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265th Virtual Poetry Circle

Welcome to the 265th Virtual Poetry Circle!

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s book suggested.

Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s poem is from Robert Hayden, as read by Youssef Biaz:

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?

What do you think?

  • Anna

    I agree with Beth. Definitely made me miss my dad and think about all the things he did that I didn’t thank him for but only realize now as an adult that I should have done.

  • Beth Hoffman

    This made me weep and miss my father so much … all those things I took for granted. Youssef Biaz’s reading is wonderful.