דיסקוסיע איבער פאעזיע פון אן ארטיסיטשע פערספעקטיוו

Those Winter Sundays

Robert Hayden, 1913 - 1980
.


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?

Questions to discuss
1. What kind of mood does the poem evoke? Is the poem forgiving or angry or somewhere in between

2. The most dominant sound in the first stanza is the *k* sound: cold, clothes, black, ached, cracked, weekday, etc. What effect does that have, especially in light of K being a harsh sound. (Consider some of the English words ending in *ck* to see how harsh they sound.) There's also repetition of other sounds in the first paragraph -- alliteration in the form of "banked blaze" and "weekday weather." How does that add or detract from the music and consequently, the mood of the opening stanza

3. The first stanza ends with a short, clipped sentence: No one ever thanked him. What effect does its abruptness have on the reader? Do you think it's meant to evoke empathy for the dad? For the son? Is it making a statement in another way

4. Please add your own questions or comments

Okay, here’s how I feel about question #1. This is my personal interpretation, and others’ opinions and interpretations are certainly as valid as mine. This poem seems nostalgic and sad. It is as if the poet feels remorse, which is worse than regret in a way, because there’s the feeling of distance attached to it, the feeling that there’s nothing that can be done about it now. Too many years have passed, and even if the father is still alive, the son’s thanking him now (or rather, appreciating his hard work now) cannot make up for those years when “no one ever thanked him.” And so, there’s inherent sadness in the poem

But there’s also anger. Our childhood never quite leaves us, and our anger at the injustices perceived at that time don’t really ever completely fade away. All the k-k-k-ing in the first stanza is the poet’s childhood anger expressing itself. He’s literally hock-ing with his teeth.

Realize that there's a specific reference to Sundays. Church day. But also vacation day. And on this day of vacation, the one day the father was off work, he got up early anyway. In other words, he was devout. This might be one of the causes of anger in the son. Because though the "older" son understands the father's sacrifice, the way he woke up early and warmed the house up for them, the "younger" son remembers and still feels his resentment at having to spend his day doing his religious duties instead of sleeping in or having fun

What Work Is

By Philip Levine


We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it’s someone else’s brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, “No,

we’re not hiring today,” for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who’s not beside you or behind or

ahead because he’s home trying to

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you’re too young or too dumb,

not because you’re jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,

just because you don’t know what work is

A Classic!


The Children's Hour

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Between the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's Hour.


I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.


From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.


A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.


A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded

They enter my castle wall!


They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.


They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!


Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,

Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!


I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.


And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,

And moulder in dust away!

This is a quote by George R. R. Martin in *Game of Thrones*, which reads like poetry. In light of the weather we're having, I thought it was apropos to put it up.

Oh, my sweet summer child ... what do you know of fear?
Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet
deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long
night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children
are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and
hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods

Courage

You asked me, “What is Courage?”
And I took the dictionary down and spelled it out.
For such a little boy, the heavy book was ponderous.
You twisted it about;
You said, “It’s being brave-and what is that?”
You said, “It’s not to fear-am I afraid?
Does courage arch its back up like our cat,
And spit at everything it meets?” you said.

Perplexed, we closed the book and took a walk
And came where fire had worked untimely death;
The woods were gone; but on a slender stalk
A flower inched for life. I caught my breath.
“Courage,” I said, and took you by the hand,
“Is one white flower in a fire-swept land.”

Helen Frazee-Bower

Little Theory

A machine named
Universe knew about
itself what it knew at
present, nothing more.
Away it skipped,
blowing bubbles and
careful not to step on
Father's clock.

Here's how I understand this lovely prose poem by Janet Kaplan (I'd forgotten to include the author). As I said above, there are certainly other interpretations as valid, or perhaps more valid, than mine.

The universe is unknowable, yet as rational, curious humans, we have an innate desire to know and understand it. So we truck along, researching, testing, proving whatever we could. But we only know what we know at this present time. This "machine" called Universe keeps doing its machine things, but it cannot know more about itself than what is known at present. Still, the people in this universe understand that there's more to know and so they make hypotheses, they blow little bubbles. Whether these bubbles will turn into newly accepted pieces of knowledge remains to be seen.

Clocks are markers of time and history. A "father's clock," which is another way of saying "grandfather's clock," indicates the past, as this type of clock is not in use much in these contemporary times. So what the poem is saying is that while we blow our airy bubbles, the one thing we are careful of is to stick with what we've already learned

I find that hard to believe. Do you have a link to the page where you found this poem? If this is a complete poem, it sounds awfully mawkish to me and not at all like good poetry. What do you think?

A beautiful poem about the fragility and poignancy of young love, and the kindness of someone who is already older and understands.

Oranges
By: Gary Soto


The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickle in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn’t say anything.
I took the nickle from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady’s eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl’s hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.