Monday, February 12, 2007

“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack 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?

8 comments:

BBB said...

That's lovely. Thanks for posting it.

gtg said...

glad you enjoyed it. do you identify?

i'm lecturing on it tomorrow.

grot said...

sounds v like the father in angela's ashes

gtg said...

except african-american family in detroit. shuffled between foster home and parental home.

grot said...

poverty, dislocation, disfunctional - Ireland same same US same same olpela

grot said...

i realise i didn't use parallel structures there - please don't mark me down

gtg said...

Buk bilong Hebrew o Baibel bilong Hebrew i wanpela buk bilong Judaisim na Lotu Kristen. Olgeta buk bilong Olpela Testamen i bin raitim pinis bipo Jesus.

grot said...

you didnt write that - plagiarist