Love in a time of winter
What can you see now that you couldn’t see then? (also, happy new year)
Dear friends,
Hallo and happy new year to you. I hope that your 2023 is starting off kindly, with what’s most important and needed for you.
When we ended 2022 it was with soup — and I barked with laughter at some of your comments in reply to the recipe. Someone said Do you really cook like that? to me the other day. I told him I did. He shook his head.
Anyway. Hallo to you, and to the new year, and to the new winter. No recipes today. Just a poem from Robert Hayden. “Those Winter Sundays” from his Collected Poems (1966, Liveright):
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?
I always think that time is a character in every poem, sometimes it’s loud, other times it’s the quiet foundation. Time, and its passing, seems to be so present in this magnificence from Robert Hayden. A man recalls the gestures of love enacted by his father during Detroit winters, gestures that perhaps were not noticed, or valued, by the son at the time. I always think that the poet is older now, perhaps after the death of his father, or perhaps of a similar age his father was when the boy-poet’s memories were forming. He’s seeing the love, those “austere and lonely offices”. From here, from this time of writing, he reflects.
Look at those adjectives: blueback, cracked, weekday, banked, chronic, austere, and lonely. And the other descriptors — adverbs, adverbial nouns — too: ached, splintering, breaking, slowly, indifferently. This is a poem of reflection, a poem that looks back with the kind of wisdom only time and aging can do. I don’t find it to be a sad poem, even though it’s a poem that doesn’t deny sadness. I find it to be a grounding poem about the actions of love, even in a house with those “chronic angers”.
And what better way to start the year than with a question about love:
What, now that you are the magnificent age you are, do you now recognise as love, even if it was difficult to recognise at the time?
This is the substance of the poetry of our lives, and the substance of the art of living.
Friends, hallo to everything you’re greeting as the year begins. I’ll look forward to meeting you in the comments this week,
Pádraig
PS: A special welcome to friends who’ve made your way here through The Pause, On Being’s Saturday newsletter. If you like commenting, I’d love to meet you in the comments as you respond to this week’s prompt.
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Poetry in the world
Friends in the Minneapolis area, you’ll be glad to know that U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón will be in town Thursday, January 26th for a conversation with Krista Tippett — this is a live recording for the upcoming season of On Being! You may know Ada Limón’s poem “Wonder Woman” from Season 2 of Poetry Unbound, or found it in the Poetry Unbound book. Get your tickets here to join in person at 7pm CT, Northrop Theater on the University of Minnesota campus, or to view online.
I published a new book of my own poems — Feed the Beast — last week. On January 26th, I’m having two online book launches. You’re welcome at either … or both, if you’re a devil for punishment ;)
One is on Zoom at 6pm GMT (London/Dublin) in conversation with Dante Micheaux.
The other is also on Zoom at 7:30pm ET (4:30pm Pacific; 5:30pm Mountain; 6:30pm Central) where I’ll be in conversation with Ellen Bass.
And beginning January 29:
I’ll be leading a weekly series through the Rowe Center called “Practicing the Inner Life.” It’ll be every Sunday from January 29th - February 26th. It’s all online, with a program cost of $250. Registration and more information here.
There’s something about clean sheets, and my mother knew this. As I ventured off to camps, dorms, apartments, my very first home—she always made her way to that bare mattress, tucking the edges in tenderly, getting the pillow just so. For years, she'd been my safe, soft place to land. So, when I spread my wings, she was hellbent on prepping that nest before we said our goodbyes.
Of course, I didn't see it then—thought love was all romance and grand gestures. How could I know that the silent fluffing of a pillow, a warm duvet folded over like an invitation was a reassurance, a mother bird's way of whispering
I'm always here.
I agree--this is not a sad poem, but it intersected with me missing my dad on this dark, cold, and rainy morning. My father was also from Detroit, and his father showed him love in ways he could only notice with the passage of time.
So, my grief is unleashed, again. It happens. It's probably time to cry again anyway.
My father died from complications due to Covid in August 2020. What I knew was love when he was alive, but even more so now that he's gone, were his frequent but brief calls and text messages asking me how I was, telling me he loved me, telling me he was praying for my family and me, recommending a book or a sermon even though he knew I probably wouldn't read or listen because we were near the opposite ends of those spectrums.
But it was love. He thought of me often. He prayed for me. He loved me well. And I miss him tremendously.
After he died I remember wondering, who will pray for me now? I'm not Catholic, but I've come to believe in the prayers of the saints. I want (need?) to believe he's still praying for me.
Thank you for sharing this poem, your reflection, your question. Happy new year to you, Pádraig, and to everyone here.💚