August 23, 2022
 |  28 Comments

I will never be a fragrance aficionado,
though summer late is permeated
by perfume from blossoms innocent
and white,
never be the first to give in to seduction
nor write sonnets to subtle notes,
however, one thing is certain,
is right above my nose—I will always be intense.

Scent, for a fact, in a poem is neglected;
is overlooked, is lost,
is hardly appreciated, what of lilacs and oranges?
What of august rain that is anything
but delicate?
I breathe them in, knowing well, I will be
intoxicated,
scent has the ability to unravel
even the most hidden of human inclinations,
both, the power of suggestion
and art of creating entire worlds through illusion.

It’s like the example of tuberose; evoking
both body and decay,
keep it in contrast with garlic,
and one is instantaneously led down lane
of memories repressed,
it’s nothing short of a gamble,
I wonder if one is ever truly free from its hold?

Scent of blue, as though walking into
a library with mildewed assault,
scents of the past tied
in a ribbon, of damask rose that floods the air,
my conscience is grounded every time,
where do I begin?

Scent of spices lingering, of honey
and bread and provocation of greed,
it’s as treading into a basement
dark and tempting,
these I inhale, as the city sternly sits and stares,
what of individuality and grit?
Doesn’t every poem possess its own appeal
and sense?
I allow myself to be swept away by experiences
new and old alike,
there’s only so much time we are given
to understand ourselves—
like paper and indelible ink; intensity bears a scent.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Person Holding a Pink Rose by Viktoria Lunyakova, Pexels.

Jo is our guest host at dVerse where she invites us to write a poem of scents. 
Come join us! 💘

Posted for Poetics: A World of Common Scents @dVerse Poets Pub