How I Did It: ‘Violet-among-the-Harpsichord’

I was commissioned by Claire Trévien to write a new poem for her Penning Perfumes Christmas Special. In the Penning Perfumes projects you are sent a mystery perfume to write a poem about. Once you’ve completed the poem, the scent is revealed to you. The idea is that you are able to work with the smell alone, without the influence of brand name or packaging.

I received the perfume in October and I’d been carrying around the scent with me for weeks and had taken to wearing it a lot. I’d not thought about the poem that might come from it at all, and the deadline was nearing. I began by smelling and writing down the associations and ideas of what might be in the perfume. As you’ll see in the notes below, some of these were almost poem lines, others more impressions. I wanted some kind of alternative pivot for the poem.

My previous Penning Perfumes poem was quite listy and impressionistic. I didn’t want to go down the same lines, and felt it was in danger of going that way. So I picked up a book called Familiar Garden Plants and selected some words and turns of phrase to set the tone for the poem. I decided I wanted to treat the perfume as though it was a flower being discussed for such a book, and began making initial notes:

Violet Among-the-Harpsichord
tropical fruit juice, sloshed and allowed to sour and dry
a jam made of Pontefract cakes
in fact Pontefract cakes turned into a jam, spread onto hot buttered toast
a spiced bun, a spiced bun picked up and turned so as to smell th
the underside of a spiced bun
it smelt like leaning into someone & the person I leant into
was warming their hands over pine needles
like I got my head stuck inside a harpsichord that had just been played
the finely cut woods, the finely strung strings trilling
scent resonates as sound
I listen to Hope Sandoval as isn’t she almost Sandalwood
I listen to Francoise Hardy as isn’t she almost Frankincense
Here is a cake of soap you could not mistake for a cake
fudge-dense
cooking over pine needles
I want to lie-down on the wood floor, my ticked heels toward the burning wood
This is one of our handsomest scents
Even the wagging of a dog’s tail can unsettle this scent, apply in a sheltered nook
Ball of starry down
Such Wood anemone mistook for snow
Hemlock Water Dropwort = poison
Leaves are straggling for such a handsome looking plant
But more often the flower is solitary
The petals of this scent are rarely seen
The beautiful Dog Violet has no scent, and its flowers are of no use once plucked.
How you would think a thistle to smell
Musk stork’s bill
Musk orchis
Musk thistle

 

I went straight from the notes above to this version of the poem, moving from line-to-line and editing as I went. I decided to create a made-up name for the perfume (‘Violet-among-the-Harpsichord’), influenced by the naming of flowers. This also gave the poem its title.

VIOLET-AMONG-THE-HARPSICHORD (draft version)

Observers of plants who endavour to understand their names usually have a tough task before them. Many names, indeed, carry their meanings in their faces, but many have no meaning at all; and, again, many are founded on such subtle distinctions or fanciful notions that it is not in the plant but in the mind of the nomenclator that we must seek for the coveted explanation. (Familiar Garden Plants, Volume IV, Figured by F. Edward Hulme And Described by Shirley Hibberd)

Dear Friends, Violet-among-the-Harpsichord, is similar in aspect to the Ultra Violet Lily-in-the-Basket and Common Harpwort, but only in the sense you can stumble onto a threshold of wood anemone and mistake it for snow. Even the wagging of a dog’s tail can unsettle this scent, apply in a sheltered nook and then lean into someone. If you could taste it, for as being poisonous, you may not, you might find it akin to a jam made of Pontefract cakes – in fact Pontefract cakes turned into a jam, spread onto hot buttered toast. Though at first more like a juice of passion fruit and guava, idly sloshed and allowed to sour and dry and then licked, perhaps accidentally. But I have distracted you. Its name is best understood by closing one’s head inside a harpsichord that has just been played – the finely cut woods, the finely strung strings trilling! Scent resonates as sound. The leaves, somewhat like clusters of pine needles, warmed to a yielding point. The root is rather curious. It looks like a wizened finger of liquorice, but once cut the inside is an amethyst of such clarity it might well be faceted. Though it can sometimes be found close to Musk Orchis and the starry-down of Dandelion, it more often grows alone. Think of a body, laid at the fireplace, while sleeping. In music it is Hope Sandoval. In shape it is like a heart with singed edges.

I read the first draft to Nia Davies and we both felt the line about ‘a juice of passion fruit and guava’ was too tropical and was incongruous with the warm language in the rest of the poem. In this final version I went for orange instead. When I discovered what the perfume was, I was gratified to learn orange is a key element of the scent, although I completely got the violet bit wrong. The perfume is actually called ‘Tilda Swinton Like This’ (a scent dreamed up by the actor Tilda Swinton and made by Etat Libre d’Orange). My final poetic imagining of the perfume is below:

VIOLET-AMONG-THE-HARPSICHORD

Observers of plants who endeavour to understand their names usually have a tough task before them. Many names, indeed, carry their meanings in their faces, but many have no meaning at all; and, again, many are founded on such subtle distinctions or fanciful notions that it is not in the plant but in the mind of the nomenclator that we must seek for the coveted explanation. (Familiar Garden Plants, Volume IV, Figured by F. Edward Hulme And Described by Shirley Hibberd)

Dear Friends, Violet-among-the-Harpsichord, is similar in aspect to the Ultra Lily-in-the-Basket and Common Harpwort, but only in the sense you can stumble onto a threshold of wood anemone and mistake it for snow. Even the wagging of a dog’s tail can unsettle this scent, apply in a covetous nook and then lean into someone. If you could taste it, for as being poisonous, you may not, you might find it akin to marmalade of resin, resin speckled with wild thyme, spread onto hot buttered toast. Though at first more like a juice of pressed Valencia orange, idly sloshed and allowed to sour and dry and then licked, accidentally perhaps. But I have distracted you. Its name is best understood by closing one’s head inside a harpsichord that has just been played – the finely cut woods, the last wobble of the strings! Scent resonates as sound. The leaves, somewhat like clusters of pine needles, warmed to a yielding point. The root is rather curious. It looks like a wizened finger of liquorice, but once cut the inside is an amethyst of such clarity it might well be faceted. Though it can sometimes be found close to Musk Orchis and the starry-down of Dandelion, it more often grows alone. In music it is Hope Sandoval. In shape, a heart with singed edges. In character, a remembrancer. Think of a body, laid at the fireplace, while sleeping.

Amy Key was born in Dover and grew up in Kent and the North East. She now lives and works in London. She co-edits the online journal Poems in Which. Her pamphlet Instead of Stars was published by tall-lighthouse in 2009, and her first collection, Luxe, was recently published by Salt.

How I Did It invites poets to read carefully through one of their own poems, guiding readers through the drafting and editing process that would otherwise be hidden.