Interesting subject, Gregory.
What came to mind right off for me is Bill Coyle's "Airports: An Ode" (which I'm transcribing here without its indentations):
If the poetic line,
as seems to be the case, is
that there could not be any less
poetic places
than major airports, then I guess
I ought in all good conscience to resign
my membership in the great brotherhood,
since I can't help but think these places good.
Granted, the meals are bland
(though laughably expensive)
the travelers bored beyond belief
(though apprehensive);
granted, a soul might come to grief
(and many have) trying to understand
a given airport's kabalistic maze.
Still, these are places worthy of our praise,
worthy because in fact they are
a means by which we realize
the ancient dream of humankind:
not just to travel fast and far
but to ascend into the skies
and, living, leave the world behind.
And if terminals,
their faults being so apparent,
seem lowly means to that high end,
that's still no warrant
for purist bards to condescend.
Let them remember that within these walls,
among kitsch art and commerce, we await
translation to that other, higher state.
Let them remember, too,
that air travel, however
standardized it has grown, remains
a bold endeavor:
Safe though they are as houses, planes
crash upon take-off, plummet from the blue
or serve as flying bombs in an assault.
So let the poets leave off finding fault;
let them, as is meet and right,
recall how, in antiquity,
that engineer extraordinaire,
father of Icarus and flight,
arrived bereft in Italy.
What he did once we daily dare.
As much as I appreciate the craft in this piece, I confess that it leaves me cold. I'm not convinced. It seems rationalized and contrived. Then again, I dislike airports and planes. This poem does nothing to transform my experience of them.
I feel the same way about the Williamson piece: all the material is taken from the most superficial ego-consciousness of the poet. It's amusing in its own way, and that's about it.
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