{Dwayne Betts}
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?
The Beautiful Struggle: A Father, Two Sons, and an Unlikely Road to Manhood 
I've always loved this poem since I first read it in high school years ago. It all always reminded me of all the little things that my dad did for us growing up that we appreciated at the time. One of my favorites by Hayden.
I meant we "NEVER" appreciated at the time.
First saw this on the train in New York City.
God bless Poetry in Motion.
One of my favorites.
I love the way Hayden uses color to describe the cold, temperature to describe sound, and emotions to describe the home.
Also the poem is about being a man; what it is, the kind of love we deliver, stacking up a blaze against emptiness, our delight, not in the thanks, but in the warming of whom and what we love.
Just wanted to say that I've really enjoyed your posts on poetry (I'm a fan of when TNC does it too), and since I know that you can talk about forms and parsing meaning out of structure as well as words, I would love to see you post on that sort of thing or other aspects of how being a poet influences the way you read other people's poetry if you want.
As for something substantive about the poem: I came to Hayden via Auden, who is one of my favorite modern poets. The Auden link means that I ran into Hayden's most socially conscious work first ('Middle Passage'; 'Night, Death, Mississippi') and only later found quieter work like this, which I find I prefer. I do like Hayden's tendency to make conjunctions of words meant to evoke mood (here 'blueblack', in 'Night, Death, Mississippi' he uses 'bloodybones').
Y’know what? I love this poem, too. But as a 50-year old black college professor, who lives in the suburbs, and grew up in the suburbs (as the son of a Ph.D. public school administrator), and who writes this just before going to the gym to hit the treadmill, and whose 14 year-old son is playing a video game right now…. Isn’t it curious and interesting how these archetypal Tough Black Fathers seem to be all we—meaning me and my son and my off-to-college-in-the-fall daughter—have to hold on to as primary black cultural narratives of Heroic Black Fatherhood? I can’t help thinking about Colson Whitehead’s superb novel John Henry Days, which raises similar questions about how those raised black middle class in the post-civil rights movement era can possibly match the heroism of John Henry’s legend (another vital black cultural narrative). I admire the poem, and I admire the father described in the poem. But their realty is so far from my own reality that the father and son Hayden describes might as well live on Pluto.
Bashe,
Your comment is interesting, although I disagree with you. A friend of mine had a different take on the John Henry myth - he said it was a cautionary tale about how not to survive in America. From his line of thinking you see John Henry could work, but his problem was believing that to work was enough. And it's that belief that destroyed him.
Now, as far as the poem goes - I think you're missing part of the point. Hayden was writing about a father that he knew, that he could recognize. We could say that the poem is framed to fit the Tough Black Fathers archetype by the details of the fathers life he chooses to highlight - but we could also say that those are the details that led him to the beautiful moment at the end, What did I know? What did I know/ of love's lonely and austere offices.
My point is that I'm sure there are a hundred things that you do every day that fit into the type of firing up the coals, and cleaning the good shoes. I was raised by a single mom, but I know I could write a similar poem about frying the chicken and getting up early in the morning to work, and washing my clothes. And your father, as an administrator - I'm sure you could talk about the thousands of kids he fathered through his work that never called him daddy.
Now, if your point is why doesn't this poem show the less heroic side - I'd argue that this is only one poem, and I can give you another poem that shows the less heroic father - just so we can have both images in our heads for the day. Whatever the case - we love heroes. And I'm pretty sure your off-to-college-in-the-fall daughter and video game playing son sees you as a hero.
I love Hayden so much. Witch Doctor is one of my all time favorites...
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171824
It's the "and polished my good shoes as well" line that always gets me, because I read it as one of the few ways that a father could express the care he felt for his son, given that men were supposed to be the cold, unfeeling providers and that being tough was the way to prepare a child to be an adult. It's a small thing, and at first glance could be mistaken for a throwaway line, but it really resonates with me for that reason.
And here is the craft of poetry: lazy writers in English throw around meaningless adjectives for ornamentation, which are rare in frequency in actual speech. When Hayden says "good" here, it's not a vaguely ornamental, throwaway word, but one with a precise and homely meaning.
I had to memorize this poem in elementary school and I hated it. It took me years to figure out that the poem itself is not problematic so much as being forced to memorize it and recite it in front of my classmates when my own father had died a few years before, and I was 12. As an adult, I can fully appreciate its richness, but as a kid, it felt like being scolded for being spoiled.
An aside: I grew up going to public schools in Philly, and it wasn't until most of the way through high school that I found out that not all poets are black men. Every poem we were ever introduced to was by a black man, and my mom cracked up when I said something about Robert Frost being a black poet. I was quite disappointed. Reading Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening was better for me when I thought the author was a harlem renaissance poet.
It is interesting to me that Bashe saw this as a poem about a black father. I am as white bread as one can be, but this was so my dad. My house was angry, scolding, and as well loving and full of joy. Every morning was hard since we didn't know what to expect. Still, my dad was always up by 5 and getting things ready in ways that I only appreciate from a distance. By the time I was a teenager I was dismissive and distant from anything he said. When I first read this poem it felt like it had been written for me. Now, some years after my father has died, it is even more poignant.
DN
This being my first readiong of this (lovely) poem (and not knowing Hayden's race), I did not assume any race for the father. The race of the father is unimportant; it is the loving acts done by the father that is most endearing -- loving acts that can be done by all fathers, nothwithstanding race.
Lovely poem.
Quick story: My younger, very hipster brother (think Vince Vaughn in "Swingers") was expecting his first child, and after a day of assembling IKEA furniture mumbled something about fatherhood. I said "Kind of makes you appreciate Dad, huh." And he said, "No. It makes me want to crawl on my hands and knees to his house so that I can beg forgiveness for being such a dick my whole life."
I hope that your younger brother did get around to telling your dad how much he appreciates him, after the fact.
Who knows how men communicate with each other? My brother and dad have a really good relationship, so I imagine he did. My brother has a son now, and he's a really good dad, just like our dad is--I think that's the real reward my dad is looking for. ( A really nice Father's Day card doesn't come amiss, either).
All I know is it made me cry.