Sam Clements – Asparagus spring

Clement LE P&W 3 Nov-Dec 2024

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Three November-December 2024

Aotearoa Poets and Writers Special Edition

Asparagus spring, poems by Sam Clements.


Asparagus spring

The boiling water drained,
the asparagus spears
glisten naked in the hot pan,
drying out, and now the butter,
melting with a hiss and sizzle,
golden glow to forest green,
cracked pepper the finishing touch
this fresh spring evening,
as he salivates, tongue licking my ear,
rubbing his crotch against my derrière.


Table

The pink silk lampshade spills its soft purr glow this hour, is brushing
your mahogany tones in a whiskey splendour, the scent of candle wax
and polish fill the air, in the still only loved guests leave in their wake.
Remnants of laughter, of revelry, linger in the smell of clean and fabric
shine, the politics of the night, the stories told, flicker through my mind.

Fingers slide French polish smooth, patina rich wood, where blood beats
have met in tumble, in melt of curve, at the lip of silver, fine crafted hopes.
I hear the clinks, see slithers of dreams, the Easters, birthdays, funerals,
griefs, friendships forged in flow of pour, in glowing charms, in tears,
in falls, ideas perched, passion and flair, sharp debate, warmest cheer.

Michelangelo dined with the Medici, of popes, wool, banking, fine deeds, saw truths in the drift of snowflakes, wrote courtly poems, soaked himself in science, philosophy, the arts, painted his masterpiece, The Last Judgement, of bread, wine and fate, Judas near Jesus, shadow at the edge. Napoleon rages, in Saint Helena, fist pounding the insult of it all, porcelain flying to the walls.

Black Death hold, fever and boils, rich and peasant curse, bodies galore, the table of prosper soon for more, a new social force, bread and broth aplenty. It’s Richard the Third’s coronation banquet: pheasant platter, roasted bittern, pigeon and partridge, fresh sturgeon, crayfish, baked quinces, oranges, but a Norwegian home, minimalist tone, children play bold to the swing of your folds, in the

blitz, they shelter from the bombs, beneath your sturdy oak, roar of planes flying over, as two lovers kitchen fuck, herbs spilt, pot roast simmer, steam filled eyes. In a New York loft, the spreadsheets are out, the financier’s hands tremble at the figures of fright, a rustic old barn, Lombardy calm, Madame La Blanche ladles jam into jars, as the Florence bridge players reveal

their cards. Virginia Wolfe, Bloomsbury Set, still featuring the dinner table, mix of class midst epicurean delights, intellectuals debating for hours, bouef en daube in To the Lighthouse. Camus and Sartre, have met for lunch, eat in silence, midst existential crisis, waiters wafting round gossip and scandal, pondering the absurdity of it all, in fours. The leg has been damaged, chips fallen to floor,

hit by a burst of tempest roar. She is dying, her mother, sees her hands peeling potatoes, softly singing, in front of the fire. Shackleton plots, with his men, the final push to the pole, winds shake the hut, brutal raw cold. In Princeton, Einstein sits and puzzles the maths of it all, papers sprawled, chuckles at me standing this hour, enthralled,

swish of light years, protons and quarks, beckons me gently through force fields and atoms, bends me to the shimmer of time’s hidden call, to wave motions and mystery particles, lifts the curtain at glint of rim, in float towards whispers of wool tender dreams, to teetering at the edge of cliff,

I flick the switch.


Returns

It’s difficult, taking books back to the library,
farewelling pages of beautiful golden writing,
that have inspired, provoked, heartened, delighted,
induced laughter, tears, fear and excitement.

It’s a relief to have a smartphone at the ready,
there to take quick snapshots of the finest poetry,
and passages of prose so elegant and poised―
the work of Brookner, Mansfield and Freud.

I slide the books through the flap, and away they go,
with a quiet whoosh, down the steel slide, now home,
back, nestled amongst their fellow learned friends,
soon to be checked in and sent back to display.

I think this a reflection of what life is, at its heart:
fleeting finds, growth of knowledge, flashes of insight,
things always moving, never still, people surprising,
the seeing few, perpetual renewal, funerals to go to.


© Sam Clements

Sam’s poetry has appeared in Landfall, the online chronicle Love in the time of Covid, and Jamaica’s Sunday Gleaner, and is forthcoming in a Titirangi Poets published collection. His flash fiction can be found in the international journal Flash Frontier. He has collaborated and performed at Auckland festivals with noted poets, and leading New Zealand musicians: jazz pianist Ben Fernandez, guitarist Nigel Gavin, and singer songwriter Sonia Wilson. He has read at recitals featuring violist Milan Milisavljević, principal violist in the Met Opera Orchestra, and the APO’s principal violist, Robert Ashworth. He was an emcee at Poetry Live! between 2019 and 2024, and co-edited its anthology This Twilight Menagerie, published in 2021, celebrating forty years of New Zealand’s longest running open mic poetry group. He was a winner in Dunedin’s UNESCO City of Literature event, the 2021 National Flash Fiction Day (NFFD) emerging artists postcard series, in the poetry and photography categories. He’s a resident of Tamaki Makaurau-Auckland, with a background in academia, the performing arts, and journalism.

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