Autumn Air
There’s something in the autumn air,
Something beneath the mounting chill
Of which we’re vaguely unaware
Until it says our name, until
It softly taps us on the heart.
Something beneath the yellowed oaks
Intones a hymn in counterpart
Whose voice exults but also chokes;
Something that makes the beauty ache
(A tenderness I can’t forget…);
That makes me pray the Lord to take
My breath away—but not quite yet.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Agape Review, America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, U.S. Catholic, Grand Little Things, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.
Most oaks don’t turn yellow — they just go from green to brown. Some go scarlet briefly. Putting that aside, the last two lines were superb. And you are right: There is something in the autumn air. Dying fires? The end of brilliant colors? Intimations of mortality? Maybe all of them, or maybe something else altogether.. It’s not for me to say.
Quite a breathtaking near-capture of a phenomenon that can never be fully captured — in words or any other art — or pinned down definitively in our understanding (as C.B. expressed above). “Whose voice exults but also chokes; something that makes the beauty ache….” You may have come as close as possible to capturing it; and I and all who love autumn know, and revel in, what the poem is talking about.
Thank you, Jeffrey. You’ve somehow described the indescribable: the bitter-sweetness of my favourite season.
Autumn and spring are my two favorite seasons– the one, a season of the year tinged with a nostalgic sense of time´s passage, the other, a season surging with the energy and freshness of rebirth and the renewal of youthful vitality and strength. Both seasons have inspired countless poems, and your poem admirably captures the feelings evoked by that season of “mists and mellow fruitfulness.” Those feelings are aroused, not merely the sight of autumn´s beauty, but also by a deeply felt sense of “something” that is IN the air an BENEATH the “mounting chill” and “yellowed oaks”of the season. That something appears to be an awareness of the fleeting character of mortal life itself, which “makes the beauty ache”. That ache is intensified as this awareness of mutability “speaks our name” and “taps us on the heart,” making us aware of our own transience and reminding us of our own life´s brevity on the earth. Such awareness would be crushing were it not for a mingled sense of the “numinous,” the spiritual and supernatural presence of the Lord who hears prayer, whose eternal presence gives hope in a world of change and decay, since He holds our breath in his hands and gives and takes it at His will– though hopefully, “not quite yet.”
Short and sweet — bittersweet; and on point. I am with CB though. Reading “yellowed oaks” was jarring. Maples and birch turn yellow. (They look like birch trees in Cropsey’s painting…) But oaks linger and oftentimes won’t even fall until mid-winter.
Thanks so much, everyone, for your very kind responses to the poem–and my apologies for the botanical laziness of “yellowed oaks”. I’ve revised the file, and any future iterations of the poem will feature “browning oaks” (which I actually like much better, so thanks again).
God bless,
Jeffrey
This was a delightful poem, with a surprisingly punchy ending.
Jeffrey, this exquisite poem has taken my breath away and I thank you for it. In fact, the closing line brought a tear to my eye… I think it’s because I’m fast approaching the winter of my life. This poem is aesthetically and spiritually beautiful.
Jeffrey, I like the choice of “counterpart” as a musical term. This is a relatively rare usage, but used to perfection here when a “voice exults but also chokes.” Unlike counterpoint, which is richly textured harmony, a hymn in counterpart would have complementary but separate melodies suitable for the same topic or even the same words. I think that’s the emotion about autumn you describe. It also suits the prayer to “take my breath away–but not quite yet.”
About the oaks, my Southern color for them is always green. It’s never cold enough for oak leaves to die, so they stay on the tree until spring, when the new leaves get up the gumption to push the old ones out. Then they fall and brown. Creation is complex!