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