Those Winter Sundays
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
By Tom Fasano on October 21, 2008 – 10:23 pm
Posted in Poetry | 3 Comments »
By
Rethabile on Oct 23, 2008 | Reply
Magnificent and sober poem. This, and Frederick Douglass, must surely be among Mr Hayden’s best.
By
rallentanda on Dec 19, 2009 | Reply
The brevity of this poem adds to the impact.
A relevant poem that most can relate to.
It expresses a depressing but real truth of family life.I think it is an excellent poem
By
Tom Fasano on Dec 19, 2009 | Reply
This is a great poem to teach. Because of how personal this poem is, the amount of classroom discussion is not surprising.