LOVE'S AUSTERE AND LONELY OFFICES

Here's one of my all-time favorite poems:

Those Winter Sundays        By Robert Hayden

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?

I don't love this poem just because it is about an underappreciated father. (Friendly reminder: Father’s Day is coming up, June 18th.)

It's more than that. For one thing, I am in awe of Hayden's economy of words, evident from the first: “Sundays too”. (So much sleeker than “Every day of the week including Sundays”.)

Also, I love the sound of the poem: The “blueblack cold” and the “cracked hands that ached” and all. Beautiful!

Furthermore, I appreciate the fact that – unlike too many poems – this one is not terribly difficult to understand. And yet it still packs an emotional punch. 

It is simply a memory shared by the poet. A confession of sorts. 

His father would rise early, even on Sunday mornings, to rekindle the fire, making it so much more pleasant for everyone else to get out of bed. The fire had been “banked” overnight, waiting for the morning. Dad would bring it to a blaze, providing heat to everyone in the house. 

And then he would go further and polish his son’s good shoes (implying a trip to church was near at hand). 

For his part, rather than offering a word of thanks, the poet would rise and “speak indifferently” to his father. 

The closing lines reveal the poet is older now and deeply regrets his failure to acknowledge his father’s love. “What did I know?” he repeats. 

And what a powerful concluding line, with its focus on “love’s austere and lonely offices”. “Offices”, here, is used in the sense of duties and responsibilities. Somebody had to keep the fire going. Dad took it upon himself. It was just part of the job. 

I am always left wondering – when the poet finally learned about "love’s austere and lonely offices", did he thank his dad? 

Or was it too late?

One thing seems clear: Dad kept right on stoking that fire regardless of whether anyone recognized its importance or not.