Those Winter Sundays - Robert Hayden

[backseat.livejournal.com]

Those Winter Sundays
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?

Comments

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

In NYC, they have "featured poems" on the buses and subways. This was one of them. I remember really digging it at the time.

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

That's because New York City is the greatest city in America. And Canada. ;P

[goodfoot08.livejournal.com]

The commentary I have seen on this makes much of Hayden's abusive childhood. I honestly have a hard time seeing that in this, other than the "chronic angers" in the second stanza.

The balance always reminds me, favorably, of my father's help with my Sunday morning paper route when he could have been in bed.

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

I've always thought it to be about how he never appreciated the sacrifices his father made for his family.

[goodfoot08.livejournal.com]

yes. I see that lack of understanding for a father's sacrifices. I guess regardless of the "chronic angers", he still has respect for what his father did without much thanks.

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

Yes, I believe the two simply co-exist. The father was blamed for the chronic angers of the house while never thanked for the warmth of the house, and such.

The ending is also interesting if you look at it metaphorically. It is clear from this line: << cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather >> that his father did not do office work. He did manual labor. And yet - just like the banker or the lawyer or the doctor - his father spent time in his own "austere and lonely office." And he did it for love.

Perhaps it is a poem of forgiveness.

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

LOVE what Pinsky had to say:

<< http://www.wgbh.org/pages/bostonarts/1999/robert_pinsky.html >>

[goodfoot08.livejournal.com]

That IS very good. As I think about this, there is ample evidence by the poem's existance that Hayden found some peace about his early years.

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

Interesting commentaries with minimal focus on the "chronic angers" part found here:

<< http://ftp.ccccd.edu/mtolleson/2328online/2328noteswintersundays.htm >>

<< http://poetry.suite101.com/article.cfm/haydens_those_winter_sundays >>

Sometimes, I believe, a poem is best analyzed when the reader is ignorant of the life of the writer.

[synecdoche.livejournal.com]

I love the last two lines in this. ♥

[aria-muse.livejournal.com]

That's so interesting, because I really love this piece except for the last two lines.

[synecdoche.livejournal.com]

I'm just curious, but why don't you like them?

[agiel.livejournal.com]

The last two lines make the poem for me.

[aria-muse.livejournal.com]

I just think it's such a wonderful atmospheric piece and it's sort of clunky at the end. The sudden twist doesn't seem artful to me; it just sort of makes a point awkwardly.

[synecdoche.livejournal.com]

I can see what you mean -- the last lines could definitely come off as sort of trite.

Thanks for explaining. :)

[herquivers.livejournal.com]

this poem speaks to me; it doesn't remind me of my father, or of anyone else's father that i know, but it gives off that fatherly aura.
of a presence that is above you and is meant to make you feel okay in the coldest of times.

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

<< a presence that is above you and is meant to make you feel okay in the coldest of times. >>

that is it, that's what about it, reminds me of my father.

[glass-doll.livejournal.com]

i adore it

makes me feel like its november

[desolateangel83.livejournal.com]

One of my favorite poems! When I studied Creative Writing in college, we went over this poem a lot.