A Poem By Robert Hayden

[PaulAllen]

Those Winter Sundays

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 loves austere and lonley offices?

[lost1]

A definite tug at the heart strings and many memories of days long gone bye...

[PaulAllen]

Yes Hayden is a famous black poet. I first read this poem in a Contempory American Poetry class at Xavier University. I remember the students sat in a circle around the teacher as he read this poem. When it was finished, there was dead silence. There was no analyzation. How could there be? I have loved this poem all these years for its ultimate simplicity and frankness. No one had anything to say. It moved us all to the point of silence. A marvelous piece of writing. I am glad it moved you and that you said so.

Paul