Penning Perfumes Volume 2, Page 2

Birmingham

  6 February 2013, Le Truc.

  Bohdan Piasecki, Jacqui Rowe and Camellia Stafford share their poems inspired by Prada’s Infusion d'Iris.

  Botafumeiro

  Here’s what I wanted: first, let its sway cut open

  the altar’s throat,

  the plume of smoke and sparks a straight razor,

  a jealous revenge.

  I’ll strain to see what lies behind, gape through the wound,

  doubt what I see.

 

  Here’s what I wanted: to step into its path screaming,

  mad, drunk on fumes:

  come at me then you smoke machine, come at me

  you cheat, con, come on

  you silver cup of red hot nothing, move to me,

  string puppet.

  Here’s what I wanted: to open my arms and meet

  its speed head on,

  embrace the pain and fly, smoke and sacrifice,

  cackle as we rise

  smug like a lottery winner,

  solemn as a child.

  Here’s what I wanted: a standstill

  at the swing’s pinnacle.

  The long smoke braid turned solid, a paradox

  of movement fixed.

  A miracle at rest, the embers glowing

  with set heat.

  —Bohdan Piasecki

  Spilt...

  ...splashed,

  the whispered crash of cobalt glass

  of midnight boulevards

  she'll never know, the slow slow quick quick flow

  through satin lining flayed to ostrich skin

  she clutches, handles, vanillin and coumarin, a dash

  of plumped up violets,

  their sweet synthetic breath more true

  than real, than wilted clump

  pinned to her fur. Quintessence of mysotis, iris,

  tincture of wisteria absconds. The pillow scent

  of unbrushed hair in cool hotels, it wells in seams,

  swells inside pockets, douses ticket docks,

  illicit stubs of silvery romance, anoints a ten bob note

  with aldehyde, blurs her compact face,

  dyes hankie lace azure, turns a novelette to mush.

  No use for it. The rigid mouth unclasped

  each time she needs to pay

  coppers for the powder room, the bus, betrays

  what dwells in dreams

  beyond the wrist, the pulse.

  She sops it up with rag and cotton wool

  picks out flakes of shattered flask

  masks perfume with cologne

  like something soiled, tells herself

  it's no more than a bag and stashes it

  inside a drawer where sometimes,

  mending, making do her daily chores

  rummaging for stocking thread,

  she gasps, imbibes

  a whisp of sapphire, royal, ultramarine,

  the battered glow of rain washed pavements

  leading to forgotten dance halls,

  fading fall of notes on ballroom floors,

  good nights left unsaid,

  discarded shoes and kisses trailing her to sleep,

  perfume more deep

  more truly blue

  chillier now

  than she recalls.

  —Jacqui Rowe

  Say

  Say gardenias fell from a chiffon sky into my lap

  and whitened the ivory of my crocheted apron.

  I'd lift the corners of its skirt, convey my scented

  bounty stream-side. Say the water ran dove blue

  with feathers from the softest parts and pebbles

  of blue quartz lay on the bed. I would hold

  each flower by its stem, let the petals paddle

  until the bluing took to their veins. Say overnight,

  I left them to dry on song sheets, the low notes

  of nostalgia antiquing their delicate psyches.

  Each morning, from their slumbering I'd lift

  two flower heads and pin them into my locks.

  Say all day long they sang to me their lullabies

  of swooning suitors and calling cards piling up

  on a silver tray, of ladies making known their hearts

  with silken opening of their fans. I would close

  my eyes to the present moment and donate

  my body's warmth to the gardenias' echoing notes.

  —Camellia Stafford

  Birmingham Haiku

  These Birmingham Haiku were inspired by Boots’ Bay Rum.

  Dark spices call out clear

  Recalls deep winter festival lights

  Cinnamon pomander

  —Chris Bartlett

  Purple velvet suit

  O kiss me! I’m wonderful

  Undo my buttons

  —Jason King, gentleman adventurer

  Cloves and my father

  whisky in hand, kill the cold.

  Hot toddy cure all

  —Claire

  Stripped against wood grain

  copper beetle, dead divided line

  in chest of indo spice.

  —Elijah

  To rip it off fast

  Or, teasing, slowly, unfurl

  Wound, unveiled, meets air

  —Nick

  Redolent and sweet

  the numbing incense heat of

  your spiced cigarettes

  —Jenn

  Garbage spills from bins

  like champagne foam from highballs

  Cupped hands shield the flame.

  —Bohdan Piasecki

  Cloves on a campfire

  Sleigh bells ring around Christmas

  Dental pain has gone

  —James Walpole

  The cinnamon spills

  Into the pudding bowl

  Christmas has arrived

  —Liz Bartlett

  I’m burning Christmas

  Sucking deep on the spice-smoke

  Ash clings to me still

  —James Webster

  Turpentine? Initially toxic

  Holding your breather to my nose

  Strangely addictive and hypnotic

  A Chines Herb is

  Sweet, like the cherry blossoms

  Falling in the spring.

  —C.R.T

  My friend Deborah

  stung by a wasp, ran indoors

  for disinfectant

  —Jacqui

  Late night, cold and snow

  waiting on my own outside

  smelling cloves and home

  —Meija

  Hot cross bun stove bake.

  Red steel handle hot to touch

  Toast and cool.

  —Leanne

  Christmas pomander

  Zig-zag lines of diamond cloves

  Rotting orange sphere

  —Judith

  Breathe deep if you can

  The soft salty air by the sea

  Cinnamon night sky

  —Rachael Briggs

  Eucalyptus stripe

  Tuck shop gone wilder

  Neggle winged bird

  —Coco Chanel