Those Winter Sundays
By Robert Hayden
Robert Hayden
Born Asa Bundy Sheffey into a poor family, Robert Hayden’s parents left him to be raised by foster parents. Hayden preferred books rather than sports in his childhood. Some of other poems can be found in his collection A ballad of remembrance. Hayden was the first African American to be appointed as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress.
Those Winter Sundays (lines 6-9)
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, (The son is waking to the sounds of winter.)
the rooms were warm, he’d call,(The dad is taking care of him by making sure the house was warm and then calls him.)
and slowly I would rise and dress,(Then the son gets up to start the day.)
fearing the chronic angers of that house, (The son is fearing what going to happen that day.)
Those Winter Sundays
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,
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’d 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?