GYPSY GIRL'S GUIDE

~The soft powdery scent of a sleeping baby
~Fresh ink on the pages of a new book
~Sweet lilacs blossoming to welcome spring
~Garlic toast, hot from the oven
~Shea Butter, to rub on my winter roughened finger tips
~Dark roasted coffee, steaming in my cup

This was such a beautiful post, full of marvelous "scentsations"!

Your site has won a Blog of the Day Award

Thank you,

You hit so many of my favorites (night blooming jasmine is luscious), but anything lemony particularly the oils from a fresh lemons you are ready to squeeze for lemon pies.

What a wonderful post, Alex! And the picture is so peaceful...
I love the smell of my husband... and my mom's French perfume, and Nag Champa incense and sandalwood soap...

Oh...a post for the senses! I needed to remember certain scents this morning...like campfire in the woods, wet grass, rosemary in my garden. I'm yearning for an early Spring! My favourite smells: coffee(!), lilacs, damp moss on the rocks at our family's cottage, and behind my husband's ears (don't know why but mmmmmm!).

mmmmm.....

i love the smell of ginger and lemons and coffee (although i don't like the taste)...oh and sugar cookies baking...mmmm....

Such a delicious list of wonderful feasts for the senses! I would agree with most of them. As for "cachaca," there used to be a wonderful nightclub/restaurant in New York called Cachaca. It was also a feast for the senses - great music, dancing, food and champagne! :)

Hmmm what a fragrant post... I could just drink some quentão too...

Love that picture!

i think i love all of those smells too (except cilantro, or as we call it, coriander - it is, in my book, the devil's herb - yuk :-)

thank you for your support on my last post, and that quote is amazing - i'm scribbling it into my diary right now xo

Alex – you’re always so kind and generous with your comments! Thanks so much for stopping by. I was happy that you mentioned that my poems start out intense and finish with softness. That’s basically what I try to accomplish. Nobody has ever mentioned before that they noticed that, so I was excited when I read that in your post! Thanks again!!

D

Que árvore maravilhosa! Gostaria de me sentar nesse banco e sentir o aroma dessas flores!

mmmm...I love all your smells:-)

I also love the smell of my little daughter's hair and of my little son's neck. Very delicious.

PS Hope you are feeling better. Sending you love from here.

* vanilla perfume from l'occitane
* books; old, new, whatever.
* freshly baked chocolate brownies
* meditation oil burning in my incense burner

I love this picture:)

And this is for you:)

-Rick Barot's "Magnolia"-

It gets told, holds fast or it doesn’t,
and like rain brings back a thing more

than just itself, one more small noise
appearing in the laundromat, small bird

or cell-phone ring suddenly chirping,
one more office for the eye and ear

to momentarily inhabit, the work of my
nearness that much more urgent, now

there is this story I can tell you about,
now I have you listening, the way

the radiator has kept us listening all of
these nights, the din of its dreaming

the noise of picks and axes deep inside
a mine, the steam in its pipes forcing

a drowsiness on the miners, listening
for some other dream it could have:

say, that two people are quiet within
the cold light of an all-night laundromat,

the only thing open this late, this dark,
one of them telling a story of the dead

president traveling days past the big
and small towns, his train a vivid grief

of flowers thrown by the townspeople
beside the tracks, one telling this

story while the other only half listens,
until the story gets to the part about

the summertime heat, the body traveling
for days, the flowers a necessary cover

for the smell the body is giving out,
there is this other way that flowers can

mean something, not just mourning, not
just beauty, but a necessity that keeps us

awake through the story, the radiator’s
other dream, half of their clothes making

a psychedelic circle of colors spinning
in the glass of a dryer, the white clothes

spinning in another dryer, like a magnolia
opening and destroying itself over and

over, the image a nearness, my being
near, my being afraid that this is already

the past I will remember in the future,
this is the meat that the mind’s mandibles

get to have, dying, because death gets
to have all it wants: say, the doctor’s

funhouse reflection in the patent-leather
shoe of the dead president, the boy who

finally understands that the secret to
getting hit is knowing that you will be hit,

the flight attendant mis-speaking to us
as the plane glided toward the starry field

that we would be in the ground shortly,
and though I laughed at that, I knew

I would find the right word for you, place
it into her mouth, the flower of it in her

mouth, I would correct the world in this
manner, because you are listening, it is

raining outside the laundromat, the driest
part of your body the small of your back.

-The smell of the earth after the first drops of rain
-The warm smell of an inquisitive puppy
-The fragrance which only my Mother seems to have
-The smell of a new book, waiting to be read

What would we do without the sense of smell?