Thursday, July 29, 2021

Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Saturday, July 24, 2021

ROBERT HAYDEN ~

 





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, 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

African American Poetry

250 Years of struggle & song

Kevin Young, editor

Library of America

2020




Friday, July 23, 2021