James Dickey
These are my memoreis, my perceptions of a very famous poet.
The first time I saw James Dickey was at a reception at the University of Tennessee. My dissertation director, Dr. Robert Drake, was hosting the affair. As I entered the room, I could see him, his head towering above everyone else in the crowd--an athlete turned poet. That was in the late 1960s.
When I read his poetry, I did not care for it. It was too egotistical.. I dismissed it. Then came Deliverance, that marvelous novel. I looked again at his poetry. Maybe I had missed something.
In the 1970s, when I was teaching at Roane State Community College in Harriman, Tennessee, James Dickey was to be presenting at the literary festival in Chattanooga. Off we went, my husband and I, to hear James Dickey.
The auditorium was packed. Mr. Dickey told some very funny stories, one is particular I remember. It seems at one event a group of unsavory characters were siddling across the room toward him. He was fearful, looking for an avenue of escape should they accost him. But when they got nearer, they introduced themselves. They were his kin.
And then he read. The egotism came through again, overpowering the poetry. He even stopped in the middle of a passage to say: "That was a good line."
And it WAS.
I don't remember exactly when I found the two poems that overwhelmed me, poems that Randall Jarrell would have called "hit by lightning." One was "Cherry Log Road," much anthologized. It's about a tryst in a junk yard, a cyclist and his paramour. There is a masculine power there that's hard for any woman to comprehend. But the one that most impressed me was "The Bee," a poem that's harder to find. There is a humility there that is especially appealing, so rare in his poems. The family is on a picnic when his child is stung by a bee and starts running in terror, straight toward the busy highway adjacent to the park. The father, a former football player, aging now, must make the tackle of his life to save his fleeing child. He can hear his coach calling, "Get the lead out," even as his legs seem to fail him.
Yes, James Dickey is worth knowing.
But my last story comes back to the egotism. I don't know whether this tale has made it into the lore yet, so I will share what I remember. I found myself on a SAADE committee. (That's South Atlantic Association of Departments of English.) On the committee was the chair of the English Department of the University of South Carolina, where Dickey was its STAR. George, I think his name was. Will anyone who hasn't been a department chair appreciate this? Anyway, George got it in his head that everybody in the department was going to teach freshman composition. Everybody--full professors, too, not just teaching assistants and adjuncts. He made this announcement in a department meeting. You must understand, the revolution in Englsih Departments was that even freshmen deserve to be taught by accomplished scholars, not just lowly graduate students.
When George got back to his office, the phone was ringing. The president of the university was on the phone.
James Dickey would not be teaching freshman English. Department chairs may come and go, but a star is a star.
Read "Cherry Log Road" and "The Bee." They're good.
These are my memoreis, my perceptions of a very famous poet.
The first time I saw James Dickey was at a reception at the University of Tennessee. My dissertation director, Dr. Robert Drake, was hosting the affair. As I entered the room, I could see him, his head towering above everyone else in the crowd--an athlete turned poet. That was in the late 1960s.
When I read his poetry, I did not care for it. It was too egotistical.. I dismissed it. Then came Deliverance, that marvelous novel. I looked again at his poetry. Maybe I had missed something.
In the 1970s, when I was teaching at Roane State Community College in Harriman, Tennessee, James Dickey was to be presenting at the literary festival in Chattanooga. Off we went, my husband and I, to hear James Dickey.
The auditorium was packed. Mr. Dickey told some very funny stories, one is particular I remember. It seems at one event a group of unsavory characters were siddling across the room toward him. He was fearful, looking for an avenue of escape should they accost him. But when they got nearer, they introduced themselves. They were his kin.
And then he read. The egotism came through again, overpowering the poetry. He even stopped in the middle of a passage to say: "That was a good line."
And it WAS.
I don't remember exactly when I found the two poems that overwhelmed me, poems that Randall Jarrell would have called "hit by lightning." One was "Cherry Log Road," much anthologized. It's about a tryst in a junk yard, a cyclist and his paramour. There is a masculine power there that's hard for any woman to comprehend. But the one that most impressed me was "The Bee," a poem that's harder to find. There is a humility there that is especially appealing, so rare in his poems. The family is on a picnic when his child is stung by a bee and starts running in terror, straight toward the busy highway adjacent to the park. The father, a former football player, aging now, must make the tackle of his life to save his fleeing child. He can hear his coach calling, "Get the lead out," even as his legs seem to fail him.
Yes, James Dickey is worth knowing.
But my last story comes back to the egotism. I don't know whether this tale has made it into the lore yet, so I will share what I remember. I found myself on a SAADE committee. (That's South Atlantic Association of Departments of English.) On the committee was the chair of the English Department of the University of South Carolina, where Dickey was its STAR. George, I think his name was. Will anyone who hasn't been a department chair appreciate this? Anyway, George got it in his head that everybody in the department was going to teach freshman composition. Everybody--full professors, too, not just teaching assistants and adjuncts. He made this announcement in a department meeting. You must understand, the revolution in Englsih Departments was that even freshmen deserve to be taught by accomplished scholars, not just lowly graduate students.
When George got back to his office, the phone was ringing. The president of the university was on the phone.
James Dickey would not be teaching freshman English. Department chairs may come and go, but a star is a star.
Read "Cherry Log Road" and "The Bee." They're good.
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