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Those Winter Sundays ( a poem not written by me)

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, 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?

Robert Hayden 1913-1980

* there is beauty to be found in great poetry no matter what form is used...........stan

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
Hope ya'll like this one as much as I do
Editing stage: 


I like this poem a lot. Emotive without sap.

Yes, beauty can arise from a myriad of forms, maybe even the formless...maybe! It seems unlikely...but....


I seem to be unable to shake the reputation of being a rhyming poetry snob. This was posted in hopes that others will see that I Do appreciate truly good poetry regardless of form. I have gotten to where I read some free form even Off site lol.....Glad you enjoyed this. I think it does a terrific job in describing the often thankless job of being a father..............stan

author comment

when you post other people's poetry, post it as a blog.

Great lines
"What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?"

A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'

considered doing so but there are folks that don't read blogs. I thought this poem worthy enough of getting read that I used my daily post of poetry in hopes more folks might read this poet which I expect most have never heard of.............stan

author comment

To Blog or not to Blog ???
This reminded me of my Father, that gave all and ask nothing of us, though he always knew he had our total respect and love..
He would leave the house in the Winter time very early, walk about 2 miles to hand milk the farmers cows, sometimes he would come home not able to use his hands as they had become so cold.. He would sit in front of the fire until they became OK.
He never complained no matter what the weather threw at him.
I can't remember much about when he was smashed by the farms bull, seven broken ribs and a smashed shoulder blade, spending 3 months in hospital in those days, then day after day in the shed he would have a rope through a pulley just pulling the bad arm up so many times to make it work again so that he could work. This was 1947..
Dad was 17 in 1915 and ran away three times to join his six brothers in the Army, at the last time they told him he was in.
We span quite a few years Father and I so far it is 116. he sadly left us to journey on in 1963 he was only 66 years old life is a shit sometimes.
But he was a beautiful spirit and draws near at times.
Thanks for the Poem from someone else, it would be lovely if we could all remember our Fathers as I do, and this poet, the world would be a better place if it was so,
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

As in this poem we all to often tend to focus on the things our fathers did which we didn't like. Until they pass and time lends perspective. With luck time does this Before he passed and we are still able to tell him we now understand the reasons for his actions...........................stan

author comment
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