Author: aromatica poetica

Aromatica Poetica combines our love of literature with our love of smell in a colossal endeavor to promote and celebrate the oft-disparaged sense, the "fallen angel," as one of our inspirations Helen Keller named it in her attempt to raise it.

A soft-focus close-up peers down into a pale green drink containing mint and a curl of sliced cucumber. The ingredients dissolve into luminous shapes, their boundaries blurred by glass and liquid. Shades of mint, lime, and yellow-green fill the frame, giving the image a cool, muddled, almost abstract quality. Freshness and sharpness mingle in this hazy study of sweet and sour. Photo by the author.

“Sweet and Sour” * Fiction * Karin Doucette

aromatica poetica August 26, 2026

Like many young-marrieds in the 1970s, Bob and Jill devoured Siddhartha and Vonnegut, appreciated Hendrix, and filled their bodies with revolutionary meals from the spiralbound pages of Moosewood Cookbook and the Diet for a Small Planet. They bought a small, shingled house, set back from the Seattle street, which they papered, painted, and flower-potted with vigor. Both got good jobs and then had a healthy, happy son. On TV, Julia Child stirred an enticing pot of life’s possibilities which captured …

A hyper-realistic photograph-like image: A bare forearm rises diagonally from the lower left toward a clenched fist near the upper center-right. The fist is crushing an enormous handful of intensely saturated electric-blue Slurpee. The blue ice bulges extravagantly between essentially every finger, with chunks breaking away and suspended droplets falling beneath the hand. The fingernails are painted glossy black with multicolored glitter, but the polish is chipped and irregular, exposing portions of the nails. Blue syrup and ice flecks stain the fingers. Melted blue liquid pours down the wrist and forearm in thick, irregular streams. The skin is very wet and shiny, with strong sunlight picking out pores, creases, hairs, and reflections. Behind the arm is a warm cream/off-white concrete wall, softly out of focus. It has stains, small dark marks, seams and weathering, but nothing that competes with the hand. A narrow gray-brown strip of ground appears along the bottom. The blue is astonishing. Created with ChatGPT for “slurpees.”

“Slurpees” * Poetry * Riley Fable

aromatica poetica August 12, 2026

slurpees coca cola slurpee brown, the green on an apple flavored candy, like the soda but with small pieces of ice, the slush stays in your mouth for a bit longer; cold against your lips, tangy taste coating your whole tongue; premier blue like the ocean on its brightest days, the harsh lights of an excitingly luminescent crystal, frozen liquid that you really shouldn’t drink again. I see the same emptiness by the hotel exit, I don’t know whether I’ll …

Centered within a wide white border is a black-and-white photograph of a devastated urban street framed tightly around an elderly man sitting on a wooden bench. He is bald and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. His posture is slightly forward, with one hand resting on the bench and the other near the handle of a long cane that extends diagonally. Facing the camera, his expression is solemn and composed rather than overtly emotional. Immediately behind him stands a tracked construction vehicle, its heavy metal body filling much of the middle ground. The background consists of a ruined city street lined with bomb-damaged buildings. Rubble spills across sidewalks and into the roadway. On the right, the shell of a commercial building survives, the letters of its faded sign are difficult to decipher. Farther back, fragments of taller buildings and decorative towers punctuate the skyline, hinting at the neighborhood's former architectural richness. The overall effect is one of profound stillness: a solitary man quietly inhabiting a landscape of last days. (Public domain, from the author.)

“Last Days of Ambrogino” * Fiction * Peter J. Dellolio

aromatica poetica August 7, 2026

I was told that after the war a patrol of soldiers found me lying unconscious in an abandoned building in a town I could not remember. The soldiers brought me to a hospital where I was gradually revived and given medication for some wounds I had received. These were not gunshot wounds. When I awoke, I could not recall who I was or where I had come from. That is, I did not know if I belonged to this town, …

A triptych of cyanotypes from Anna Atkins’s Photographs of British Algae presents three seaweed specimens—large marine algae—rendered as white silhouettes against deep blue. From left to right: Cystoseira ericoides, Sargassum bacciferum, and Cystoseira granulata. Their forms grow increasingly dense and intricate, while faint handwritten labels quietly anchor the images in scientific taxonomy.

Blue Blades, Blue Times * Poems by Gabriella Garofalo * Cyanotypes by Anna Atkins

aromatica poetica April 28, 2026

To P. Are words partners in crime with life? A heated argument going on, While the rough wild sea can’t wait For souls to dive in and on no accounts Can flowers rise- No funny ghosts, but real wrath and hunger If over here, away to the left, In the lane alongside your fields, Maudlin ballads or garish sunsets keep shouting At full blast that life is wonderful, the trick of blue gamblers- But hush now, look, hope and desire …

“Petri Dish Emotions” is a vibrant, collage-like composition that fills the frame, structured around four large circular forms resembling petri dishes or cells. Each circle contains layered spirals and fragments of cut paper—snippets of printed text with phrases such as: “A Wild Love,” “connect,” “research,” “deep time”, and organic shapes—arranged in swirling motions. The background is densely textured with crayon or pastel marks in green, yellow, pink, and blue, creating a sense of energetic movement between the circles. Smaller circular cutouts scatter across the surface, especially in the lower right, adding rhythm and variation. The overall effect is playful yet intricate, evoking microscopic life, growth, and interconnected systems.

“Petri Dish Emotions” & “Eating Emotions” * Art & Poetry * Janina Aza Karpinska

aromatica poetica April 3, 2026

Note from the author to the editor: I had in mind that I might send you “Eating Emotions,” originally published in Magma 85—a schools edition, but reworked since looking at it again. This morning when I lifted my head I noticed a piece of artwork I’d made, Petri Dish Emotions, that held my eye in a way that only made sense later in the day when I saw a short video clip of a TED talk by Brené Brown and …

A stack of pancakes on a white plate, covered with caramel-coloured syrup and topped with whipped cream and blueberries. The syrup drips down the sides of the pancakes, and the whipped cream flows over the front edge like a thick ribbon. Many blueberries are scattered on the pancakes and around the plate. Several black sparrows are gathered around the food. One bird stands on top of the pancakes pecking near the blueberries. Two birds stand near the front-left edge of the plate, close to scattered blueberries. Another bird stands to the right of the plate, facing inward. Additional birds are flying in the sky in the background. The setting is a snowy Alaska landscape with pale, misty mountains in the distance and a cloudy, bright sky. Created and described with ChatGPT.

“Fading into Alaska” * Short Story * Tatiana Samokhina

aromatica poetica March 25, 2026

There are three of them—pancakes—on a round plate in front of me. Fluffy, with bubble craters, dark-orange toasted patches spread out like a thin spiderweb. A mountain of whipped cream holds blueberry beads, glinting slightly under the dim light of the Persian-style café chandelier. I flinch when he snaps, “Alissa?” “Huh?” I look up, a fork tight between my fingers. Across the table—Victor, my boyfriend of three years. His flat cheeks, rubicund. His mouth—a single, long line. He breaks it, …

On a chipped porcelain tray edged in worn gold and dotted with tiny painted flowers, a glossy black volcano rises where a perfume bottle might stand. Molten lava glows in oversaturated reds and oranges, spilling thickly over its sides and pooling across the tray. Around it, elegant glass perfume bottles—amber, blue, and crystal—remain poised and intact, their refinement contrasting with the central eruption. Created and described by ChatGPT for “The Woman in the Perfume Department Asks What I’m Looking For.”

“The Woman in the Perfume Department Asks What I’m Looking For” * Poetry * Annie Przypyszny

aromatica poetica March 3, 2026

Something brash with a touch of bashful. An active volcano hushed by alpine snows, or some other less aggressive sister of cinnamon. But that’s for special occasions: my twenty-ninth birthday, my second twenty-ninth birthday. For everyday, I want to smell like a sixteen-year-old girl at the beach. You get what I mean— Like a saltwaterlogged corsage; like honeysuckle forced to walk the plank; like gardenias flung amok in a mid- summer sunshower. I remember hearing from some old man that …

Photo of Mike's pencil collection: A cozy, creative, and cluttered wooden shelf packed with art and stationery supplies, giving a warm, lived-in workspace feel. On the center-right there are lots of pencils and colored pencils standing upright in holders, with stacks of small notebooks or boxes nearby. In the middle sits a small gnome/elf figurine. Along the left side are books and containers holding pens and brushes. Near the bottom of the photo you can see several small white animal figurines lined up, a red/orange jar or candle, and a few small bottles. At the bottom right there’s a colorful drawing/print of a building.

Pencil Poems by Mike Lewis-Beck

aromatica poetica February 11, 2026

SMELL OF PENCILS I reek of pencils. I smell of pencils. I collect pencils— thousands by now. My first, a drawing pencil, French: Conté, forest green, an HB. Hone from cedar. Smells like incense sharpened. Shavings fill the sharpener. I throw them on a fall fire, a burning pencil smell— of pine resin or old mold. The lead doesn’t smell like lead. A mix of graphite and clay, its burn can stink of sulfur, paint impurities. Between my finger and …

A grainy, high-contrast black-and-white photograph of an older man walking a large dog along a fog-shrouded path. The man stands slightly right of centre, wearing a long belted overcoat, a scarf, gloves, and a fedora-style hat. He holds the dog’s leash in his right hand; his posture is upright but relaxed. The dog walks to his left, head lowered slightly, appearing calm and attentive. A wooden split-rail fence runs along the left side of the path, receding into the background and partly obscured by mist. Bare tree branches arch overhead and dissolve into the fog, creating a soft, blurred canopy. The ground looks wet or muddy, with faint reflections and scattered leaves. The image edges show worn, scratched borders that give the photograph a vintage, weathered appearance. Overall mood is quiet, contemplative, and slightly melancholic. Created by ChatGPT, described by Be My AI, for Late Shift at the Museum of Smells.

“Late Shift at the Museum of Smells” * Fiction * Chris Cottom

aromatica poetica February 4, 2026

I’m working afternoons on our enquiries desk. ‘Old leather walking boots?’ asks a raincoated lady who reminds me of Gran. ‘Freshly buffed with beeswax dubbin?’ I’m gagging for a cup of tea. ‘Sorry, madam. The museum’s banned bee-based treatments.’ Across our cavernous hall, kids are staggering out of our ‘Monarch Immersion Experience’ clutching their heads. Our historic odours unit has recreated the execution of Charles I. It’s a blend of blue blood and horseshit that’s nasally indistinguishable from the real …

A small, ragged-edged rectangular slab looks like a fragment of weathered, earthen material, its surface dense with grit, cracks, and compressed fibers. Carved into the center is a sinuous, worm-like “S” shape that dips and curves across the panel. The groove is filled with a coarse, brick-red pigment that sits unevenly in the trench, giving it a textured, raised, almost crumbly feel. The surrounding brown surface appears rough and organic, as if the whole piece were excavated from soil or made of compacted earth. The contrast between the matte, mottled brown field and the vivid, tactile red line makes the form appear both primal and deliberately inscribed. Made for “The Worms.”

“The Worms” * Nonfiction * David Lowe

aromatica poetica December 3, 2025

The worms live in our basement, in two large storage bins stacked on the floor amid the clutter. Eventually, when I’ve built out more shelves and cabinets, they’ll have their own oversize drawers I can easily slide out when it’s time to feed them. I’ll carve the word WORMS into the wood, knowing that when Caroline and I are dead, new owners will puzzle over what was meant by WORMS. I mean worms. Red wigglers; Eisenia fetida in the Latin. …