A Poem for Fathers’ Day

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 Winter Sundays” from Collected Poems of Robert Hayden, © 1966 by Robert Hayden – Liveright Publishing


Robert Hayden (1913-1980)

American poet, essayist and educator.
The first African-American Consultant in Poetry
to the Library of Congress (1976-1978)

 

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ON THIS DAY: June 17, 2018

June 17th is

Fathers’ Day

Apple Strudel Day

Eat Your Vegetables Day

World Tesselation Day *

World Day to Combat Desertification and Drought *

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MORE! John Kay, Susan B. Anthony and M.C. Escher, click

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ON THIS DAY: June 16, 2018

June 16th is

National Fudge Day

World Sea Turtle Day *

International Day of the African Child *

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MORE! Camille Corot, Kay Graham and J.D. Salinger, click

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ON THIS DAY: June 15, 2018

June 15th is

Lobster Day

Global Wind Day *

Magna Carta Day *

Nature Photography Day *

World Elder Abuse Awareness Day *

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MORE! Benjamin Franklin, Margaret Abbott and Mario Cuomo, click

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Word Cloud: SUMMER-LONG

by NONA BLYTH CLOUD

While Memorial Day has become the unofficial start of summer for Americans, the actual start of the season here in the Northern Hemisphere is the Summer Solstice.  The Solstice this year began at 6:07 AM, U.S. East Coast time, yesterday.

This beginning, the longest day of the year, is also the brink of Earth’s long tilt back toward Winter north of the equator, which starts today — a reminder that the days of sun and roses are fleeting.

Finding poems about June and the Summer Solstice isn’t hard, but finding good ones is not easy. June rhymes with too many things, and there’s a trainload of June-Moon-Spoon-Tune stuff out there. And most of the poems, whether about the month or the day, tend to be pretty and flowery, but all too easily forgotten.

I like Garrison Keillor’s criteria: “Stickiness, memorability, is one sign of a good poem.  You hear it and a day later some of it is still there in the brainpan.”

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These first two poems focus on a different aspect of summer — insects. In this Mary Oliver poem, it’s a grasshopper, along with her thoughts about Life, the Universe and Everything:

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

grasshopper female


Lynda Hull remembers Florida’s mosquitoes and cicadas, the unraveling of love, and her mixed memories of her parents.

Insect Life of Florida

In those days I thought their endless thrum
was the great wheel that turned the days, the nights.
In the throats of hibiscus and oleander

I’d see them clustered yellow, blue, their shells
enameled hard as the sky before the rain.
All that summer, my second, from city

to city my young father drove the black coupe
through humid mornings I’d wake to like fever
parceled between luggage and sample goods.

Afternoons, showers drummed the roof,
my parents silent for hours. Even then I knew
something of love was cruel, was distant.

Mother leaned over the seat to me, the orchid
Father’d pinned in her hair shriveled
to a purple fist. A necklace of shells

coiled her throat, moving a little as she
murmured of alligators that float the rivers
able to swallow a child whole, of mosquitoes

whose bite would make you sleep a thousand years.egret in reeds
And always the trance of blacktop shimmering
through swamps with names like incantations—

Okeefenokee, where Father held my hand
and pointed to an egret’s flight unfolding
white above swamp reeds that sang with insects

until I was lost, until I was part
of the singing, their thousand wings gauze
on my body, tattooing my skin.

Father rocked me later by the water,
the motel balcony, singing calypso
with the Jamaican radio. The lyrics

a net over the sea, its lesson
of desire and repetition. Lizards flashed
over his shoes, over the rail

where the citronella burned merging our
shadows — Father’s face floating over mine
in the black changing sound

of night, the enormous Florida night,
metallic with cicadas, musical
and dangerous as the human heart.

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ON THIS DAY: June 14, 2018

June 14th is

National Bourbon Day

International Bath Day *

Strawberry Shortcake Day

UN World Blood Donor Day *

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MORE! Charles Babbage, Margaret Bourke-White and Archimedes, click

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ON THIS DAY: June 13, 2018

June 13th is

International Albinism Awareness Day *

Cupcake Lover’s Day

Random Acts of Light Day *

Sewing Machine Day *

Weed Your Garden Day

Kitchen Klutzes of America Day

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