Here’s one of my all-time favorite poems:<\/p>\n\n\n
Those Winter Sundays<\/b>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 By Robert Hayden<\/p>\n\n\n
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><\/p>\n\n\n
I\u2019d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he\u2019d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,<\/i><\/p>\n\n\n
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\u2019s austere and lonely offices?<\/i><\/p>\n\n\n
I don’t love this poem\u00a0just <\/i>because it is about an underappreciated father. (Friendly reminder: Father\u2019s Day is coming up, June 18th.)<\/p>\n\n\n
It’s more than that. For one thing, I am in awe of Hayden’s economy of words, evident from the first: \u201cSundays too\u201d. (So much sleeker than \u201cEvery day of the week including Sundays\u201d.)<\/p>\n\n\n
Also, I love the sound<\/i> of the poem: The \u201cblueblack cold\u201d and the \u201ccracked hands that ached\u201d and all. Beautiful!<\/p>\n\n\n
Furthermore, I appreciate the fact that \u2013 unlike too many poems \u2013 this one is not terribly difficult to understand. And yet it still packs an emotional punch.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
It is simply a memory shared by the poet. A confession of sorts.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
His father would rise early, even on Sunday mornings, to rekindle the fire, making it so much more pleasant for everyone else to get out of bed. The fire had been \u201cbanked\u201d overnight, waiting for the morning. Dad would bring it to a blaze, providing heat to everyone in the house.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
And then he would go further and polish his son\u2019s good shoes (implying a trip to church was near at hand).\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
For his part, rather than offering a word of thanks, the poet would rise and \u201cspeak indifferently\u201d to his father.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
The closing lines reveal the poet is older now and deeply regrets his failure to acknowledge his father\u2019s love. \u201cWhat did I know?\u201d he repeats.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
And what a powerful concluding line, with its focus on \u201clove\u2019s austere and lonely offices\u201d. \u201cOffices\u201d, here, is used in the sense of duties and responsibilities. Somebody had to keep the fire going. Dad took it upon himself. It was just part of the job.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
I am always left wondering \u2013 when the poet finally learned about “love\u2019s austere and lonely offices”, did he thank his dad?\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
Or was it too late?<\/p>\n\n\n
One thing seems clear: Dad kept right on stoking that fire regardless of whether anyone recognized its importance or not.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Here’s one of my all-time favorite poems: Those Winter Sundays\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 By Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up earlyand put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I\u2019d wake and hear the cold […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10116","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10116","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10116"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10116\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10117,"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10116\/revisions\/10117"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10116"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10116"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stevegrossblog.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10116"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}