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?

If

BY RUDYARD KIPLING


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too; 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Not In Vain By Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Belated Thank You Note

Why did I always feel so strange,
as if there were something I ought to change,
as if I didn't belong where I was,
that I couldn't do what everyone does?

Because my name was Sarah.

Why did I always feel left out,
wanting to join but ever in doubt?
Nancy and Donna and Cindy and Jane
never seemed to treat me the same

Because my name was Sarah.

What was it that told me I'd been born unawares
in the land of my birth but my fate wasn't theirs?
It wasn't my clothes, it wasn't their stares,
it wasn't that Sarah from Minsk had died.
What was it that bothered, a thorn in my side
and why was I hiding and why had I lied?
What was it that told me that this place, my hometown,
wasn't really my home, wasn't really my town?

My grandmother's name was Sarah.

Why do I thank my parents today?
For giving what constantly gave me away.
In every roll call in every class
I'd stand and feel transparent as glass,
forever the only one in school
whose ancient name broke an unspoken rule.

Why do I send you kisses today?
For the name that wasn't afraid to say:
"I'm different. You know it. Why not just declare
that I'm Jewish. I'm Jewish! My name is Sarah.

By Sarah Shapiro
From Don't You Know It's A Perfect World? (1998)

e.e. cummings - in time of daffodils

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

Unsaid

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.

The neighing horses
are causing echoing neighs
in neighboring barns

-Richard Wright