Soledad (audio only)
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From Collected Poems by Robert Hayden. Copyright © 1971 Erma Hayden. Used with the permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.
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.
When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
here among them the americans this baffling
multi people extremes and variegations their
noise restlessness their almost frightening