Poem Guide: Robert Hayden -Those Winter Sunday’s
Claude Monet, The Magpie (1868–1869). Collection of Musée d'Orsay.
My Spring quarter of my sophomore year in college I had the wonderful pleasure of taking Angela Brandt’s Contemporary and Modern Poetry class here at the Savannah College of Art & Design. If you are studying still at SCAD or at any university I couldn’t recommend more taking a poetry class.
Safe to say, last spring quarter was a challenging time for me. In a moment of uncertainty, I made the last-minute decision to drop one of my core classes and replace it with this poetry course. It turned out to be one of the best choices I could have made, perfectly timed alongside the release of Taylor Swift’s Tortured Poets Department album, which felt like my salvation. That album deserves a blog post of its own. Swift’s lyrical genius as a backdrop on my way to class couldn’t have hit any better.
Certainly I’m no Patti Smith (had to slip the reference in somehwere),but man oh man did some people in my class come close. I found myself surrounded by incredibly talented classmates, some of whom truly embodied that "tortured poet" vibe. Despite my shyness, I was proud of the writing I was producing, but I had never experienced a class quite like this one before. The weekly discussion boards became my outlet; it was there that I began to find my voice. This class was unlike any I’d experienced before, and although I’ve loved reading for fun since the pandemic hit and I haven’t stopped since, but poetry had largely remained uncharted territory outside my standard English classes.
For one of our weekly discussion boards, I chose to discuss “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden. Hayden and I share a connection to Detroit, my birthplace, a city I often feel distant from. Like me, he was born in Detroit and later attended Wayne State University, the same school where my mom pursued her master’s degree—though she never finished it because she got pregnant with me. I also learned that he served as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 1976 to 1978 (the year my mom was born), a position now known as the U.S. Poet Laureate. He was the first African American to hold this office. What excited me about the class was that everytime I read a new poem, by a new author I would start to look for little hidden connections I had with them. This became habit in my brain. So I eagerly chose this poem. Hayden died in 1980 of heart failure, which I find incredibly poetic for a poet.
My response-
Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays" is a beautifully told poem about family love and sacrifice. In this poem, Hayden is reflecting back on the ways that his own father showed love to their family. How he would get up extra early just to light the fire in the house after a long week at work with worn-out hands. Our parents often demonstrate their love for their children through sacrifices that often go unrecognized by the children themselves. The unconditional love that our parents have for us is so deep.
So evidently stated in the line, "And no one ever thanked him," but the father didn't seek acknowledgment; his actions were driven purely by love. Hayden himself realizes that in his youth, he failed to fully grasp the extent of his father's sacrifices, even if back then they seemed as simple as lighting a fire. Silent gestures like the polishing of the shoes in the cold became increasingly meaningful to Hayden as he matured.
The poem also conveys a sense of regret and longing. Hayden's retrospective insight allows him to grasp the full weight of his father's love, creating an emotional depth that resonates with readers. The father's silent dedication becomes a poignant reminder of the complexity of familial relationships and the often unspoken bonds that tie us together.
Ultimately, Hayden’s "Those Winter Sundays" serves as a beautiful reminder that love is often expressed through sacrifice. It prompts us to reflect on the quiet acts of devotion that surround us and encourages us to appreciate the depth of parental love, which may go unrecognized but is always present. Through his poignant portrayal, Hayden highlights that love, in its purest form, is an unyielding commitment to the well-being of others.
My own parents represent an emblem of sacrifice, and my gratitude to them will always fall short. Their motivations are rooted solely in the profound love that they both hold for me and my siblings. They taught me that sacrifice is an element of love. During the past couple of months, I've had to learn what love is and what love isn't. Because love is just that, sacrifice. Sacrifice. Love is selflessness. Love is generosity and kindness. Love is everything my parents gave me.
To me, this poem is a beautiful reflection of that type of love.
Here are the responses from two of my classmates, whose writing I really admired throughout the quarter sent back my way:
That’s why I loved this class—it turned poetry into a bridge that connected me with my classmates, letting us share our vulnerabilities and build lasting relationships through Hayden’s powerful words. These two responses made me feel encouraged and proud. I loved their responses.
Poetry has taught me about vulnerability, connection, and the power of words. At its core, poetry invites us to open ourselves up—to express our innermost thoughts and feelings in a raw and honest manner. This vulnerability is not just about exposing our emotions; it’s about embracing our humanity and recognizing that we are all shaped by our experiences, joys, and sorrows. Through the act of writing and sharing poetry, I’ve learned that being vulnerable can lead to profound connections with others. When we share our struggles, dreams, or heartbreaks, we create a space where others feel safe to do the same. In our class discussions, I witnessed firsthand how poems could resonate deeply with my classmates, sparking conversations that revealed our shared experiences.
