Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Spring" is a harrowing, emotionally charged poem about loss, addiction, and the cyclical nature of self-destruction. The title "Spring"—which typically suggests renewal and growth—is deeply ironic here. Instead of a season of rebirth, the spring in the poem becomes a tightening spiral, a coiled force of tension and inevitability, signaling that the speaker is trapped in a loop of failure, regret, and unresolved desperation. Ortiz employs a raw, minimalist style, layering everyday dialogue with deeper psychological turmoil, allowing the weight of the speaker’s situation to unfold gradually until it reaches an inevitable breaking point.

The poem opens with a sense of repetition and fatigue: "He told her what he was going to do. / What else is new? she said." The woman’s response is immediate, dismissive—this is not the first time she has heard his promises, his intentions. Her indifference speaks volumes; whatever he is saying, she no longer believes it. As she "finished putting the winter jumper on the baby," she remains focused on the tangible, the immediate responsibilities of caring for her child, rather than engaging with the man who lingers in the background of her life.

The description of the man is striking: "He stood there like he stood at the corner of the world." This imagery positions him as a figure on the edge of something vast and inescapable, reinforcing his sense of isolation. He is present, but detached, a man who is there but does not belong. Her words—"I told you...what you do is your business. You don’t have any here."—confirm this. She has drawn a clear boundary. Whatever history they shared, he is no longer part of her world.

The moment he reaches for the baby is heartbreaking: "He held out his trembly hand to the baby. The baby looked at it like she might look at cold chicken." The "trembly hand" suggests physical weakness, possibly withdrawal symptoms, but also deep emotional fragility. The baby’s reaction—one of indifference or even mild disgust—mirrors the mother’s. She does not see warmth or security in his hand; he is unfamiliar, unwelcome. His attempt at connection—"Baby, he said weakly."—is met with "Uummgh," a sound that is unreadable, unknowable. The child turns to her mother instead, reinforcing his exclusion.

Ortiz then delivers one of the most devastating lines: "There wasn’t much on the other side of his fate except the usual wreckage." This phrase encapsulates the speaker’s condition—his life has been reduced to a predictable pattern of destruction. He already knows how this will play out. The repetition of "the usual"—"the usual wreckage," "the usual shit"—suggests that nothing has changed, that he is as trapped as ever in his downward spiral.

The argument between the man and the woman escalates: "Go to hell, she said. / Right now. / Go hell, the baby said." The child repeats her mother’s words, an eerie echo that emphasizes how completely he has been removed from their lives. The fact that "There wasn’t anything to say anymore" suggests that all avenues of reconciliation have been exhausted. His desperation surfaces: "Might as well talk to the fucking sky." He knows that no matter what he says, he will not be heard.

Despite this, he "tried one more time though." His question—"What are you going to do?"—carries a quiet plea, but the answer is immediate and unflinching: "I'll call the fucking cops if you don't leave right now," she said. / Rye now, the baby said. Again, the child mirrors the mother, reinforcing the man’s displacement. His presence is not only unwelcome—it is a threat.

Then the poem shifts to its central metaphor: "His head spun down from the larger circle. The spiral became small. Then smaller and tight. Like a spring." This spring is not the blossoming of new life; it is a compression, a coiling of tension that cannot be released. His despair, his addiction, his self-destruction—all of it is winding tighter within him. The metaphor suggests that something is coming—some explosion or collapse. "Please don’t do that," he said. His voice quavered. "Please just listen." His pleading is raw, but it is too late. The mother and child move toward the door, leaving him behind.

The next lines shift into reflection, as if he is recalling the advice of those who tried to help him: "You must try, the counselor had said. Forgive yourself." This line suggests that he has been in recovery before, that he has been given tools to heal but has failed to use them. The litany of advice—"Keep a journal...Do your fourth step. Talk to your sponsor, keep talking, go to meetings, make amends."—reinforces this. These are the familiar steps of addiction recovery, yet they have become meaningless. He "had tried and then he had not tried." The inconsistency of his efforts mirrors the cyclical nature of addiction, the way resolve is constantly undermined by relapse.

Then, the poem delivers its final devastating revelation: "Keep failing, keep failing, and finally you will have what you do not. Finally you will have what you do not have. The end of the world will be yours." This is the logic of despair—the idea that failure itself will eventually bring some kind of resolution, even if that resolution is oblivion. The phrasing—"you will have what you do not have"—suggests that through complete failure, he will reach the absence he seems to crave. This is the language of someone on the brink, someone who has lost all sense of forward movement.

The poem ends with the arrival of the police: "When the police came, he stood outside the door. The spring loaded and ready." The final line leaves his fate unresolved, but the imagery is clear—the tension within him is unbearable, his spiral has reached its limit. The phrase "the spring loaded and ready" suggests impending action, but what that action is remains ambiguous. Will he explode into violence? Will he collapse under the weight of his own failures? Will he disappear altogether? Ortiz leaves these questions unanswered, forcing the reader to sit with the full weight of the speaker’s unraveling.

Ortiz’s use of free verse, unadorned dialogue, and minimal exposition allows the raw emotion of the scene to speak for itself. The lack of punctuation in certain areas creates a breathless, urgent quality, mirroring the speaker’s desperate, tumbling thoughts. The repetition of certain phrases—"the usual wreckage," "keep failing," "finally you will have what you do not have"—reinforces the sense of inescapability, of a cycle that refuses to break.

"Spring" is ultimately a poem about the failure to heal, about the crushing weight of addiction, regret, and estrangement. The speaker, despite moments of awareness, is trapped in his own destructive momentum, unable to reconnect with his family, unable to free himself from the spiral. Ortiz presents this reality without sentimentality, without false hope. The poem does not offer redemption—only the stark, unrelenting truth of a man on the edge of his own collapse. The spring is coiled, the tension is unbearable, and whatever happens next feels inevitable.

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