It feels like every poem I’ve ever written has, in some way or another, been about spring. Ironically, though, this time, I have chosen not to write one. Spring is difficult, always more cruel than I imagine it will be. I find my poetry centers on this aspect of the season too heavily, ignoring the sweetness. In an attempt to appreciate the vernal details more, wallow behind prose less, I’ve written a May Manifesto! Enjoy.
Top notes
- Sitting in the Suntub
Every spring a new album reveals itself to me that defines the aesthetic and existential curation of the season. This year’s album has been “Suntub” by ML Buch. I listen to it mostly at night, laying in my bed with the window cracked open, letting the slightly cruel May air leave me shivering. Sometimes when I do this I feel like I’m floating a foot off the bed. If you listen to anything from this album, I’d recommend “High speed calm air tonight” for that exact activity (lying in bed and floating!). If you’re into viscera, ambient soundscapes, peeling white paint on shutters, the way the vernal air feels before it gets too humid, biological return/transcendence, early spring’s bleached grass, etc, etc, you’ll maybe like this.
I’m unsure if this is objectively a spring album, but also my entire and eternal springtime experience can be summed up by this lyric from “Flames shards goo”:
“And suddenly
All skulls are open
And the rabbits unfreeze
By pillars of mosquitos
Nails pop off
Pores chatter
Here we go
With our temporary bodies”
BONUS: Another spring album I’ve been liking is “The Campfire Headphase” by Boards of Canada (It’s an ambient season, what can I say?). My favourite tracks from this one are “Satellite Anthem Icarus” and “Dayvan Cowboy”.
- Houses off the Byway
My outdoor activity recommendation for May is exploring abandoned farmland. There’s a fleeting window for this- by the time June hits, the sun bleached houses off rural roads get smothered by weeds, making them both invisible and impossible to get into. Early May is ideal for adventuring- put on a pair of thick-soled boots, gloves, and sit inside the skeleton of an old home. The sun pools in through the rafters and it’s almost like you were meant to be there, like you could call this home. Almost. For me, it’s a good sort of consciousness exercise- understanding a space that lived once before me. Being a part of that strand of life one more time. Things will die, and then they’ll live on again. Not everything is about me. I stand in the kitchen and for a minute, everything is as it was. If that’s too much spiritual gunk for you, alternatively, it’s just a good dose of adrenaline (sometimes the wind will bang a door shut, or an animal will race out). Be safe, of course, and be respectful to the space—you’re only visiting, after all.
Heart notes
- If I can learn to hold Grief you can learn to Forgive
A big springtime word is relention. Summer passes to autumn gracefully, but to pull away from winter is gruesome. I find myself begging the cold to just relent, hating it as it refuses to retreat.
I get so angry, sometimes, at desolate landscapes. I visited a patch of forest by the bridge, shrinking as housing development tore it down. I stood by the last willow at the line between forest and pseudo desert. I felt a little sick to my stomach, staring at that tree on the edge of all destruction. I was resentful, imagining all that it mourned, what unity it used to have. The tree stood on anyways, stretching tall into the sky, budding, light green anyways. Living through this grief, anyways. I forgive you. Spring comes, and I could relent, too.
- All Hail
Amidst spring’s blooms, I’ve been trying to Worship more resolutely. Despite the season’s crueller moments, I don’t wish to fail to acknowledge the sheer magnitude of its beauty and wonder. How incredible, that this landscape can come back into colour after months of grey and white. Nothing becomes something, all over again. The potted wax plant in my bedroom gets pink star shaped flowers. I try to give this the Worship that it is owed. I am grateful. Nothing becomes something, all over again. All hail the springtime!
- Patterns in Pink Petal
I don’t think I really remember the trees being in bloom when I was younger. My earliest memory of the vibrant pinks and whites and yellows that swath the sides of the street was high school. It felt euphoric, at the time, to notice such intense beauty after a long winter. Honestly, it’s a little embarrassing to admit- it happens every year, doesn’t it? I don’t see why I can’t remember it. I’ve been trying harder to, lately—to remember, that is. That I have lived spring, that I will live spring. The trees have bloomed for years and years before me. It’s nice to be part of a repeated history, it’s nice to know what happens next. If spring is any sort of acquiesce to change, it is still, dually, an inevitable stagnation. Everything is going to be different and still, it will all be the same. Nothing will ever be like this ever again, but of course, it always has been. There’s a comfort in this, to me. I am still a part of this, after it all. My shoulders burn pink on the first hot day every year. I look at old pictures of my mum and I can’t help but to see my own face.
I guess my message here is simpler than all that, though: sit outside and look at the pinks of Crabapple trees before their petals fall and are replaced by leaves. But if you don’t, that’s okay too. They’ll be back next year.
Base notes
- Light on linen: this tender Heart (because it wouldn’t be spring without a poem, after all)
Knees scraped and bleeding / I met you back at the Old House. Late night breeze phasing through landscapes / Like all of this Earth was only really half there. In the darkness everything sang / moon song and cricket. Wind chime singing / the field aglow. Skin pricked, goosebumps / eyes all glassy. Night breeze phasing through us, too / like we were only really half there.
When you grew your wings they were all zeroes and ones / stark white against the blue of night. All the stars came down to hold you / the Sky descended / opened up around us like it was bringing you home. Please don’t leave me here. I am Icarus and these waxen wings won’t let me follow you.
You opened my mouth, put a stone under my swollen tongue. Told me to hold it there / that it’d be okay. Neon pinks and greens exploded under my skin like fireworks / leaving this flesh behind and rejoining the desolate plains. Making the home that was yours, that was mine, alive, alive all over again. And this body was used, was done, but it was all right.
Mourning stirrs by light on my linen dress / thinning under the sun. Fingernails scrape up red on an empty core / Grasping for something that had never been there. I had never had any of this grief nor love at all. Feet cold on linoleum / Can’t I ever bleed? Deliver me / deliver me from this permanent spring.
This tender Heart,
My tender Heart.