Spring Air

*Written on February 6th, 2019.

I wrote this poem in one sitting, as I do most of my poems. For some reason, I have an aversion to editing poems after the first draft. This isn’t an excuse for bad poetry; it’s just me protecting my Romantic tendencies I guess. I’ve discovered that poetry allows my mind to recall and entertain experiences and emotions quite well. Its freedom and constraints allow me to breath out what has been boiling inside of me. It is catharsis, and this poem is no different.

Spring Air describes the feelings of nostalgia, or even déjà vu, that occur when I feel the warmth of the spring air—the foreshadowing of summer. This feeling is so visceral that it, at times, has a religious tenor to it. It came most recently during a period of prolonged melancholy. Despite the melancholy, the Spring Air grazed my soul. It didn’t care whether I was depressed; it touched me any way.

Stanzas two, three, and four describe particular moments when I experienced this Spring Air. Stanzas one and five describe my most recent encounter with it. In a sense, my most recent encounter was impregnanted with memories of this same feeling being experienced in the past (hence the déjà vu). I hope this explains the structure and ethos of the poem.

Spring Air
The Spring Air stokes the fires
Of my memory. After the snow melts.
Brightness and warmth gratify. My soul,
Elating the fetters of forging facades

Sitting and chewing, New car smell
And cow dung. A juxtaposition of those
Jaundiced youths. Running and grazing the
unsoiled air. Making art of amorphous atoms.

Flying and frocking, nature’s gristle to
Clung sweat. An investigation of those
long-skirted youths. Not yet incarcerated
by the odorous air. Poetics of elevated organics.

Controlling and calculating. Warm paper
And inked aspirations. A colloquium of those
Suited youths. Wetting their unbeaded brows
by brisk walks. Aimed at bourgeois bearings.
The Spring Air stokes the firesOf my soul. Even while the dark is present.
Somehow.
Warmth and light satiate. This life,
Bleeds onto the synapses of my mangled mind.
Unexplainable light.

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