Thursday, January 17, 2019

Those Winter Sundays - Robert Hayden

Chitra Viraraghavan sent me this.
Pic courtesy Satish Nargundkar

Those Winter Sundays 
- Robert Hayden, 1913-1980

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack
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?

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