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THE AROMAS OF MEMORY IN PAINTINGS
at the Prado Museum, Madrid

Curators tagged ten fragrances
      match Jan Brueghel's
      "Sense of Smell".
The pictured species, plants & flowers
      from gardens once enclosed
      in far-off Brussels.
Regal gloves were perfumed by
      ambergris, and extracts
      luring onlookers like bees.
Aromas wafting different notes
      the visitor can activate
      by touch screens near.
The luminosity of jasmine joined
      an erotic rose's wanton scent.
      Bouquets that one can taste.
Buried by the velvet touch
      of verdant leaves, we breathed
      a labyrinth of smells.
As I bow my head to kiss
      a rose, it screams and
      pulls its petals closed.

Royal Rhodes



ESTATE SALE

He said there were gardening things in the shed
behind the house and I was welcome to look.

As soon as I opened the weathered, wooden door,
it hit me - aroma? Not fragrance, not bouquet or perfume.

A scent? No, a smell. Wood, gasoline, oil, grass clippings,
dirt carried in on garden shoes, manure, and metal tools.

I lifted a rake, its wooden handle smoothed and oiled
by hands and sweat from a full summer day of working.

The tines were rusted, forming a fan of years of disuse,
an oxidated red, orange sunset that I held up to the Sun.

But I was in my childhood backyard, helping my father
put away the tools from our afternoon in the garden.

I hung each tool in its proper place on the garage wall
on carefully measured hooks forming a kind of mural.

I see it. I wish I could paint it, and include the smell
which I now realize is a fragrance, a blend so complex
that no perfumer could capture all of it as well as this
shed on an August afternoon behind an emptying home.

Lianna Wright



GRANDMA’S MORDANT POTPOURRI

The hallway smelled abandoned.
At the door a metallic
whiff of industrial paint
and my mother’s saliva’d
handkerchief across my cheek.

We waited forever for
the apartment door’s hinges
to sound the first note of dread
for the kids facing our
Grandma’s mordant potpourri.

A broiler rack of chicken.
Frozen fries in the oven.
A box of thawed out peas sat
on the formica counter,
burner waiting for a match.

Infused into it all was
the sour smoke of Pall Mall,
glass ashtrays strategically
placed, all at a casual
reach to flick an ash, to snub

the last and rest the next and catch
the errant flecks of sot weed
that inevitably made
their way from her lips to her
tongue, to her stained fingertips.

Rob Friedman



THE HOUSE ON UNION

I am outside on the sidewalk
looking up at it
Built in the earlier half of the twentieth century
on a now slightly less shabby block
surrounded by inflated real estate

Resurrected - My memories
of Sundays long ago
when main pastimes and dining out
meant family visits

My parents, sister and I
would walk over to my aunt's and uncle's place -
a second-floor railroad apartment
like our own

I recall stepping into the hall entry
and before we even began to make our way
up the long straight staircase
I was struck and embraced by a wonderful
aromatic permeation - for this was no fleeting waft

Sweet, rich tomato sauce - simmering for hours
in a great big two-handled white enamel pot
fragrant with oregano, basil, parsley, onions and garlic -
as welcoming as the hugs and kisses we were about to receive

I can still smell the sauce and it makes me smile
On a few occasions over the years, I could swear
I have smelled it - the very same exact aroma

Back on the sidewalk
I consider stepping inside
I wonder- if it is still there
lingering like a ghost
unwilling to leave its only home

There - Ingrained in the old, patterned linoleum,
in the wide curved wooden banister,
in the creaky yet generously wide steps
in plaster walls layered with decades of paint
I close my eyes and breathe it in

I remain outside, exhaling a flood of images
I want to imagine and believe it is still there
All of it - Not just the scent of the sauce
but the family with whom I shared it
- as fresh and untouched
as the memory I walk away with

Terri J. Guttilla



STORM SCENT

The smell of ozone takes me back –
high Sierra so many years ago,
volunteer ranger for the summer.
When the trail crew was off
fighting lightning fires, I stayed behind
to hike the trails.
Above Hidden Lake
thunderclouds moving closer.
Better get down to lower ground.
So beautiful – over granite and lava peaks
clouds roiling charcoal-black
in the huge dark sky.
Jabs of lightning far off, closer.
Top of the world.
Get to lower ground!
I didn’t want to.
Air incredibly fresh-smelling, electric.
Such a high. I hiked back down.
Ozone takes me back ­– up – again and again.

Taylor Graham



A PAINFUL SCENT

I gripped my mom’s hand tight
as we walked towards our destination
on Linden Boulevard, next door
to the movie theater, where,
on most other Saturdays,
I’d be with my older brother
in the kids’ section, both of us chewing
on strands of red licorice, watching
the latest movie matinee, a Western
on the big screen.

Today was Saturday, but different.
If I looked up, I’d see that sign in the window
printed in bold black letters—
                                          Dentist Office

Mom and I climbed the stairs,
turned left at the top, hurried
down a carpeted hallway
where a smiling Dr. Shotton stood.
When he bent down to greet me,
I could smell his peppermint breath
though a stronger odor pervaded the room,
one that would stay with me for years—
      oil of cloves.

I didn’t know its name then, a five year old
beginning a lifelong relationship with dentists
from years of penny candies—
Mary Janes, Bazooka gum, milk chocolate—
      treat bags of tooth decay.

Through my teens, into my twenties,
much of my adult life, oil of cloves helped ease
the pain from fillings, root canals and extractions.

But every Thanksgiving holiday, I still won’t eat
a slice of pumpkin pie     spiced with cloves—
and it’s clear      the reason why.

Norma Ketzis Bernstock



HORSE SCENTS

My grandson, Emmet, likes to ride
Some Saturdays, I go to watch
When he’s done, we lead his horse
Into the barn, to groom her

As we brush, I inhale the scent —
Sweaty horse, with notes of leather tack
Wool blanket, mixed with hay and oats
A wheelbarrow, heaped with
Pee-soaked straw and horse manure

I hear my uncle’s voice …
I’m in the barn, mucking out a stall
Complaining of the smell
He’s standing over me — wool shirt,
Felt hat, knee-high leather boots

“It’s not manure, Micky. That’s what cows make.
Stinks so bad, you can smell it for a mile.
What you’ve got here, is the good, clean, healthy smell
Of horse shit.”

“Papa?” I look up to see my grandson smile
He thinks she’s ready for the paddock
I look her over and agree

He asks if we can go for ice cream
Oblivious to how we smell
His Mom would not approve
But she’s not me

I tell him, of course we can
He’s earned it — then
Rub my sleeve against the horse’s neck
Before we turn her out

Frank Kelly



LOVE IS GREATER THAN FEAR

“She’ll only attack you
if you’re afraid,” said Freddy,
my cannabis connection in the 11th grade,
as we ambled up his back steps,
high already from the big fatty
we’d just smoked as a preamble
to the sale. “Great,” I said, his German
shepherd barking its head off
in German on the other side
of the door. I closed my eyes and saw
Nazis, Dobermans, Roosevelt
declaiming “Nothing to fear
but fear itself.” The clock was ticking
as I paused on the landing, swallowed
hard. “She can smell your fear already,”
said Freddy, his hand on the doorknob.

Fast forward thirty years. My daughter
is in the 11th grade. She drives
herself to school in her grandmother’s
Toyota. Her grandmother has dementia
and doesn’t drive anymore. I’m clean
and sober one day at a time and don’t
smoke pot anymore. The Toyota
is ticking in the driveway, the hood
still warm. A pair of fuzzy dice
hangs from the rearview. A pink
lighter peeks out from the immaculate
ashtray. All of the windows are down
but I can still smell the sweet familiar reek
clinging to the cloth interior. And now
there’s a bumper sticker in back
that says LOVE IS GREATER THAN FEAR.

Paul Hostovsky



OLFACTORY TIME WARP

Sitting among middle-aged comrades     gathered around
spark-spitting campfires     crackling and smoldering,
whiffing smoke engaged senses    awakened flashbacks:

jasmine incense curled     around our questioning shoulders
some covered in shawls     others clothed in tank tops
tie-dyed t-shirts     leather fringed vests     and Baja hoodies

we returned to rooms     where beeswax candle drippings
adorned five-gallon water cooler bottles     flickering tapers
shed light     perfumed oils drifted towards ceilings

lingered in corners     absorbed indelible scents honoring
place and time     evoking memories     of fulsome smiles
and common crusades     clear, crisp until balmy bouquets dissipated

images blurred     ruminations faded    familiars morphed into faceless crowds
reconjured on stone hearths in a heartbeat     whenever hickory log flames seethe
ashen clouds billow     trace odors emerge     and our smokey past breathes.

Sterling Warner



WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, JEAN NATÉ?

At the opera these days, imperious looks of disapproval
Descend on anyone who dares to enter the sanctum
Wearing perfume. Jackie Kennedy herself could return and
Waft the heady floral notes of Chanel Number 5 from her box
Overlooking the orchestra, and offended sniffing would occur.
What has brought about this vicious assault on synesthesia—
These self-entitled demands for exclusive olfactory purity?

Five-star restaurants are even more aromaphobic. They have scents
Of their own, and only a clod would show up soaked in Old Spice, an affront to
Green spring garlic, the umami of fresh shiitake mushrooms or black
Truffles marinated in Spanish olive oil with a touch of cumin
And a whiff of smoked paprika.

Where are the memories of these elites?
Doesn’t anyone recall a warm moment
When a man smelling of Old Spice leaned forward
To share a forkful of paella, seasoned with Spanish paprika?
Were none of these huffy judges once That Girl—the one who
Kept a bottle of yellow Jean Naté body splash in her gym locker
To hydrate every inch of her skin after exiting those stinky showers?
Her vibrant citrus scent claimed the whole gym, and stayed on her
All through Friday night when her boyfriend talked his father into letting
Him borrow the family car for their big date. The next morning, his dad
Said at breakfast, “Did someone spill lemonade on my upholstery last night?”
That Girl’s boyfriend, now past middle age, still reflects on the lingering
Fragrance of lemon along her neck when he kissed her for the first time.
Does That Girl, now frowning front and center at the opera, remember
Her boyfriend’s grownup smell, sneaked from his father’s bottle of
English Leather, when they lay down in the back seat?
Does she think that music is so holy that Mozart wouldn’t welcome
A lilt of lemon, dancing along with the Magic Flute?
Does she know that the Sacred Chrism, a mysterious melding of olive
Oil and ancient balsam, echoes through every Cathedral
Where Wolfgang’s Requiem is played?

Rose Anna Higashi