The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[Desejo]

Visualized escape from asphalt
On roman cobblestone
Hand wrought edges bruising city soles

An artisan in a burnoose
Crafting a brass tray
The hammering a metronome for love
Behind cyan-shuttered windows

The leathery feel of his hands
Crafting
So unlike the liquid silk
Of yours

The evening brings the smell of
Sea and jasmine
And golden garlic on your tongue


Sight: Moon
Sound: hum
Scent: exhaust
Feeling: terror
Taste: vodka

 

[Tzara]

Sight: Moon
Sound: hum
Scent: exhaust
Feeling: terror
Taste: vodka

Failure

The sting of vodka
On my furred tongue

Explains the 60 Hz hum
Vibrating my head

Only the terror of nothingness
Keeps my one open eye

Focused on the mottled
Gray sphere of the moon

Else would I breathe in exhaust
And become Just As Dead




Sight: Some kind of artwork
Sound: Murmured or muted conversation
Scent: Vinegar
Feeling: Smooth and hard, like glass or polished stone
Taste: Something metallic

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sight: Some kind of artwork
Sound: Murmured or muted conversation
Scent: Vinegar
Feeling: Smooth and hard, like glass or polished stone
Taste: Something metallic

Opening

It is up two flights,
not quite hole-in-the-wall.
The stairway smells of vinegar
from the chip shop below
and my mouth is tinny with nerves
but once inside the world
changes. My work is lined
among walls of glass as if the viewer
is suspended with sea creatures.
It isn’t crowded and people talk softly,
church-like as they swim my pool
of art.

sorry, the "feeling" bit doesn't work.


Sight: beautiful nude males
Sound: nails on a chalkboard
Scent: baby powder
Feeling: loneliness
Taste: maple syrup

 

[Desejo]

Public High School in America

Breakfasts of champions
saccharine maple syrup
drowning loneliness
and a letgo of my eggo waffle

Afternoon gym torture
baby powder sprinkled
on the insides of rounded teen thighs
and
sharp slaps of wet towels
on bare-assed demigods
in the boys locker room

History's howl
exemplified by Ms Johnson's nails raking the mottled green chalkboard
before the final bell

Sight: screened window
Sound: snap
Scent: cut grass
Feeling: secure
Taste: blood

 

[Tzara]

Sight: screened window
Sound: snap
Scent: cut grass
Feeling: secure
Taste: blood

92 Degrees

Odd to feel so safe in the open,
But the sun, the sweet scent
Of new-mown hay

Rolling away to the east,
The snap of Scotch Broom seeds
Popping in the afternoon heat

Make me lazy as a cat
As I walk along the stream.
Then the short, flat slap,

Like a gunshot or the crack
Of lightning from a distant storm
Drifts over the field

From the screened window
Of the Johnson house
And I taste poor Edie’s blood.



Sight: Waves in moonlight, or low light
Sound: Wind
Scent: Pine
Taste: Coffee or salt
Touch: Damp or dew on stone

 

[champagne1982]

92 Degrees

Sight: Waves in moonlight, or low light
Sound: Wind
Scent: Pine
Taste: Coffee or salt
Touch: Damp or dew on stone

Salt Docks In October

The harbour depths beacon pink
frothed waves roll
over boulders tumbled into gentle curves
lovers stirred to rough
caresses as the voyeur wind moans delight
to the pine

Up against the break water a cloud moves
against the setting sun
undulating soft pillows until the waves turn
to steel and the wind
stills in the evening with the sharp tang of pine
mourning her lover's
tangling touch through her boughs

gone with the day and only the becalmed
shores are dampened
by her tears and know the storm will come
sure as coffee
tastes best with sugar in the morning.

Sight: empty fruit basket
Sound: giggles
Scent: tangerines
Taste: orange pekoe tea
Touch: vinyl

 

[Tzara]

Sight: empty fruit basket
Sound: giggles
Scent: tangerines
Taste: orange pekoe tea
Touch: vinyl

Still Life

The image incomplete—
a beautifully woven basket, emptied
of fruit, though the paint

smells faintly of linseed and tangerine,
the silver tea pot
reflecting the tang of orange pekoe

onto the viewer’s tongue,
a draped table, merely sketched.
Lean close into the canvas

and perhaps you can hear
a flute, the clink of glasses, giggles,
feel the smooth vinyl of the model’s catsuit.





Sight: Some kind of bird
Sound: White noise, like a freeway in the distance
Scent: Something acrid, like ammonia or a strong acid
Taste: Bitterness
Touch: Dried grass

 

[njoyjade]

Wings of Beauty

Originally posted by Tzara

Sight: Some kind of bird
Sound: White noise, like a freeway in the distance
Scent: Something acrid, like ammonia or a strong acid
Taste: Bitterness
Touch: Dried grass

Wings of Beauty
Delicate, tiny almost invisible
The hummingbirds work furiously to extract the nectar
While the roar of automobiles echo through the canyon
Drivers blow their horns and miss the iridescent colors of their wings
Exhaust and fumes rise, tires screech
Surrounding roadside vegetation with the stench of burning rubber
Hibiscus and Jasmine are now wilting
Their once sweet nectar transformed into bitterness
The hummingbirds hunt for untainted flora
Their wings of beauty beat furiously on their quest for ample food
Returning to their young with empty beaks
Poor, tired wings faded and as brittle as dried grass




Sight: twilight
Sound: sizzle
Scent: orange blossom
Taste: honey
Touch: petals

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Wings of Beauty
Delicate, tiny almost invisible
The hummingbirds work furiously to extract the nectar
While the roar of automobiles echo through the canyon
Drivers blow their horns and miss the iridescent colors of their wings
Exhaust and fumes rise, tires screech
Surrounding roadside vegetation with the stench of burning rubber
Hibiscus and Jasmine are now wilting
Their once sweet nectar transformed into bitterness
The hummingbirds hunt for untainted flora
Their wings of beauty beat furiously on their quest for ample food
Returning to their young with empty beaks
Poor, tired wings faded and as brittle as dried grass




Sight: twilight
Sound: sizzle
Scent: orange blossom
Taste: honey
Touch: petals

Twilight fell from your cloak
around my shoulders. Under it
I fell too, sinking hungrily toward the horizon
spread with your honey, hidden
just under the sizzling orange
blossom of your panties. This
was the hiss of our first night,
a sun setting between your thighs

where I breathed my deepest pull
of air and exhaled warmly
before sliding the tip of my nose
against the revealed pink
of rose petals.

Sight: blue ink
Smell: brandy
Taste: smoke
Sound: clarinet
feel: velvet

 

[Tzara]

Sight: blue ink
Smell: brandy
Taste: smoke
Sound: clarinet
feel: velvet

Modernist Poem

I’m tired. The
smack of brandy,

cigar smoke,
and Benny

Goodman’s clarinet, in
the Ebony

Concerto slips
me into velvet—

black, of course,
like an Elvis

painting, propped
in a Laundromat

parking lot
where God signs

sales receipts
in blue ink

beside some white
chickens




Sight: Emptiness, however you interpret that
Sound: A rasping noise of some kind
Scent: Something floral
Taste: Sour, sour, sour
Touch: Erose

 

[Angeline]

Modernist Poem

I’m tired. The
smack of brandy,

cigar smoke,
and Benny

Goodman’s clarinet, in
the Ebony

Concerto slips
me into velvet—

black, of course,
like an Elvis

painting, propped
in a Laundromat

parking lot
where God signs

sales receipts
in blue ink

beside some white
chickens




Sight: Emptiness, however you interpret that
Sound: A rasping noise of some kind
Scent: Something floral
Taste: Sour, sour, sour
Touch: Erose

Erose

Apart we were jagged.
I carried your scars
invisibly and you bent,
still bleeding, your gray eyes
hard like bullets.

You rasped at me
and tore the air that quiet
gaping winter, that pale empty
day, graves notched in the dirt.
More ruins.

Even here you reek, bilious
with disapproval. You would sour
my grief then blame me
for the pain I cause.

Goodbye, goodbye mother

I'm wearing your perfume,
White Shoulders, and your black
suede gloves.




Sight: Washington Monument
Sound: Trumpets
Scent: Rain
Taste: Beverage of your choice
Touch: Leather

 

[Desejo]

Sight: Washington Monument
Sound: Trumpets
Scent: Rain
Taste: Beverage of your choice
Touch: Leather

For the Colonel

The day I got off the Blue line
not at Pentagon City
But at Arlington Cemetery

You greeted me encased
Followed by a caisson
A riderless horse
And boots reversed in stirrups

Then not the trumpet of angels
Which you always doubted
But the cry of the bugle
Which you did not

The rain fell
On overturned fresh dirt
Mixing with tears
And the smoke of a final salute

Afterwards
We walked through lines of headstones
Standing at attention
To the distant Washington monument
some of us in Leather jackets
some in uniform

We all drank Single Malt
and thought of you
in Fiddler's green

Sight: sleeping cat
Sound: creak
Scent: mint
Taste: grass
Touch: ache

 

[Tzara]

Some good poems here, lately. I especially liked Angie's and Desejo's last ones.

Sight: sleeping cat
Sound: creak
Scent: mint
Taste: grass
Touch: ache

After the Death of Yoga

My bones ache
Like a cat asleep

On a windowsill—
Limp, insentient,

Poured as if pain
Was a lawn and I lay

Eating the grass.
I creak and snap

As I move, made now
A tight hinge hung

Out of true, oiled
By mint-scented

Grease that cannot ease
Either age or edge.




Sight: A friend or lover
Sound: A distant aircraft
Scent: Sweet, like clover or honey
Taste: A fresh apple
Touch: Running water

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Some good poems here, lately. I especially liked Angie's and Desejo's last ones.
After the Death of Yoga

My bones ache
Like a cat asleep

On a windowsill—
Limp, insentient,

Poured as if pain
Was a lawn and I lay

Eating the grass.
I creak and snap

As I move, made now
A tight hinge hung

Out of true, oiled
By mint-scented

Grease that cannot ease
Either age or edge.




Sight: A friend or lover
Sound: A distant aircraft
Scent: Sweet, like clover or honey
Taste: A fresh apple
Touch: Running water

I agree with you Tz, so please excuse this everyone..........

We lie in tall grass hidden from
the banks of the river where
the glide and splash of passing punts,
the slip and hiss of the pole
are hardly heard above the drone
of bees busy in the clover
like the hum of a distant small ‘plane.
I have apples, crisp and cool,
you have the knife. We feed slices,
one by one, laughing when the juice
escapes, an excuse to kiss.

Sight: a hostile crowd
Sound: laughter
Scent: the sea
Taste: lager and lime
Touch: velvet

 

[Desejo]

Sight: a hostile crowd
Sound: laughter
Scent: the sea
Taste: lager and lime
Touch: velvet

I agree as well. The question is ...why is the quality of poems in this thread so much higher than what is being posted? Apologies for the extremely America-centric use of Tristesse2's words below. It just seemed to fit.

They would be Patriots

Again, a tea party
Not in Boston
Where the salt smell of
The frigid Atlantic
Purifies

But on the shores of
A windy city
Where the ghost scent of slain hogs
In the waves of lake Michigan
Putrefies

There are no velvet breeches
Or ruffles
Or three cornered hats

Not even a foreign enemy

No Paul Revere

Just
Ron Paul
Sipping lager and lime
In a plastic cup
Made in Mexico


Sight: traffic jam
sound: ice cream truck
scent: garbage
Taste: last nights chilli
touch: sting

 

[Tzara]

I agree as well. The question is ...why is the quality of poems in this thread so much higher than what is being posted?

I think most people who post to the New Poems are really not very much interested in poetry. They have written "a poem," for whatever reason, and dump it there.

Most, though by no means all, of the people who post in the PF&D are interested in poetry, have read poetry, and want to write good (or at least better) poetry. In other words, they're more serious about what they are trying to do.

My opinion, of course.

Sight: traffic jam
sound: ice cream truck
scent: garbage
Taste: last nights chilli
touch: sting

The Accident

was like stepping on a jellyfish
in a traffic jam

Ow! my foot said,
when I hammered the brake,

came up a kiss
from crunching into the garbage

truck slauchways
in front of me.

God. Relieved, I burped
up last night’s chili,

the spice much less welcome today,
what with spoiled lettuce

and beer, the chicken bones
scenting the June air

while over and over and over
a Scott Joplin rag

a few streets west played metronome,
reminding me my age.





Sight: Open space
Sound: Silence, or some very soft sound, at the limit of hearing
Scent: Mold or musk
Taste: Something mildly unpleasant, like chewing cardboard or paper
Touch: A sharp point, like a thorn or spike

 

[Remec]

Sight: Open space
Sound: Silence, or some very soft sound, at the limit of hearing
Scent: Mold or musk
Taste: Something mildly unpleasant, like chewing cardboard or paper
Touch: A sharp point, like a thorn or spike

Spacewalk

So many little things
come and go in the
day-to-day, I am not
really surprised by

their presence, just at
how mundane it can
be from time to time. The
staleness within the suit

being one--the way it always
smells of a badly cleaned
locker room and just adds to
the monotony of eating

wafers and tubed food, dulling
each sense bit-by-bit until
even the radio in my ear is
muffled and an urgent warning

becomes more of a casual
mention and then nothing but
a moot point--sharp, but moot,
and I settle into a new orbit.

At least the view is pretty.
~~~~~


sight: eagles
sound: whistling
taste: chocolate
feel: wool
scent: sweat

 

[Desejo]

sight: eagles
sound: whistling
taste: chocolate
feel: wool
scent: sweat

Before the College Reunion

We went to see the Eagles
On that first date

Gladiators in teal and white
Defending Philadelphia

A touchdown to cheers
And two-fingered whistling

Later a touchdown of our own
Under the team blanket

Wool scratching my back
Hershey flavored kisses

Yesterday I found that blanket
Folded up in a closet

I pressed it to my face
Buried my nose in it

For a soaring moment I thought
I could still smell our sweat

And I was in Philadelphia again
On that first date


sight: ribbon
sound: grinding
taste: cough syrup
feel: tight
scent: kerosene

 

[Tzara]

sight: ribbon
sound: grinding
taste: cough syrup
feel: tight
scent: kerosene

Correspondence

I drank codeine,
as if cough syrup (that medicinal
cherry) would somehow make me

tight within your body
instead of anaesthetized.
It left me dull.

My only later thought
was of our bodies grinding,
two ribbons with no end,

packages wrapped
just so. Set
finally alit with kerosene.





Sight: Something classic--a swell 60's car, or guitar, or just someone aged who looks really good. Whatever.
Sound: Loud. You pick what it is.
Scent: Cherries, or some other fruit.
Taste: Something very neutral tasting, like paper or carboard.
Touch: A very plane surface, like sanded wood or polished stone.

 

[Desejo]

Correspondence

ight: Something classic--a swell 60's car, or guitar, or just someone aged who looks really good. Whatever.
Sound: Loud. You pick what it is.
Scent: Cherries, or some other fruit.
Taste: Something very neutral tasting, like paper or carboard.
Touch: A very plane surface, like sanded wood or polished stone.

Magic Bus

In an effort to reclaim Woodstock
Which we were too young to enjoy at the time

We drove through upstate New York
on that same road the hippies took years ago

Bobby had a lit joint in the ash tray
That the grape scented air freshener did nothing to hide

Inspired perhaps by Neil Young's Harvest on the tape deck
He suddenly asked:

Hey, do you like Cauliflower?
Uhm. Yes.

At which we veered off the highway
into a frozen field

And there they were
like half buried skulls in the fields that indians sowed

When we had collected a pile
We each broke off a frozen floret and nibbled

Even stoned, it tasted like nothing.
So we bowled them accross the black ice of the pond

It suddenly settled with a BOOM
That even Rip Vanwinkle must have heard.


(I kind of cheated on the touch aspect, sorry!)

Sight: ghost
Sound: phone ring
Taste: Dr. Pepper
Scent: onions
Touch: scratch

 

[ninianne]

Sight: ghost
Sound: phone ring
Taste: Dr. Pepper
Scent: onions
Touch: scratch

when the phone rang
I knew

it was you
on the other end
waiting to breathe
onion and garlic into my ear
with your low whispers
prophesying evil
across the wire

so I plugged my ears
screwed my eyes shut
willed it to be over
but behind my eyelids
I saw the ghost of you
lurking

and when I grabbed
a Dr Pepper with shaking hands
to wash away my fear
my hands stung
and bled




sight: mirror
sound: wind chimes
scent: baking bread
taste: water
touch: spider web

 

[Desejo]

sight: mirror
sound: wind chimes
scent: baking bread
taste: water
touch: spider web

Chitwan Tigers

We set out at dawn to find tigers
On elephants of course
The mahout thoughtfully brushing back
Grass six feet tall
though the sting of a grass cut
is preferable to
The stick of spider web
Because one wonders where the spider is

Unexpectedly
We did see a tiger
Completely terrifying
Nothing like a house cat

We knew the Safari was done
When we smelled
roti baking
In a clay oven
for our dinner of Dhal Bhat
Washed down with sweet water
Cooled in clay jars

To top it all off
jet haired Tharu girls
with bodices sewn with tiny mirrors
danced for us
Reflecting hundreds of tiny stars
In the light of butter lamps

Our dreams were charmed
By the wind chimes
Placed by the hotel, I think
To keep those tigers away.


Sight: curls
sound: pulse
scent: rain
taste: cloves
touch: feather

 

[Angeline]

Chitwan Tigers

We set out at dawn to find tigers
On elephants of course
The mahout thoughtfully brushing back
Grass six feet tall
though the sting of a grass cut
is preferable to
The stick of spider web
Because one wonders where the spider is

Unexpectedly
We did see a tiger
Completely terrifying
Nothing like a house cat

We knew the Safari was done
When we smelled
roti baking
In a clay oven
for our dinner of Dhal Bhat
Washed down with sweet water
Cooled in clay jars

To top it all off
jet haired Tharu girls
with bodices sewn with tiny mirrors
danced for us
Reflecting hundreds of tiny stars
In the light of butter lamps

Our dreams were charmed
By the wind chimes
Placed by the hotel, I think
To keep those tigers away.


Sight: curls
sound: pulse
scent: rain
taste: cloves
touch: feather

The clove cigarette was sweet,
it was acrid molasses, strong
and gray in my throat.

I was bright and shiny then,
my straight hair curled, my lips
carmine and my pale
skin, how I loved to be unnatural

for you. I can be hard as this
moonless night, ozone electric
flickering with the neon, pulsing
with the stars and the street
lights I echoed off the concrete,

but by morning it had rained
and I left nothing save a feather
of ash, drowning in the steam
that rose misty from the pavement.

Sight: fireflies
Scent: smoke
Touch: gravel
Sound: symphonic music of your choice
Taste: pepper

 

[UnderYourSpell]

The clove cigarette was sweet,
it was acrid molasses, strong
and gray in my throat.

I was bright and shiny then,
my straight hair curled, my lips
carmine and my pale
skin, how I loved to be unnatural

for you. I can be hard as this
moonless night, ozone electric
flickering with the neon, pulsing
with the stars and the street
lights I echoed off the concrete,

but by morning it had rained
and I left nothing save a feather
of ash, drowning in the steam
that rose misty from the pavement.

Sight: fireflies
Scent: smoke
Touch: gravel
Sound: symphonic music of your choice
Taste: pepper

There were peppers in the paella
and her eyes
met mine, amusement glinting
through the smoke
of the bonfire
wondering if I would eat
or consign to the embers.

Sand beneath my toes beyond
the gravel causeway
where fireflies flashed,
and I a million miles from home
and safety
willingly, eagerly mellowed
to her overture.

Sight: blue muslin
Scent: wet dogs
Touch: braille
Sound: car horns
Taste: peppermint

 

[Desejo]

Sight: blue muslin
Scent: wet dogs
Touch: braille
Sound: car horns
Taste: peppermint

Rue Dejean

Weary of Parisan car horns
(and shop attendants)
I took a trip to Chateau Rouge

With each metro stop
The outfits are brighter
orange, lime green and hot pink
making the scene

When I finally saw
the Touareg wrapped in indigo muslin
so only his eyes showed
I knew I was in the right place

For lunch:
Chicken Yassa
lemon, Djion mustard
cut with red hot pepper
and cube Maggi

apres dejeuner:
The taste of mint
infused with sugar
that gives the kick
to Gunpowder tea

Blue dots on the delicate glasses
under my fingers like braille
guiding the blind home

Whatever home means.
I am no longer sure.

On my way back
a light rain fell
flooding the metro with the smell
of the tiny wet dogs
French ladies love

Sound: bell
Sight: children playing
Taste: bubble gum
Smell: dirt
Touch: pressure of some sort