"Those Winter Sundays" has always been one of my favorite poems. Just one of those that has always stuck in my head--even years and years after my diploma lies buried in some heap that I once deemed 'important papers.' I figured i'd write my own version of it--from a mom's POV. Here's the original, then mine. All in good f un.
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?
Those Spring-Break Days
Every day too I get up early
and put a load of leotards in the Samsung washer,
then with cracked hands that are colored with 'dirt'
from labor in the theatre orphanage feed
the hairless incessantly mewing cat. No one ever thanks me.
The kids wake and hear the cold sputtering, brewing.
When they know the coffee is consumed, they announce the morning,
and slowly I rise from my desk,
fearing the early bickering of the masses,
Speaking indifferently to me,
who has ensured they have milk for cereal
and toys to keep them busy as well.
What do they know, what do they know
of a mom's austere and lonely position?