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

[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. :)