"At the San Francisco Airport" by Yvor Winters - Norton Literature

Though Yvor Winters was born in Chicago on October 17, 1900, he took up residence in many places from coast to coast, attending several universities, and ending up working on his doctorate in Stanford University.  During his time, he became an acclaimed poet and literary critic, receiving a prize for his poetry and renown for the magazines he edited.  He suffered from tuberculosis for the majority of his life, however, and unfortunately succumbed to throat cancer on January 25, 1968.




"At the San Francisco Airport" by Yvor Winters
            to my daughter, 1954


This is the terminal: the light
Gives perfect vision, false and hard;
The metal glitters, deep and bright.
Great planes are waiting in the yard--
They are already in the night.                               5


And you are here beside me, small,
Contained and fragile, and intent
On things that I but half recall--
Yet going whither you are bent.
I am the past, and that is all.                                10


But you and I in part are one:
The frightened brain, the nervous will,
The knowledge of what must be done,
The passion to acquire the skill
To face that which you dare not shun.                 15


The rain of matter upon sense
Destroys me momently. The score:
There comes what will come. The expense
Is what one thought, and something more--
One's being and intelligence.                               20


This is the terminal, the break.
Beyond this point, on lines of air,
You take the way you must take;
And I remain in light and stare--
In light, and nothing else, awake.                        25
                                                                       [1954]

Taken at face value, this poem takes place in the San Francisco Airport; a father standing with his daughter, both nervous but ready to board the airplane.  I believe Yvor Winters intended a deeper meaning, however.  The poem is packed with connotations and inferences, and what may ostensibly seem to be an innocent airplane boarding is revealed to be so much more.  The poem begins and ends with an ominous line: “This is the terminal.”  The word “terminal” is ambiguous; directly, it could refer to a portal at the San Francisco Airport.  If one analyzes the context of that word in the poem overall more deeply, however, it takes on a different meaning.  The speaker of this poem (it may very well be Winters himself) recognizes that he has almost arrived at the last stop.  The next stanzas describe his daughter standing beside him, “small,/contained and fragile,” using this simple diction to paint an image of a simple, delicate flower of a girl, requiring special care and attention.  This time, the speaker is “the past, and that is all;” he can no longer be there to support her, “going whither [she] is bent.”  She is not entirely alone though; the speaker’s words offer small hope, as they “in part are one.”  He will remain with her, as part of her “brain,” her “will,” her “knowledge,” and her “passion.” With the memory of him, she will carry on his legacy where he cannot.  The last stanza designates the final goodbye; he repeats that “This is the terminal” from the beginning of the poem, only this time, it is a “break.”  This sharp and precise word marks the final separation and release from his daughter.  He must “remain in light and stare,” for this is his last stop.  Yet, while he cannot board the next plane himself, he is allowed one last look at his daughter, his legacy, before she continues through the terminal.

"Museum Piece" by Richard Wilbur -- Ars Poetica

Richard Wilbur was born March 1st, 1921, in New York City.  He is an accomplished poet and literary translator, having been nominated the second Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress and rewarded with the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry twice.


The good gray guardians of art
Patrol the halls on spongy shoes,
Impartially protective, though
Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse.                        4


Here dozes one against the wall,
Disposed upon a funeral chair.
A Degas dancer pirouettes
Upon the parting of his hair.                              8


See how she spins! The grace is there,
Bit strain as well is plain to see.
Degas loved the two together:
Beauty joined to energy.                                  12


Edgar Degas purchased once
A fine El Greco, which he kept
Against the wall beside his bed
To hang his pants on while he slept.                16
                                                                   [1950]


Richard Wilbur does not take an indirect approach in this poem.  The candid tone of the poem makes it clear that this piece will take a strong stance towards classical art and how it should be treated.  Which way, however, is slightly ambiguous, as he spends a good portion the poem eloquently describing what the pieces are valued for (“See how she spins! The grace is there”), but spends the remainder of the poem describing blatant maltreatment and disrespect ironically to such treasured and respected paintings.  Upon closer inspection, it almost seems that Wilbur’s perspective on this form of art is less than appreciative; in fact, immediately after describing how a Degas piece is beautiful and energetic, he remarks that Degas himself “purchased once/A fine El Greco, which he kept… To hang his pants on while he slept.”  Even the artists themselves show about as much respect to famous paintings as some underpaid night time security guards, only the security guard has his head resting on the painting; Degas rested on it his clothing which covers the place where the sun don’t shine.  It almost makes the third stanza seem heavily sardonic and cold, that such a vibrant and lively picture was in fact made by an artist who, besides figuratively using El Greco as toilet paper, is described as one who sleeps.  One gets the idea from this blunt, biting tone that the poem is not a cry for better treatment of such paintings, but a scornful laugh and a dismissal of that art form.  In Wilbur’s eyes, these paintings may only be used practically as an uncomfortable pillow for the person it gives a job to, or a fancy decoration which serves little purpose in and of itself.


(Poem is copied off of worksheet)