Edward Field's midcentury poem "Icarus" re-imagines the ending of a famous Greek myth. In the original tale, a young man named Icarus flies too close to the sun using wings held together with wax; when his wings then melt, Icarus falls to sea and drowns. This Icarus, however, survives his fall and establishes a new life in the city. Seemingly scarred by his disastrous public failure, Icarus leads a mundane, monotonous, and isolated existence, commuting to work during the day and attempting to recapture his former glory only while hidden in the dark confines of his workshop at night. The poem illustrates the stifling conformity of modern life, the painful loss of youthful dreams, and how fear of failure can prevent people from reaching their full potential.
Some feathers and a hat floating in the water were the only evidence of Icarus's remarkable flight, fall, and presumable drowning in the sea. The police didn't bother to investigate the more bizarre details of what happened, and the people who witnessed the event quickly dispersed to watch (or join) a war between rival gangs. The police report, which was quickly forgotten, said that Icarus had drowned, but this wasn't true: in fact, Icarus swam away from the scene until he finally reached the city. There, he rented a house and worked in his garden.
His neighbors thought that Icarus, who now went by the name Mr. Hicks, was just a nice, regular guy. They couldn't possibly imagine that the same man dressed in drab, ordinary business clothes had once maneuvered a pair of enormous wings. They couldn't imagine that Icarus's unhappy, hopeless eyes had once set themselves on the sun. Even if Icarus had told his neighbors about his past, they wouldn't have understood. His wild tale would have messed up the tidy yards in front of their homes (i.e., it would have sewn chaos in their neat, orderly lives). And yet, everything Icarus read told him that what he'd done was all wrong: that Icarus had no business growing old in a suburb. He wondered if it was possible for the exceptional talent of a hero to be reduced to the merely average skill level of a regular person.
Now, every night, Icarus digs into the pain his failure had caused. Every day, he closes the curtains in his workshop, builds a small pair of wings, and then attempts to fly up to the ceiling lamp. He never succeeds, and he is disgusted with himself for attempting this flight in the first place. There was a time when he thought of himself as a heroic figure undertaking grand, noble deeds. He dreamed about his fall from the sky, which he viewed as a deeply tragic and noble act. Nowadays, he just commutes to work on the train.
He does his part by joining various groups devoted to specific tasks. All the while, he thinks it would have been preferable to have died in the water.
Edward Field's "Icarus" contrasts the hopes and dreams of youth with the compromises and disappointments of adulthood. The poem continues the Greek myth of Icarus, a boy who escaped from imprisonment by flying on makeshift wings held together by wax. In the myth, Icarus flies too close to the sun; the wax melts and Icarus drowns in the sea. But in Field's poem, Icarus swims away and assumes a new life in suburbia under the name Mr. Hicks. No longer young and recklessly heroic, Icarus now plods through a dull, ordinary life, wishing all the while that "he had drowned." The poem suggests that, while the compromises of adulthood might feel safe and practical, they're also rather tragic: grand youthful ambition, once lost, is hard to reclaim.
The Icarus of this poem is a far cry from the reckless boy who dared soar close to the sun and "thought himself a hero." The poem even implies that Icarus never actually meant to survive his flight—that, as a young man, he had dreamed of making a name for himself and of burning out "heroically."
But by swimming away from the scene of his failure, Icarus essentially allows his former self to die in the water. His choice to take on a new identity suggests that he’s embarrassed by his youthful arrogance and downfall. His crash changes him from a rash kid to a responsible, yet decidedly less remarkable, adult.
Now Icarus is unrecognizable (and miserable) as Mr. Hicks, who rides a commuter train to work while wearing his "gray, respectable suit." His "sad, defeated eyes" hide his former glory, making it impossible for those around him to imagine him doing anything other than behaving responsibly. And, in comparison to the wild endeavors of Icarus's youth, the "neat front yards" and "various committees" of adulthood are safe yet boring and predictable.
Realizing his unhappiness, Icarus attempts to recreate his glorious moment of soaring on wings, but it's a rather pathetic attempt—one that suggests he's trapped in and unwilling to escape from his comfy suburban prison. Every day, Icarus "Constructs small wings and tries to fly / To the lighting fixture on the ceiling." This "lighting fixture" is hardly the lofty sun he once aimed his sights on, and he "Fails every time." He also "hates himself for trying," perhaps because doing so reminds him of everything he's given up by accepting an average existence.
His whole life seems like "a horrible mistake," in fact, and he feels it would have been better to drown in the sea than survive only to be faced with unending boredom and failure. In this way, the poem offers a tragic glimpse of a middle-aged man who has lost touch with his youthful fire and perhaps encourages readers not to abandon their own youthful aspirations.
"Icarus" illustrates how pride and fear of failure can prevent people from reaching their full potential. Icarus's father in the original myth is the brilliant craftsman Daedalus, who builds the wings they use to make their escape using feathers and wax. Icarus fails to heed his father's warning and flies too close to the sun, which melts his wings. The myth is commonly understood as a warning against hubris, which Field's poem further links with shame and cowardice: instead of swallowing his wounded pride and trying again, this Icarus abandons his former identity altogether and hides out in the suburbs. Icarus clearly resents his average existence, and in this way the poem suggests that a life free from public risks is no life at all.
Icarus doesn't confront the police or "witnesses" after his "tragic fall." Instead, perhaps embarrassed by his big mistake, he takes their disinterest as an opportunity to slip away unnoticed and don a new suburban identity, one that no one will suspect is tied to the boy who flew too close to the sun.
On the surface, the new Icarus is a normal, "respectable" member of his suburban community. Yet Icarus is clearly miserable, still dreaming "of his fall, the tragic fall of a hero." And this dissatisfaction stems, at least in part, from his pride: Icarus sees himself as someone who should be above "the middling stature of the merely talented" and laments how someone with his pedigree could be "aging in a suburb." All the "books" he reads tell him he should be doing more—that choosing this safe, mediocre life has been "a horrible mistake."
But the same pride that makes him think he's better than the life he leads prevents him from doing anything about it. Indeed, the contrast between Icarus's private and public lives suggests that he's so scarred by his early failure that he will never risk failing in front of others again.
Having gotten a taste of greatness, Icarus longs to recreate his dramatic flight, but his small-scale reconstruction is pathetic. His daily attempt to fly only within his small workshop suggests that he's stuck in a pattern of mediocrity that he will never break free from—no big wings, no daring attempt in the ceiling-free sky, because that would require the potential of a second failing for all to see.
As sad as his private attempts are, Icarus’s public life is even sadder. The suit, the commuter train, the committee work—those might be the building blocks of some people’s dreams, but they construct misery for Icarus, who cannot enjoy his current life because he never allowed himself to find out if he really could achieve greatness through persistence and daring. His refusal to act boldly—to be courageous and humble enough to accept the risk of failure—ensures that he will stay among the average.
Icarus's loss of ambition results not just from his own fear of failure, the poem implies, but also from societal pressure to conform. He goes through the motions of living a normal life, renting a house with a garden and riding the train to a steady job in his "gray, respectable suit." Yet despite his efforts to be like everybody else, it's clear that no one around Icarus actually cares about him—nor, it seems, do they really care about much of anything at all! Modern life is marked by apathy and conformity, the poem suggests—features that stifle individuality, passion, and empathy.
The world of the poem doesn't seem like a particularly compassionate or curious one. The police "ignore / [t]he confusing aspects of" Icarus's fall, for example, preferring to file an inaccurate report than actually investigate what happened to the boy. Other "witnesses," meanwhile, can't be bothered to stick around; the speaker says that they "ran off to a gang war"—another dystopian detail that the poem lists off with clear nonchalance, as though such violence is a simply an expected part of life in the modern world.
Meanwhile, the neighborhood Icarus settles down in is filled with "neat front yards" that he doesn't dare "disturb," a sign of society's desire to maintain the appearance of order and normalcy (even in the face of apparently common "gang" violence). And as the poem goes on, readers might get the sense that Icarus has done too good a job of fitting in. His neighbors can't fathom that there could be anything special about "That nice Mr. Hicks," and, even if he were to tell them about his remarkable past, he knows they’d just look at him with "a shocked, / uncomprehending stare." In other words, they wouldn't be able to even understand what he's talking about, so far removed would it be from their own mundane experiences.
Cookie-cutter suburban life, the poem suggests, can be shallow, hollow, and, above all, intensely isolating.
Only the feathers ...
... a gang war.
The poem's opening lines allude to the traditional ending of the story of Icarus, a famous figure from Greek mythology. Icarus was a young man who, along with his father Daedalus, tried to escape from imprisonment by flying away on wings made of feathers and wax. Icarus flew too close to the sun, resulting in the wax in his wings melting; he plummeted to his death in front of his father's eyes.
This poem picks up where the myth left off, transporting Icarus to the modern day and imagining what the scene looked like after he crashed into the water:
Only the feathers floating around the hat
Showed that anything more spectacular had occurred
Than the usual drowning. [...]
In other words, there's no evidence that something amazing (a boy flying and falling from the sky) just happened.
The fact that a "drowning" is considered "usual" suggests that this modern world is a violent, disturbing one; apparently, people drown all the time, and no one really cares. Indeed, the police, whose job it is to set the record straight, don't feel like grappling with the "confusing aspects of the case," while the "witnesses" who actually saw Icarus's fall "ran off to a gang war." The speaker mentions all of this casually; gang wars, drownings, apathetic police—it all comes across as par for the course in this world.
The poem's use of conversational free verse and plenty of enjambment adds to its nonchalant tone. There's no strict meter regulating the poem's rhythm, and the speaker doesn't contort phrases to make them fit on a single line. Instead, the poem reads almost like prose, its long sentences sprawling unconstrained down the page.
That said, there are some devices here that keep the poem feeling musical. For example, alliteration ("feathers floating," "police preferred") adds some moments of emphasis and keeps the poem sounding poetic.
So the report filed ...
... tended the garden.
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Get LitCharts A+“That nice Mr. ...
... controlled huge wings
Nor that those ...
... neat front yards;
Yet all his ...
... the merely talented?
And nightly Icarus ...
... himself for trying.
He had thought ...
... he had drowned.
The "huge wings" that Icarus once "controlled" symbolize his youthful dreams and ambitions, which he left behind when he swam away from his public fall and moved to the city. These wings had once hoisted him up above "the middling stature of the merely talented," bringing him closer and closer to the "sun," suggesting the heights to which he aspired. But when the sun melted his wings and he went crashing into the sea, he lost his nerve: he didn't want to fail that publicly ever again.
Since then, Icarus still feels the old urge to fly—but his attempts are constrained by pride and fear. He "Constructs" only "small wings," and he aims only as high as "the lighting fixture on the ceiling." In other words, his dreams are minuscule compared to what they once were.
"Icarus," of course, alludes to the Greek myth of Icarus.
Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a famous craftsman who incurred the wrath of King Minos of Crete. Minos imprisoned Daedalus and Icarus in a labyrinth (one Daedalus had actually built for Minos, but that's another story!). In order to escape, the clever Daedalus built huge wings of feathers and wax. He instructed Icarus not to fly too close to the water, for if the wings got wet, they would become too heavy and stop working. Likewise, he told Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, as the heat would melt the wax in the wings. Once they took off, however, Icarus was so filled with the exhilarating power of flight that he ignored his father's warning and flew higher and higher, "Compell[ing]" the sun to melt his wings. He fell from the sky into the sea and drowned.
The poem alludes to pieces of this myth throughout. Through these allusions, the poem juxtaposes the thrilling glory of Icarus's youth with his boring, normal life in the suburbs.
For example, the speaker notes how his "gray, respectable suit / Conceal[s] arms that had controlled huge wings," and that his "sad, defeated eyes had once / Compelled the sun." His earlier "genius" is now "the middling stature of the merely talented," and he leaps for "lighting fixture on the ceiling" rather than the sun in the sky. Allusions to Icarus's epic backstory make these details feel all the more dismal.
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Sensational, amazing.
"Icarus" consists of 31 lines of free verse broken up into four stanzas. The poem's first three stanzas are much longer than its fourth: the stanzas contain nine, twelve, eight, and just two lines, respectively. This dramatic contrast in stanza lengths evokes the way Icarus's dreams, and indeed the scope of his entire life, shrink after he swims away from the site of his fall.
"Icarus" is written in free verse, so it doesn't use any sort of regular meter. Instead, the poem's language feels casual and conversational. This makes sense, given that this is a modern Icarus who has survived his fall into the sea and ended up in the city. The lack of meter in the poem reflects the fact that it's updating the myth of Icarus for a contemporary audience.
As a free verse poem, "Icarus" doesn't use a rhyme scheme. As with the poem's lack of meter, the lack of rhyme scheme keeps things feeling more relaxed and conversational. The language flows naturally, evoking everyday speech. One might also argue that the plain, unadorned language and absence of more overt musicality echo the "sad, defeated [hero]" who has stepped out of Greek myth into the "neat[ness]" and conformity of a modern world.
The speaker of the poem isn't a part of the story they're telling; they don't participate in any of the events, and they don't refer to themselves at all. They know every part of the story (i.e., they're omniscient): what really happened to Icarus, how his neighbors think of him, and the questions that trouble him when he's alone. The speaker also presents Icarus neutrally—that is, they aren't passing judgment on Icarus's actions or failures. Instead, they focus on how Icarus feels about these things.
The poem is clearly set in the modern world. The poem references "police" and "gang war[s]," drawing attention to the violent aspects of modern society. Icarus ends up "rent[ing] a house" in the city, where he's surrounded by neighbors who can't see past his "gray, respectable suit" or "sad, defeated eyes." Likewise, Icarus is surrounded by "neat front yards" that are not to be "disturb[ed]." The world he lives in now is one of conformity and polite appearances.
Only in his "workshop" with the "curtains carefully drawn" is Icarus able to entertain his old ambition, though the "wings" he makes now are "small" and he reaches only as high as the ceiling light. Ultimately, he has settled for a life of "commuter trains" and "committees." His life may be respectable, but there's nothing daring, adventurous, or exciting about it. In short, it couldn't be further from the epic, passionate world of the original myth.
Although Edward Field began writing poetry during his time serving as a pilot in World War II, he didn't publish his first book, Stand Up, Friend, With Me, until 1963. Since then, he has published a variety of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction books and also edited multiple poetry anthologies.
Field is sometimes associated with the New York School of Poets, in large part because of his romantic relationship with Frank O'Hara. The New York School wasn't an actual institution; it was a group of experimental artists and poets who shared an interest in ordinary, everyday occurrences, and who wished to portray life in a way that felt true to how it happened. They tended toward spontaneity and humor and were influenced by both surrealism and expressionism.
Many other contemporary poets have found inspiration in the myth of Icarus. Two of the most famous works are W. H. Auden's "Musée de Beaux Arts" and William Carlos Williams's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus." Both of these poems, like Field's, focus on the way that the rest of the world ignores Icarus's "spectacular" fall, swiftly moving on with their humdrum lives in the face of something incredible.
Edward Field was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1924, to Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe. Field's experience as a pilot in the U.S. Air Force during World War II had a major impact on his life. During a bombing of Berlin, Field's plane was shot down; the pilot managed to direct the plane into the North Sea, thereby saving most of the men on board, including Field. The poet would likely have died of hypothermia had it not been for one of the other men, who gave up his seat on the life raft to Field and subsequently died trying to swim to a second raft. It's possible that his experience as a pilot (and the heroism of these men) informed "Icarus" on some level.
The end of WWII also saw enormous growth of American suburbs. Thousands of returning veterans wanted to settle down and start families, taking advantage of low-interest government loans to buy homes and do so. Throughout the 1940s and '50s, the U.S. also saw a return to traditional, conservative values, and there was a great deal of pressure to conform to a certain way of life. As a gay man from a poor, immigrant, Jewish family, it isn't difficult to imagine why Field might have felt called to criticize the stifling homogeneity of suburban life.
A Look at the Poet's Career — A brief introduction to the poet's work, plus additional poems, from the Poetry Foundation.
The Poem Out Loud — Listen to a reading of the poem set to music.
An Explanation of the Myth of Icarus — An animated video that portrays the events of the original Greek myth of Icarus and Daedalus.
How Field's Experiences Shaped His Poetry — An interview in which Field discusses his upbringing, his heritage, his time serving as a pilot in WWII, and his experiences as a gay man in New York City after the war.
Field Discusses the Birth of the Gay Literary Scene in New York — An NPR interview with Field regarding the publication of his memoir, The Man Who Would Marry Susan Sontag, in which he discusses what it was like living in Greenwich Village in the 1960s.