Smells

Of course no one would wish to be deficient in any of the five major senses. However, if pushed to rank them in order of importance/desirability in a hypothetical scenario of having to lose one of them, I'm guessing the sense of smell would be feeling distinctly nervous.

For me, sight, sound and touch would be 'must keeps'; smell and taste (so closely linked anyway) would be locked in an unwished-for relegation battle. Let's hope it never comes to that!

We all have our favourite smells and our distinct dislikes. High on my eclectic list of likes would be tar, hyacinths, freshly baked bread, new-mown grass, roses, fudge, sandalwood and curry. It's by far a longer roll-call than my list of dislikes. This latter would be headed by microwaved popcorn (that sickly smell of hot butter), jugged hare (a nauseating gamey stink), B.O. and wet dog.

Talking of dogs, there is a very annoying TV advertisement for air-freshener showing regularly that suggests some dog-owners may be 'nose blind', that is to say, unable to detect the pall of pet pong hanging around in their houses. It's the phrase 'nose blind' that niggles (though 'nose deaf' would be as bad) - as though there isn't a perfectly good adjective to describe lack of a sense of smell, or it's too highfalutin for the common viewer.(Sniff! Sniff!) That word is anosmic, from anosmia, the equivalent of blindness (sight), deafness (sound), numbness or anesthesia (touch) and ageusia (taste). Anosmic is my word of the week.

Given the theme, today's blog strikes me as a good place to regale you with a cautionary tale from married life. It's a true story, sadly.

Zelda (name changed to disguise her true identity) decided she didn't like me using an aerosol deodorant "because the CFCs cause damage to the ozone layer". I explained I was savvy enough to be using one with a non-CFC propellant. I had tried roll-on deodorants in the past but they don't work well on hairy armpits! She then voiced a strong objection to "that smell, it chokes me". Therefore, out of consideration for her sensitive nose, I took to going out into the garden to spray my underarms every morning, closing the back door behind me - even when it was cold or raining. I kid you not.

This went on for some months until her eldest son (my stepson) came home from university for a week. He sprayed on his deodorant indoors... and I overheard Zelda saying to him one day "That smells nice Damian. What is it?" I made a mental note of the brand he used and purchased the self-same product when next I was in town.

The first time I used it in her presence, she complained loudly that I was spraying indoors again and said she couldn't stand the "horrible stink of it." When I told her it was the same one she'd told Damian she liked just the other week, the Madness Of Queen Zelda consumed her. She started ranting and screaming, abusing me and accusing me of trying to trick her. She slammed the door and stormed off having vented her anger, as was her way.

I was merely trying to find something she didn't mind the smell of, something that would mean I didn't have to go out into the garden every morning. I was tempted in the aftermath to write a How To Be A Complete Aerosol poem - but on reflection I'm pleased I didn't. I'm not sure I would have felt better for taking a cheap shot.

Of course I should have realised that her objection had nothing to do with the smell or the fact that I was using an aerosol. Reason didn't come into it. It rarely did with Zelda. It was all about control mechanisms and getting her own way... I'd never seen a grown-up throw a full-blown tantrum until Zelda hurled herself to the floor one day and beat it with her fists like a three-year old. It was upsetting to witness and it wasn't a one-off occurrence. We're not together anymore.

I don't have a poem on theme this week, but I know a man who does...

Smells
Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed
nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?
What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,
always indiscriminate, always unashamed,
and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled
poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth
beneath them. With what deep thirst
we quicken our desires
to that rank odour of a passing springtime!
Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardours
for something less unlovely? What girl will care
for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?
Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?
Must you have a part in everything?

                                                        William Carlos Williams

Thanks for reading. Be tolerant of each other, S ;-)

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Purpureus Pannus

There is a tendency to assume that poetry is a patch of expensively dyed purple cloth, significantly different to the plain shades of everyday language. However, it is this falsehood which sees many new poets (and even those of experience) create work which fails the poet, the poem and the reader. Therefore, I thought I'd examine some of the 'techniques' which, if used excessively and without caution, could cause your poetry to become a little bit too purple.

Complicated Words:

Poetry isn't about replacing ordinary words with those that are more extraordinary, complex or lengthy, yet with a quick right click or a flick through a thesaurus this dangerous and misguided edit is fairly easy to implement.

Adjective & Adverb Strings:

There is nothing fundamentally wrong with adjectives and adverbs, but rather the risk is encountered when they are either used excessively or in a string. Poetry is about being concise, thus to have a string of four adjectives or adverbs - which fail to offer more than the singular modifier - is superfluous, and potentially a step towards making your poem wordy, even purple. For example,

His strong, pungent, heady scent...

           

The swan eased quietly, nervously and slowly through the water...

Purple Substitutions:

This tends to occur through a fear that normal is boring, unimaginative and not poetic enough, thus prompting the poet to substitute for a word or phrase that sounds less common. However, the problems arise when a) the substitution has been made so frequently by others it has almost achieved the status of cliché, or  b) because the substitution is too obscure and thus results in distracting or confusing your reader. An example of each would be:

a) 'red' becomes 'crimson blood'

b) 'heart' becomes 'abrasive organ pumps'

            (from a poem recently published in Maire Claire by Kristen Stewart)

Figurative Overkill:

Before my Creative Writing MA I used to do this excessively. I would place similes and metaphors wherever I could fit them, and yet with each one added the meaning and purpose within my poems was diluted rather than strengthened. I finally realised that one well-placed, well-timed simile / metaphor could illuminate a poem far better than ten -  that less can be more striking and surprising than more.

*          *          *

To illustrate my overall point I have 'purpled up' William Carlos Williams' poem This Is Just To Say (well-known for its brevity).

   

This Is Just To Say

I have devoured greedily

the blushing purple plums

that were residing in

the arctic Eskimo drawer  

and which

 you were probably

 saving patiently

 for morning's first meal

Forgive me, absolve me

they were divinely delicious

so seductively sweet

and so cold like winter

Thank you for reading,

Lara 

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Favourite Poems

The arrival of October brings with it a familiar set of emotions for me as a writer. I remember the cold night nearly two years ago, when a quiet Lara spent an evening nudging me in an audacious attempt to flirt. I also remember being hooked on the idea of poetry, properly hooked.

That memorable evening was, I have to say, all thanks to WordPool. I have tried to be involved with this more than once, offered up suggestions and been conveniently shelved twice. I’ll brush over any positive mentions of Blackpool Council then- forget them, fools, it can’t be done here!

That though, is exactly what gets my goat. I always liked poetry. I never thought I would write it. It was this group, or an association with it, that got me in that night. I remember turning up at The Brick Theatre, reading some drivel I’d written to respond to ‘A Favourite Poem’ and going on to the Grand later. A great day, looking back.

That was National Poetry Day, 2009. I remember responding to something from Felix Dennis’ Homeless in My Heart (a book primarily bought for the wonderful pictures that accompany the writing), having a stab at responding to Heaney’s Digging (everyone’s favourite poem from my class at school- it was taught really well) and, later in the week, getting really drunk and attempting a response to Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, complete with swishing sword actions and arm waving.

They were my favourite poems back then. They are still some of my favourites now, amongst a bookshelf of others, though thinking on, I don’t recall reading these three gems for a well over a year. I hear them all the time- their rhythmic lines etched into my head somewhere down the line- and for that, I love poetry.

I could never recite a few lines of my favourite novels for someone. Ask about a bit of poetry though and I’m sure something would pop into my head. I can keep my favourite poems with me wherever I go and have even found myself acting in their advice before now (‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ coming to mind more than once in the company of women).

Really though, it is always an emotional hook that drags me in. It is not always a masterpiece, not always a snappy rhyme and not always a name I’d previously heard. I like the way you can be hooked on a moment though- and that the thought will stay with you for hours. If I had to name something as an absolute favourite- the most memorable poem, the one that made me cry, the one I stumbled across in an Anthology... Ian McMillan’s wonderful response to William Carlos Williams’ ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’. Have a read of this, I can see no better ending.

The Green Wheelbarrow (scroll down a little)

Thanks for reading, S.

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