11. Hayden // A little biography goes a long way  Tim

Reading this poem, the two characters are what caught my attention most.  My first reading I connected to the father character.  In him I found an almost stereotypical male figure.  He is hard-working, strong, and stolid. 

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 wekday weather made

banked fires blaze.  No one ever thanked him.

He's not a perfect man, he might not even be a good man, but he has a sort of love for his family that is easy to overlook.  He shows this love by giving in the quietest manner.  I think the warmth he provides on Sunday mornings is in some ways symbolic of the father's love.  You can't see or hear or touch the warmth, but you know it will be there every Sunday morning.  It will be there regardless of the events of the past day or week. "fearing the chronic angers of that house" 

I turned to the other character in my subsequent readings.  I assume this character is a boy, the author as a child.  The first time I thought as the child, I saw him as a thirteen year old boy, asserting his independence and disinterested in his parents.  "No one ever thanked him"  "Speaking indifferently to him"  After another reading I saw something different.  Now I see that maybe the boy is not acting out against his father, but is very maturely seeing the good in an otherwise not so good man.  I changed my view after returning to the line "fearing the chronic angers of that house"  This line stands out from those before it and indicates to me somehow that there is more than angst within the boy. 

It was interesting to me to read some biographical informatin on Hayden.  I saw this poem as taking place on a farm somewhere in the country, in an average family.  I was surprised to find out that Hayden was born in Detroit, was given up for adoption and moved to Buffalo with his new family.  It was also interesting to read that Hayden's new family was not a happy household.  This is vastly different from the isolated farm setting I saw.  A little information about the author can be helpful. 

www.poets.org

Reading Haydens poem, Those Winter Sundays made me realize the importance of every word within a poem. I believe it was on Thursday that we were having a discussion about reading too much into one word. I love the first line in this poem because it says so much that the rest of the poem tries to explain. And it is all in that one turn of phrase, Sundays too my father got up early. The whole beginning of this poem would hold no weight with the rest of it if He hadnt included the simple small word "too." By using that word he puts it all in context by saying among all the rest his father also did this. It really brings out my idea that every word must be mulled over within a poem. I love how it sets up all the of the strong emotion that comes later in the poem. It has such longing to it. And it is just one small word.

This poem screams out to me what I feel my relationship with my dad is like. However, it seems my relationship with my dad is not as cold as the one between Hayden and his father. My dad does so much for me, and yet I kind of expect him to do so much for me. Hayden seems to have expected it too as a child, and he is only now realizing how much his dad actually did for him. Hayden almost expects his dad to make the house warm every morning in these lines: "I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. / When the rooms were warm, he’d call" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in The Rag and Bone Shop, p. 141). I think of times when I just expected my parents to feed me when I was a child. What if one day those meals just weren’t there? Granted, in high school there were many times when the meal was not there. It is then when I probably first realized how much effort it takes to make a meal. Just like Hayden’s father, my parents probably show marks of wear and tear from their many loving, but physically demanding duties they did for me. Hayden observes how his father’s "…cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekly weather made" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in The Rag and Bone Shop, p. 141). My mom probably has scars from child bearing that I’ve never seen. My dad’s newly forming wrinkles probably have formed from the stress I sometimes caused him. To observe these physical qualities in a person is something that I’ve never really done before. Can one understand someone else and what that person is going through purely by the physical qualities in his/her face or the characteristics of his/her manner? It would be fun to ask a psychologist this. How much can a psychologist figure out about a person without the person really telling him/her? It would be kinda fun to ask Mike Ewing, our psychologist right here at SJU, this question… I find it scary that some of my friends know exactly what mood I’m in even when I don’t think I’m revealing that mood on my face!

I think the fact that the day in the poem is Sunday is really important. Sunday is a time for rest, but in this poem we see the father hard at work like it’s a regular work day. There are some people at rest in this poem: the rest of the family. Because of the father’s hard work, the family is allowed to rest. I had it pretty easy growing up. My parents did a whole lot for me. As I grow up, I realize how much work goes along with being more independent. Growing up sounds like such a good idea, until you’re actually grown up. This poem makes Sunday seem like Darkday. I’m looking through the poem for the images, and the only positive images I see deal with the warmth of the room and the polishing of his shoes. Fitting isn’t it that both of these images are created from the toils of the father? I was searching on the internet for Hayden, and I came across a page where it mentioned how Hayden’s childhood wasn’t so bright and gay. I think Hayden is writing this poem and thinking that his childhood really wasn’t all that bad. He’s now realizing all the positive things that he overlooked as a child: "What did I know, what did I know / of love’s austere and lonely offices?" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in The Rag and Bone Shop, p. 141). It is in these lonely offices, somber, and graveness that Hayden finds his father’s real love for him. Hayden probably didn’t feel this love as a kid and regrets that he hasn’t seen this love until now. There is tension within this poem between the light and the dark. Even within the title I see this tension: "Those Winter Sundays." When I think of winter I usually don’t think of bright, sunny days. When Hayden thinks of his childhood, he usually doesn’t see love. However both of these conclusions are wrong. There can be sunny days in winter, and Hayden does find love in his childhood.

"No one ever thanked him." I am asking myself, I wonder if I ever thanked my parents for being the first ones up to warm the house? How often do our parents do these little things without we as children/kids thanking them? I'm sure I've missed the little things.

"Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold ..." In this poem, the boy is unaware of his father's sacrifice. To him, it's just a normal part of the routine. He doesn't recognize these tasks as a sign of love. As a reader, I can sense the love and devotion this dad has to his family by the description of his hands: "then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze." This dad gets up early every morning to warm his little house, his hands are worn from work. He works hard, and yet his son, like many of us, doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't recognize the affection in that.

I really like the last line: "What did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?" (Rag and Bone Shop, Hayden, pag. 141).

The boy in the story is remembering these early mornings, he is looking back, and in this reflection, is realizing the love his offered in his daily morning chores. There is a sadness in this last line. The author realizes that at the age of his remembrances, he wasn't able to recognize the love in his father, who probably wasn't that close to the boy or maybe not even that affectionate. I can relate to that as well. Love comes in all different forms, and some are easier to see than others.

Now that we live in Iowa, we don't have a wooden stove. In high school, I was often the first one up, so the role of heating the house fell to me. And you can bet, when I came down in the morning, I cranked it up :-)

11. Hayden // Loves me, Loves me not  Kate

Loves me, Loves me not

Sundays too my father got up early / and put his clothes on in the blueback cold,

There seems a sort of reverence in these lines. The phrase "blueback cold" is very descriptive, very emphatic. Starting out the poem with "Sundays too" makes me think that the narrator wants to specially emphasize this . . . his father not only got up early in the cold all week long, but on Sundays too. . . he didn't get a day off.

Then with cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather made / banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

The last sentence of these lines is very different and is almost startling. The whole beginning of the stanza--all of the lines in this stanza so far--have been one long, unwieldy sentence describing his father's morning routine, but this last sentence is short, blunt, and brings, I think, a lot of emotion and feeling to the poem. The narrator is no longer strictly and objectively describing this scene.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking / When the rooms were warm, he'd call,/

This is an interesting use of words. I think he's describing the sounds of the fire crackling, but it really seems to create a sense of just how cold it feels--so bitter and sharp and brittle that the cold itself could splinter and break.

and slowly I would rise and dress, / fearing the chronic angers of that house, /

Hayden does it again, abruptly switching in the last line of the stanza. He was back to describing the morning happenings . . . and suddenly he throws in a line about anger, almost as if he needs to slide these things in, like he's too afraid to say it outright. I researched a little of Hayden's life, of his unhappy childhood in a strict foster home. It would be my guess, then, that the narrator of this poem is Hayden himself, describing his own life. As with the other poems on fathers, this one seems equally emotionally-charged, and radiating a similar personal attachment to what is being described. It's interesting that he describes the angers as angers "of that house" and not of certain people. It almost seems like an infection of the house, like it has permeated the entire environment and everyone in it.

Speaking indifferently to him, / who had driven out the cold / and polished my good shoes as well.

From what I read of Hayden's life, it sounds like he was hurt quite a bit by his family. For one, being highly religious, they continually reinforced the "sinfulness" of his homosexuality. His indifference, then, seems understandable, a way of closing off from being hurt more by his father. These lines also, however, reminded me of my own--and many teenagers' tendency--to close myself off from my parents during my adolescent years.

What did I know, what did I know / of love's austere and lonely offices?

These lines seem sad, mourning here, with the repetition of the question. It seems as if this has really plagued him. The narrator has been talking about anger, indifference, coldness throughout the poem, and in this last line, he talks of love. It seems that his father did not know how to show his love to his son. Love is often about obligation, duty, and sacrifice, especially parental love. It seems that this father could express his love through this outlet, through this "austere and lonely office." The narrator seems to realize that his father was making sacrifices and working hard for him, and that though anger was often more readily expressed, here, he realized, was a place where his father's love was clearly manifested. Maybe his father's love was not always accepting of him or affectionate, but it was there just the same.

 --kate

Robert Hayden's poem, "Those Winter Sundays" is driven by missed opportunities. Images of the past creep into the poet's mind, yet he cannot feel completely satisfied. I know exactly how the poet feels. Looking back on my own childhood years, it saddens me to remember some of the things that my parents did that went unrecognized. At times, I took their care for granted, and actually said nasty stuff to them when they were merely trying to help my development. At the time, of course, I thought they were out to get me--not help me--but I still think back on my past actions of stupidity with shame.

Hayden's poem starts out with one long sentence, a warm memory from his younger years. His father woke up early in the morning on his day off to make the house comfortable. It was winter, but the father wanted his family to be warm. One problem: "No one ever thanked him" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in Rag and Bone, p. 141). This sentence is quite intense because of its tough, terse wording. Compared to the fuzzy memories of the first long sentence, this short statement puts a damper on the warm memory. As I was reading this, it reminded me of some of my own childhood recollections. On the one hand, they're filled with love, warmth, friends, timelessness, and family. In short, they're the perfect images of the past. But on the other hand, there's always more to the story than my mind is willing to immediately recall. I often catch myself looking back on a seemingly ideal experience, only to delve a little deeper into the past and remember some of the immense difficulties of the real moment as well. I feel that Hayden does a nice job of relating a similar experience. He pictures his father waking early to make a sacrifice for the family, which itself is a nice memory, but one that has another side to it. Nobody ever thanked the man. The father got up early, alone, and went about his business completely unrecognized.

Not only that, the boy doesn't appear to have a very good relationship with his father in the first place. He writes: "When the rooms were warm, he'd call, / and slowly I would rise and dress, / fearing the chronic angers of that house" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in Rag and Bone, p. 141). This reminds me of going through adolescence, when my parents were my bitter enemies. I wanted to live in a house that had no rules, no codes of conduct, no parental authority. My parents wanted the opposite. Of course, as long as I lived "under their roof," which, for some odd reason ($$$) I always did, I had no real option. In a sense, however, even when I wanted my personal freedom and a life away from the steady hand of authority, I always enjoyed having my parents take care of me as well. No doubt, I often argued with my parents, but I didn't exactly want them to stop paying the electric bill either. Again, Hayden seems to be relating a similar experience. The boy would rise out of bed slowly and comfortably after a good night's sleep, enter the warm rooms of the house, then argue with his father about some frivolous issue--at least that's how I'm reading it. The boy didn't want to show that he loved his father, perhaps he didn't even realize it.

In the end, he can only ask himself, "What did I know, what did I know / of love's austere and lonely offices?" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in Rag and Bone, p. 141)

My best friend growing up had two dads, a biological dad and a step dad. And just as surely as he had two different dads, he was two different sons. But, for most of us, and I assume for Hayden as well, we only get one dad. To me, this helps clarify the line in the first stanza, "No one ever thanked him." and in the third, the word "indifferently". Maybe no one thanked dad because he was taken for granted, assumed, just always there. Also in Roethke's poem - "You beat time on my head." we get the image of habit, of familiarity, or regularity to a father-son interaction. However your dad raises you, that is how you are. You can't miss what you never had. This is the Titan like power of the father, he molds your very shape, your father is an a priori fact of your individuality. Before we know ourselves and our outer world, that process of knowing to be (not yet there) is in a large part formulated and programmed by our fathers.

______________

Hayden, Robert Earl

Hayden, Robert Earl (b. August 4, 1913, Detroit, Mich.; d. February 25, 1980, Ann Arbor, Mich.), poet and

educator.

Born Asa Bundy Sheffey, Hayden was adopted by William and Sue Ellen Hayden, who changed his name.

Hayden spent a difficult childhood in the Paradise Valley ghetto of Detroit. He suffered from extremely

poor eyesight and was in frequent conflict with his extremely strict and religious foster parents, who

imbued in him the sense of sinfulness - particularly about his homosexual inclination that would inform

much of his poetry.

After graduating from Detroit City College (now Wayne State University) in 1936, Hayden worked on the

Federal Writers' Project and as an editor and critic for the Michigan Chronicle, Detroit's leading African

American newspaper. He became involved in Detroit's lively left-wing arts scene, reading his poetry at

political demonstrations and union rallies. With help from Louis Martin, editor-in-chief of the Michigan

Chronicle, in 1940 Hayden published a collection of his radical poetry, Heart-Shape in the Dust.

Hayden attended graduate school at the University of Michigan where he studied poetry under W. H.

Auden and wrote a number of historical poems about the slave era, including "Middle Passage" and "The

Ballad of Nat Turner," for which he won the Hopwood Award in 1942. At this time, Hayden also converted

to the Baha'i religion, which emphasizes the spiritual unity of humanity, and moved away from his earlier

radical politics.

In 1946, Hayden joined the English Department at Fisk University. After teaching there for 23 years, he

took a job at the University of Michigan, where he taught for the rest of his life. Hayden published eight

books of poetry, but it was not until the publication of his Selected Poems in 1966, however, that he

received national recognition.

Although Hayden would, like many African American poets before him, sometimes use traditional forms

such as the ballad and the sonnet, more often he wrote a sort of modernist collage, juxtaposing images,

phrases, and rhythms. This ornate diction and combination of abstract, but suggestive, metaphors with

homely local detail contributed to his reputation as a difficult and intellectual poet influenced by the

modernism of Eliot and Auden.

The influence of Euro-American modernism on Hayden's poetry as well as Hayden's frequent declarations

that he wanted to be considered an "American poet" rather than a "black poet" led to much criticism of him

as a literary "Uncle Tom" by African American critics during the 1960s. Ironically, African American history,

contemporary black figures such as Malcolm X, and African American communities, particularly Hayden's

native Paradise Valley, were the subjects of many of his poems.

During the 1960s and 1970s Hayden adopted a simpler and more directly personal style, as in his "Elegies

for Paradise Valley." In 1976 he became the first African American to be appointed Consultant in Poetry at

the Library of Congress, an equivalent at the time to being named national poet laureate.

Contributed By:

Robert Hayden

Born Asa Bundy Sheffey in 1913, Robert Hayden was raised in a poor neighborhood in Detroit. He had an emotionally tumultuous childhood and was shuttled between the home of his parents and that of a foster family, who lived next door. Because of impaired vision, he was unable to participate in sports, but was able to spend his time reading. In 1932, he graduated from high school and, with the help of a scholarship, attended Detroit City College (later Wayne State University).

Hayden published his first book of poems, Heart-Shape in the Dust, in 1940. He enrolled in a graduate English Literature program at the University of Michigan where he studied with W. H. Auden. Auden became an influential 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'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. In 1976, he became the first black American to be appointed as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (later called the Poet Laureate). He died in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in 1980.