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December Oak Leaves

Puis çà, puis là, comme le vent varie,
A son plaisir sans cesser nous charrie,
(The wind, gleefully, pushing us, changing its mind,
Forwards and backwards, all of the time.)

—François Villon, “La Ballade des pendus”
(“The Ballad of the Hanged Men”)

The oak leaves are the last to go;
They hang from branches in the snow.
In tempest tossed, they feckless swing
And flap forlorn like dead bird-wings.

Like Villon’s dead men in a row,
These lifeless leaves blow to and fro;
To icy twigs they hopeless cling,
Their fingers frozen as they swing.

Hung out to dry, in winter’s noose,
They dangle there, now pried half-loose.
Like shingles on a tattered shed,
They clatter loudly overhead.

Up high, above these frozen lands,
Leaves clap together like dead hands.
As evening solstice marks the time,
The wind, indifferent, plays these chimes.

Brave bundled strangers trundle by
In heavy coats and wonder why.
An old man asks where summer’s gone,
The highway traffic scurries on.

Through winter’s frozen charnel house,
The coyote stalks the famished grouse.
The pond ice breaks like broken bones,
Beneath the ground, seeds sleep like stones.

An Advent song, in minor key,
Weaves faintly through the sleeping trees.
No promise here of distant spring
That time unfolding may yet bring.

But ages past, in dead of night,
In straw and cold and firelight,
From linen flesh, unfurrowed fields,
A swaddled babe, the Godhead yields.

The baby born in sudden haste;
A ravished bride, completely chaste.
In barnyard straw by humble beasts,
The Most is born the very least.

Where men were ruled by Roman sword,
The midwife cuts the fresh red cord.
Old Herod hails the bloody birth
As God bends o’er the brooding earth.

.

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Louis Groarke is a professor in the Philosphy Department of St. Francis Xavier University, in Canada. He has published short stories and poems in various literary venues but is a philosopher by trade.  He recently published a book on literary criticism Uttering the Unutterable: Aristotle, Religion, and Literature (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2023).  In effect, it provides a traditional response to post-modernism.

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20 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    What a beautiful fresh take poem on oak leaves in winter and then the smooth transition to the virgin birth. There are some memorable phrases that cling like the oak leaves. The images portrayed are superb.

    Reply
  2. Margaret Coats

    A splendid seasonal piece, Louis! It smoothly presents the atmosphere of “winter’s frozen charnel house,” then introduces a song of change in a suitable minor key. The whole is well finished while seeming to look ahead in an unknown way–an entirely appropriate ending for a poem looking toward “the Most” who is “born the very least.”

    Good Canadian verses, as well. I am still a Southland dweller, but having grown up deep South in Florida, I recall oak trees mostly green all winter, with many leaves falling only when new growth in spring pushed the old ones out.

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Thank you, Margaret; yes, it is really a Quebec poem–we have very cold and snowy winters and, yes, the oak leaves here really do hang on and on and flap and rustle in the wind, all brown and wrinkled; I wanted something dark–in a dark world–but with hope in the midst of darkness at the end. An unsentimental hope–thanks again; best for the season, Louis

      Reply
  3. Cynthia Erlandson

    A beautiful Advent poem! I love your metaphors and similes, especially “winter’s noose” and “Leaves clap together like dead hands.” Yes, minor key, certainly, through to the last dramatic verse. There is certainly something captivatingly “minor key” about Advent. Like Margaret, I love “The Most is born the very least.”

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Thank you Cynthia; at first I was going to write a Christmas poem, but as you know, poems write themselves somehow; and it turned into an Advent offering; I wanted something dark–yes, in a minor key–but with a sliver of triumphant hope at the end; thanks again for commenting; Merry Xmas, Louis

      Reply
  4. Paul A. Freeman

    A whole new take on the beloved oak.

    Thanks for this vivid piece of poetry, Louis.

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Yes, Paul, the oak was a symbol of France, so it fits in with the Villon quote and, of course, nature obliged with the images of the withered wintry oak leaves hanging on “for dear life” (so to speak). I love oak trees; I once wrote a poem: the mighty oaks of old Ireland, where have they gone? Thanks for commenting; all the best of the season, Louis

      Reply
  5. Sally Cook

    Such a fine poem, like a figgy pudding filled with fresh comparisons and allusions.

    One rarely sees such skill. Kudos to you Mr. Groarke, and the best of Christmases to you.

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Thank you, Sally; you are overly kind; I wish you lots of Xmas pudding… when I was a child, we used to get one every year from the old country! Merry Xmas!

      Reply
  6. Joseph S. Salemi

    The swirl of fallen leaves and their revival in the spring have long been a standard symbol in Western literature, going as far back as Homer’s Iliad, and being a major image in Tate’s “Ode to the Confederate Dead.” The novelty here is having them still hanging in the branches, and the unusual pairing of them with Villon’s executed men on the gallows.

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Thanks, Joseph; I often like to start a poem with a quote from the tradition. I was reading Villon at the time and then, watching the oak leaves in Quebec, bang–it just came together. I agree, there is something about the seasons–about autumn and winter turning into spring–that operates at a very deep level as a sign of hope. Instead of trying to repudiate or “transgress” or leave behind the tradition, we should be going back to those themes and redoing them over and over again to the best of our abilities. (I agree, academia has become a straitjacket…) Thank you for your comments, Louis

      Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Thanks, Rohini; it is a very nice to have positive feedback on a poem: sometimes one feels like the poetic life is the life of solitude; all the best, Louis

      Reply
  8. David Hollywood

    I really enjoyed this as it glides through wonderful imagery and verse to the Christmas birth we celebrate. Many thanks.

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Merry Xmas, David; yes, in the end, it is hope we celebrate; even in a “gloomy season.” Thanks, Louis

      Reply
  9. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    Simply splendid. The stark, dark imagery lifts this Advent poem to thought-provoking, star-bright heights.

    Reply
  10. Adam Sedia

    Simply wonderful! This is a real tour de force, transporting us from a simple image through Villon to the birth of Christ, all while never losing sight of the original image.

    Oak leaves in winter are a familiar sight to me, and I commend you on fashioning such a rich poem from the image.

    Reply
    • Louis Groarke

      Thanks Adam; I hope the poem isn’t too long–I was a little worried about that–it is rewarding to have positive feedback; I did try to use the beginning image throughout to usher in, unexpectedly, the Christmas motif; thanks again! Merry Xmas, Louis

      Reply

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