Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays"
The Daily Poem
Goldberry Studios
4.6 • 729 Ratings
🗓️ 20 August 2024
⏱️ 6 minutes
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Summary
As the school year begins, today’s poem goes out to all of those everyday saints performing the unseen and unsung acts of love that make life possible for rest of us!
Born Asa Bundy Sheffey on August 4, 1913, Robert Hayden was raised in the Detroit neighborhood Paradise Valley. He had an emotionally tumultuous childhood and lived, at times, with his parents and with a foster family. In 1932, he graduated from high school and, with the help of a scholarship, attended Detroit City College (later, Wayne State University). In 1944, Hayden received his graduate degree from the University of Michigan.
Hayden published his first book of poems, Heart-Shape in the Dust (Falcon Press), in 1940, at the age of twenty-seven. He enrolled in a graduate English literature program at the University of Michigan, where he studied with W. H. Auden. Auden became an influential and critical guide in the development of Hayden’s writing. Hayden admired the work of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Elinor Wiley, Carl Sandburg, and Hart Crane, as well as the poets of the Harlem Renaissance—Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, and Jean Toomer. He had an interest in African American history and explored his concerns about race in his writing. Hayden ultimately authored nine collections of poetry during his lifetime, as well as a collection of essays, and some children’s literature. Hayden’s poetry gained international recognition in the 1960s, and he was awarded the grand prize for poetry at the First World Festival of Negro Arts in Dakar, Senegal, in 1966 for his book Ballad of Remembrance (Paul Breman, 1962).
Explaining the trajectory of Hayden’s career, the poet William Meredith wrote:
Hayden declared himself, at considerable cost in popularity, an American poet rather than a Black poet, when for a time there was posited an unreconcilable difference between the two roles. There is scarcely a line of his which is not identifiable as an experience of Black America, but he would not relinquish the title of American writer for any narrower identity.
After receiving his graduate degree from the University of Michigan, Hayden remained there for two years as a teaching fellow. He was the first Black member of the English department. He then joined the faculty at Fisk University in Nashville, where he would remain for more than twenty years. In 1975, Hayden received the Academy of American Poets Fellowship and, in 1976, he became the first Black American to be appointed as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (later, U.S. poet laureate).
Hayden died in Ann Arbor, Michigan, on February 25, 1980.
-bio via Academy of American Poets
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Transcript
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| 0:00.0 | Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios. I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Tuesday, |
| 0:06.2 | August 20th, 2004. Today's poem is by Robert Hayden. It is without doubt his most famous poem, |
| 0:15.5 | and for good reason. It's called Those Winter Sundays. And I know it is not winter right now, |
| 0:22.3 | but the beginning of the school year always reminds me of this poem |
| 0:25.9 | because as parents and children alike have to stretch themselves to readjust to a new schedule, |
| 0:34.6 | there are some unique and striking opportunities for these little unsung acts of love in the early morning hours that this poem captures so well. |
| 0:46.9 | I'll read it once, offer a few comments, and then read it one more time. |
| 0:51.6 | Those winter Sundays. |
| 0:59.5 | Sundays, too, my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blue-black cold, and with cracked hands that ate from labor in the weekday weather-made, banked fires, |
| 1:06.1 | 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? |
| 1:29.0 | What did I know of love's austere and lonely offices? |
| 1:39.3 | This poem does something remarkable by capturing a positive thing, the acts of love that a father performs for his son, |
| 1:53.0 | but then also capturing this negative thing, not only the presence of a thing, but the absence of something else. |
| 2:00.5 | There is this sort of quietness that surrounds these acts, |
| 2:05.9 | and almost a quietness and a space between the two people. |
| 2:10.8 | There is not a warm relationship that is described here. And it's not to say it's loveless. Obviously, that's |
| 2:20.3 | what this poem is about. But it perhaps lacks some of the gregarious outward shows of love |
| 2:28.6 | or expressions of emotion that are easier to distinguish, at least as a child, as love. |
| 2:37.0 | This is a poem that is clearly told from the vantage point of age. |
| 2:43.1 | An older man looks back to see with new eyes to recognize in a different light what his father did and sacrificed for him. |
| 2:55.8 | The warmth was in the fire that his father rose and kindled, but in hindsight, there is another |
| 3:06.1 | kind of warmth shown in that act that only the older man can perfectly experience, right? |
... |
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