'Those Winter Sundays': the haunting of remorse

‘Those Winter Sundays’ was written by the poet Robert Hayden and tells the story of his father. It tells us about how, even on his days off, his father would wake up early before the sun and go out to work to chop wood in what he dubbed the “blueblack cold” in trying to keep the house warm. To keep the fire going, blazing and winter at bay. How Hayden’s fathers hands would ache from the non-stop labor to allow Hayden to sleep in for a few extra minutes, so he did not have to be awake in the cold. To break down this poem down like Hayden’s fathers broke down wood one swing at a time

I would not say that this poem has a rhyme scheme, but a flow that rolls off the tongue no matter how bitter it may be. It is tart to the tastebuds, a sad story of how a son never fully realized how hard his father truly worked until it was long past due. The past tense was something that I loved, possibly the most, as Hayden does not want to relive the moments, does not want to place himself back into the cold sleepy-eyed mornings that he was not fully present in, to watch his father work with only silent gratitude to give. Perhaps it was to put some distance between himself and the guilt that he felt for not appreciating all that his father did while he slept. A past in which he was not fully present in at the time.

While the tone is bitter and a dark cold blueblack the leaks over the pages it is free (for the most part) of figurative language and metaphors. Apart from the descriptive language, Hayden does not feel the need to add any substitute for any one word for another, no sugar coated metaphors to sweeten the truth. Do not mistake this sour, somber tone for anger or hatred towards the father but more towards the poets’ himself. It is some odd mixture of sadness-anger for not realizing everything that his father did for him and his family sooner. For letting time pass, for possibly letting too much time pass and no longer having his father here to properly say “thank you” or any variation of those two words.

The third and final stanza says: “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?”.

Hayden’s father had not only gotten wood early in the morning for the house to be warm when his son woke but also cleaned his shoes. A small act that is mostly invisible to the rest but house is silently acknowledged by Hayden while he continues to speak to his father with an indifferent cold tone in his voice. Hayden acknowledges this in the poem and states that he was too young to know what was actually going on. That age where children like to think that they know everything but are just stumbling through it like the rest of us, that he was still learning no matter how much he wants to think that he knows all of the secrets to the universe.

In the end he admits that he truly knew nothing of what it meant to be a father and put forth the efforts that he did each morning and have it acknowledged but no real recognition that he knows his father deserves.

Read: Those Winter Sundays | Poetry Foundation

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—liv atterson

Liv Atterson is an Indiana based writer, where she is currently finishing a General Studies Degree and plans to continue to get her Bachelor’s in English and Art History. She is an avid believer that you can never own too many books just too few shelves. When she is not reading or writing she can be found studying and drinking her body weight in tea or coffee. She is currently working on her debut book.

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