The word “poignant” tends to be overused. But Robert Hayden’s picture of a disregarded father, doing household chores with quiet dignity

in the depth of winter, certainly justifies the adjective. Hayden (1913-1980), an American poet, essayist, and educationist, was Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 1976 to 1978, a role known today as US Poet Laureate. He was the first African American to hold the position.

 

THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS

Sundays too my father got up early

and put on his clothes in the blue-black cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labour in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one 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?