Tag: Smell

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 collage of Italy photos from Kathleen Fisher: Kathleen’s husband Pete with The Brenta River and the Old Bridge in background, Market in Bassano del Grappa, Aperitivo at Nardini’s Distillery, Close up of Pete with his Aperitivo, The funky bar at Nardini’s, A wall of grappa at Nardini’s.

Grappa Aroma * Nonfiction * Kathleen Fisher

aromatica poetica January 12, 2022

Bassano del Grappa gets one star in the Michelin Green Guide, Italy. It deserves that star for its setting alone which is on the River Brenta in the Veneto region of Northern Italy. I have visited Bassano several times, but my most memorable experience was about 12 years ago when I discovered the Poli Grappa Museum and its room dedicated to the smells of Grappa. On that day, the Alpini (Italy’s specialist mountain infantry) were singing at one end of …

Illustration of red tomatoes on the vine, drawn in a vintage sketch style, ripe for an Italian Sunday dinner!

“Italian Sunday” * Poetry * Diane Kane

aromatica poetica August 6, 2021

Sunday morning quiet Open cans of tomato Puree, chopped, and paste. Only Contadina will do. Garlic, oregano, palm Full of sugar. Mix, check Flame, place cover askew. Remove ground Hamburg From brown paper wrapper. Room temperature Tan eggs in yellow bowl On Formica table. Time to go to the garden. Snap rubbers over black Shiny shoes. Walk through Dew to where the Green parsley grows. Pinch willowy shoots between Fingernail and thumb. Inhale. Return with bounty Steam drips from …

A black silhouette – minding the breath – is seated cross-legged in a golden field looking away into an impression of dark green foliage.

“Mindfulness” * A Poem of Breath * Holly Darragh-Hickey

aromatica poetica March 17, 2021

I draw it in. One—even—breath. Deeper —past the habitual asphyxiation Burning at the base of my throat. It’s a draught to empty— Oh, to swallow deep forests and crisp, alpine air! It circulates, slackening musculature there— Opening up the body. That radiating breath! One chaining easily, from part to part— Alacrity to replace, to fill up every cell. It begins as a zephyr— Parting teeth at first, Fluid, over the coils of my windpipe, Riding the current into the pulse …

A lonely white and yellow daisy in a green field awaits the dark rain clouds and lightning. Drawing by Alabaster Rhumb.

“The Six Senses Celebrate Rain” * Poetry * Ginger Dehlinger

aromatica poetica February 26, 2021

A curious stillness fills the air, ethereal as a phantom yet a hair’s breadth from corporeal. My brain prickles with elation as all of my sensory receptors anticipate the electric change about to happen. The miracle begins in the distance as a pale, ragged scarf of chiffon. It arrives swollen with liquid silver that rolls off the tongues of aspen leaves, pock-marks the dust, dimples the surface of a pond. My outstretched hands welcome the nourishing moisture. Twirling in crystal …

Three bottles emanating toxic-looking vapors of neon colored alcohol sit seductively on an outcrop of rock in the middle of a sea. A lonely boat flying a Nigerian flag in the distance seems destined to be drawn to the Sirens’ call to its sorrow. by Alabaster Rhumb.

“The Sirens’ Call” * Short Story * Michael Emeka

aromatica poetica February 18, 2021

Thunder muttered in the sky and the rain threatening all evening came in a soft drizzle. The enormous rats scuttling around in the pile of rubbish across the road darted into their holes. A stench of putrefaction rose from the refuse dump as the rain beat on it. Pushing open the front door of the building, I raced inside, pursued by the rain and the smell. My footfalls echoed on the bare concrete steps as I went upstairs. Somewhere in …

Drawing by the author of objects evocative of smell - a grey pot of boiling orange liquid, its fire obscured by herbs and flowers, a pink tea cup, and cake with blue and green candles.

“To My Sense of Smell” * Poetry * Gabriela Iacovano

aromatica poetica January 28, 2021

*This poem was inspired by the recent loss of my sense of smell since I contracted COVID-19.* passed the season in rose-muddied berry-tinted dairy-clotted clouds tiny porcelain-and-steam pillars sweet smoke spirals ancient resins candied orange when id never eat it lathering creamy wintry bubbles carrying honeyed mists crushing petals breaking seeds laying ferns on cakes blooming magic feels your absence in the glitter and fog of my soup pot oily kale on broth swirling sea plant emerald frills golden …

A stone sea wall stage set with ghostly images of fuse box panels projected onto each of the three walls. In a lower corner some sand collects on the concrete floor and above the walls are blue skies and a distant seagull. By Alabaster Rhumb for Andy Slater soundscapes.

Waves & Dust & Sparks * Soundscapes + Poetic Text Descriptions * Andy Slater

aromatica poetica October 21, 2020

Memory Waves (Anchor Beach, Woodmont, Connecticut) Before storms the water rises and the trees bend. The dry sand spreads as if fingers forged branches. From the spot I watch and listen from the air is rich. Sea salt spray fro, the east and honeysuckle from the west. The helicopters spin from the trees as the wind picks up and launches domestic smells in arbitrary directions. The synthetic lemon fresh from a laundry room exhaust ,multiple households’ supper, and a rusty …

An osage orange (aclura pomifera) glowing and floating in black for a poem by John Jack Jackie (Edward) Cooper.

“The Fourth of October, T’en Souvient-il?” * Poetry * John Jack Jackie (Edward) Cooper

aromatica poetica October 4, 2020

Amazing the ruin, the stupor of the misbegotten, fervor of memory may assuage: held long indoors, long drying and forgotten, a pinch of spruce confuses — a scent of miracles — overwhelming — brings to mind the sweetly fragrance — tiny, tart and sticky — pungent orange fruit of the Osage tree. I can see it, that tiny orange, feel it in my hand, clinging to my fingers, still perceive the faint glow it cast in my kitchen where it …

A close-up photograph of a Azores Jasmine (Jasminum azoricum) flower, white petals with blurred green foliage behind.

“The Teacher Who Grew Jasmine and Rooted Out My Stutter” * Autobiographical Fiction * Richard Williamson

aromatica poetica September 30, 2020

I was thirteen years old and we had moved, again. I hated it but back in the mid 20th Century that’s what ministers did. A lot. And my Dad was a minister. The problem wasn’t the bother of moving, it was that as a boy who stuttered, I had to face a whole new set of classmates, some of whom would certainly make my life very difficult. Up until that time in my life, I had always been called Richard. …