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 spintering, 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?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^Robert Hayeden
^
A different love poem. JFC
-------
In cases like those, is there much on the good earth that could have soothed father's chronic anger? And didn't all meet it.... Some met it. Others, the facade. those best affected, that he perceived needed him, were the brunt. And father seeing himself was not an option, and in such cases, grew worse. Funny the word offices is in the poem. It carries over even there when it can.
-------
Strange, isn't it what we each see in a poem? What I see is a young man, raised in poverty--sometimes poverty sparks anger--, without a lot of outward affection, realizing after he is grown the love his father actually did have for his family--expressed in the small prosaic actions of building a fire and polishing shoes. JFC
-------
right on JFC--this poem definitely speaks of love & sacrifice & self-centered blindness brought to light
-------
To me, this poem wasn't about poverty, but about vulnerability,.. about people determined to be like the author of {bat wings} of 8941 - determined to their personality disorders, searching for scapegoats, unhappy, and sharing that where they can...
-------
Well, JFC, I have to agree with you, I personally can't see any vulnerability in this poem or scapegoats either, quite the opposite, but as you said it is strange how people see poems so differently. Anon's emotions send him/her a different message which is right for them. That's part of what poetry is, isn't it, for our own interpretation and enjoyment. "Sadness"