers
a spiral tugging at your sleeve,
a pulsar’s secret murmur
lying limp on every tongue
of every stranger in the street
it’s just a tale, a star’s demise
I’ll have cognac with café
a cube of sugar for the bitter,
another for the bite
(First published in The London Magazine)
OPEN MARKET
Murmurs xxxcries
cabbages and corpses of cod on ice
Rosie xxxin linexxx distinctly hearing
first xxxthe seaxxxcuttlefish and squid
a current insisting xxxwhat will it be?
fields of daisies swell in her throat
a bouquet of these xxxshe sputters
twenty stems bleeding in curled fingers
six flights of stairs to a key in a door
she enters the room like a breath
(First published in Poetry Ireland)
THE DAY AFTER
It was no nightmare xxxlet me sleep
the hearse’s purr made me retch
when as a child xxxafraid in bed
the rabbits the rabbits xxxI‘d whisper
their innocence would soften my
fear xxxtwo men carried the box
I secretly wished them
to trip and if they did
would sayxxxthere you seexxx
give her to me you buggers
they didn’t xxxand I watched
slow as bourbon a black corsair
sail out of our alley
into the day
(Published in Poetry Scotland)
ALL HALLOWS’ EVE
A rough coming xxxit was determined as waves
running against each smile and gazexxx a dull
blade uninvited but herexxxand herexx and here
the bonfire eclipsed a sliver of moonxxx heather
and yew teased the flamesxxxone soul weptxxxan-
other prayedxx as we danced a drunken jig
my aunt: a smear of velvet green as her eyes
stared my way as if something were missing
hope was fearxxx it sparked in the blazexxxI lift-
ed my glass to MacDougall and his kinxxxand
to an end of the wretched war
(Published in Poetry Scotland)
CHESSMEN HAVE THEIR WAYS
after Debussy’s Prelude No.4
‘Les sons et parfums tournent dans l’air du soir’
On the board a ragged knight
a worn-out steed xxxa mare
he’s listening to the ‘cree-cree’
of amorous cicadas
a day ill-fit for war
he longs for sleep
and glimpses his daughter
piecing through notes
(silences cut them short)
he whispers something gentle
in his mare’s ear
(she’s gentleness itself)
her look runs fathoms
they step off the board
a field of melons awaits
and just beyond the cliff
the sea
(First published in The High Window)
The High Window 