This is an amazing volume of poetry. It is very modern and refreshing. No cobwebs here!

First off, as in all my reviews of Dickey's work, or work on Dickey's work: a disclaimer. I knew Dickey from 1991 until his death, and thus my opinion of him must be biased in some way, though I'm not sure in which direction, if any. I simply consider him now, after his death, as I did before our meeting in 1991 and our many phone conversations following our meeting, as the last great poet in America. Hart has done a good job of editing and my hat, if I had one on at the moment, would be off to him.-I don't want to belabor the point. Either you get great poetry or you don't. Hart's selection of the best of Dickey's poetry is exquisite. In particular, "The Sheep Child" a poem written from the perspective of the few seconds of life of a product of bestiality is what Dickey is all about:

"...In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment The great grassy world from both sides, Man and beast in the round of their need,

And the hill wind stirred in my wool, My hoof and my hand clasped each other, I ate my one meal Of milk, and died Staring. From dark grass I came straight....."

This is Dickey at his best, in perfect tune with the wondrous and terrible insights combined with the visionary traumas of what we call "Nature," but which we are tremblingly unsure about, just like the sheep child in his (her?) moment of existence.

A must for lovers of true poetry.-A rarity in these days.

If you enjoy To The White Sea, you've got to read some of these poems. Especially those included in 'Buckdancer's Choice,' which won the National Book Award. The Firebombing is classic Dickey, somewhere between his worlds of the modern South and South Pacific fighter pilots.

BRILLIANT

To keep going as a writer over the years, at least in the minor and non-commercial genre of American poetry, you have to tell yourself some version of Mark Twain's trans-Atlantic cable: "The reports of my death [as a poet] have been greatly exaggerated." Robin Magowan is an American surrealist poet of genuine imagination and linguistic risks who has kept writing over the years with a consistency of tactic and concern that might be called obsessional, wish-drenched fantasy from one point of view and the signature of an authentic style from another.

A special listening is at the core of this poetics of the syllable and the transcendental image. For "God still moves in the sound of the long 'o,' as Dylan Thomas once suggested; and although a half-century of deconstructive semiotics (and worse) have taught us to be much more cautious about such enthusiasms for the logos and the mystique of verbal and religious presence, such assumptions and risks of intuitive language and the inscape of imagery are at the core of Robin Magowan's poetry.

Magowan's Lilac Cigarette in a Wish Cathedral, as its wonderful title for this project suggests, registers a poetry of risk-fulfillment, tracking extremities and delicacies of sense and wish, mountain journeys, desert flights, movements into and out of the primacy of ecstatic fulfillment that haunts the Greco-Roman tradition as this comes down to the United States via a "whit manic" incarnation that haunts our little streets and huge continental hungers. He works this through the Emersonian sense of abandonment and solitary quest, which seeks "ravishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the fact" of self-loss and the desacralization that is the fate of commodity culture.

This is a singular collection, suggesting a life-long discipline in the poetic image and the path of heightened language, a highly wrought and prolonged "derangement of the senses" a la Rimbaud that has taken Magowan from Greece to Tibet and back it its quest.

The last poem in Lilac Cigarette in a Wish Cathedral (wherein, as Richard Howard aptly puts it in his trenchant introduction, "the hierophant smokes his lilac cigarette in a wish cathedral" that is each poem) is entitled "O," and moves from the crooning and screeching plea of a Whitmanic voice, "O my rooster's urge/ to spring voice loud" to the cranked-up ecstasy (bleeding sound into picture) of "dawn flushed/ crimson screaming o."

Pain and pleasure as elsewhere bleed into the mix, the poet lost into the rooster's urge to give rebirth to the whole mounting and morning landscape. In "Miniature," this transmutation of local scene into the mystique of poetic/ religious presence is effected not so much through the visual as through impactions of the aural, what Hopkins called the "inscape" of leaping vowels: "The pleasure of sounds innocently grasped/ A peacock in the eyes of the rain." This twisted and torqued little haiku of a poem depends on the "e" becoming "I" becoming "a" as much as upon the image transformation. The poem enacts, in "miniature," the mix of hearing and sounding that becomes the aesthetic medium of the "wish cathedral."

In a time still dominated by the locality of image (as in Williams) and the play of skeptical wit (Stevens, and his heirs like Ashbery), Magowan had always pursued something else, something closer to Breton or Michaux and the sources of magical incarnations in European surrealism as a kind of interior Orphic line. Magowan's book thus opens in Greece, and seeks the ecstasy of dance and music as tactic of self-loss. Later, "Orfeo" courts this lineage, where the poet (ancient to modern) descends to mount, "goes in a gorge/ Of pluming, spraying song." No gods or muse arises to help the sense of abandonment and self-loss amid the murmuring of deadly presence, "just a wingbeat to guide/ Murmurous wasp center, alone."

I am surprised to find no other reviews here of this special book, a collection that should be read.This is a wonderful volume, by a poet so at ease with forms,with his own voice of casual,yet complex insight,with the balancing of colloquial tone and wisdom,the poems really speak wonders. I bought this book after reading his "Echo" in the Best American Poems of 1998, John Hollander's edition. (Checked the back promptly--how to find more of this poet's work!) I think what moves me most about these, beyond the mastery of formal technique made to look so natural, organic really, is the honesty. The pain expressed in many of these poems is familiar -- love, loss, longing,-- but Cummins seems to see into the pain of all the players, and especially into the pain of women, (which startled me,the recognition of my own experience so perfectly expressed by a male poet) and I loved the way he captures the affections and bonds between men and women who willingly suffer at eachother's hands, and the pained humor he has in describing the failings of this "I". "Fling" is fabulous, the strained comedy of an infidelity that should be assuaging but turns ridiculous; "Portals" is a ladder of insights, each stanza taking me deeper into the experience of praying, loving, lying,ego; and my favorite, "The Husband", which never esteems one partner's experience over the other's. I learned a lot from this poet: to admire formal mastery more than I have,the possibilities of it for a modern sensibility, and mostly, how to view others with compassion. In truth, I feel I understand the experience of my own loved ones more because of this book, and will be kinder to them as a result. These poems do what poems should -- change things. I hope many others -- new poets, experienced poets, and lovers of poetry, and skeptics of poetry, will read this book.

I recently came across this book and was thrilled at what I read. Rosen is a wonderful storyteller, his poems are spun seamlessly. Although his use of language is fairly conventional, it is full of surprises. I highly recommend this to any poetry reader who is looking for a book that will reinvigorate your belief in the power of common speech.

Ably edited for The James Dickey Contemporary Poetry Series, Without A Witness showcases the memorable poetry of Stella Johnston. Johnston uses language to pursue singular details or sequences of images and events within the context of experience and human perception.

As good as "Deliverance" the movie is, the book is even better. It goes into more detail about the motivations that led each character to the fateful canoe excursion. Unfortunately, I read it after having seen the movie numerous times, so I kept picturing Bert Reynolds, John Voight, Ned Beatty and Ronny Cox in my mind. Author Dickey is a great storyteller at the top of his game. That the novel also conatins a greater social significance is also a given. Mostly though, it is a fine exploration of the modern American male and how dealing with his testosterone urges can get him into trouble.

a spell-binding book, much better than the movie. I was particularly enthralled by the character development. The description of Ed as he visually tracked the killer from his treetop perch, with fully drawn bow, the target framed within a frame, waiting for the right release moment is particularly memorable with its detail. The other main character Lewis is similarly developed by a wealth of descriptive detail that is a joy to read. These are ordinary people you can identify with from your own life, yet they are tempered by the extraordinary events they experienced on this canoe adventure. It left me with a desire to read more of Dickey's works. Unfortunately there is only one other novel that I know about.

This remarkable book was James Dickey's first novel. The story is familiar to everyone who has seen the John Boorman-directed movie for which Dickey wrote the screenplay. I reread this recently after reading it over a decade ago and was stuck by how little action there actually is this the quintessential adventure story. Much of the novel is Ed Gentry's inner monologue. He thinks about his life and his dissatisfaction with his job. The canoe trip of this story is taken at the instigation of Lewis Medlock, the character played in the movie by Burt Reynolds. Ed regards it almost as a chore to be endured in order to please his friend. He goes through the motions without any passion until placed in a kill or be killed life threatening situation. You could say that Ed's ordeal is a rite of manhood. Despite being a man in his late thirties, he has not yet proved his own worth to himself. Like a manchild of a primitive tribe, he is sent out into the wilderness and must survive by his owns wits and courage or die trying.

Haven't read all of Henry Hart's biography of James Dickey yet--just got it two days ago--but it appears to a fair, factual, detailed account of the extraordinary life of an extraordinary man. Reading the introduction has made me see the connection between the title and a subject--lying--that evidently intrigued Dickey for years--I'm glad to know that the title Hart used was actually Dickey's own choice. The language Hart uses is somewhat stilted--I agree with Erica Da Costa in The New York Times that he could have applied "his own poetic imagination".

Some reviewers have expressed their concern and dissatisfaction with Hart's concern or possible over-concern with the lies that surrounded Dickey's life. The truth is in the poems and in Dickey's own personal statements. Dickey's poems are narratives mixing both autobiographical and fantastical details; some of which Dickey appropriated from other people's lives. Dickey's public life was a collection of stories...lies. Hart puts the focus of his biography on these lies, because they were so bound up with Dickey's actual life. In his 'Self Interviews,' Dickey himself describes his fascination with lying, both in art and in life. He felt that the poet and artist had the right to lie. If Dickey had not made such a big deal about lying throughout his life, then Hart's biography might seem overkill. But, seeing as Dickey was an admitted liar, provacateur and even suggested the title for the book (which serves as a great justification for the focus of the book), I feel the biography paints a wonderful portrait of a wonderful writer. Hart does not set out to smash the image of Dickey, but to illustrate the different perspectives of the poet's life. Aside from this, the work is beautifully written and the drama of Dickey's life provides ample subject matter for the reader looking for adventure.

I would recommend this book to both Dickey's fans and detractors as a substantial work of literature.

For all his faults, James Dickey was a writer of extraordinary power and gifts. He redefined nature poetry and wrote of the outdoors with savage beauty. His reputation is in partial eclipse right now, but that is surely a temporary situation. No writer of his importance can stay buried for long. That said, Dickey was, in addition to being a genius, a scoundrel. Certainly not the first literary genius to push the envelope of misbehavior, but he ranks with the best of them. This outstanding biography by Henry Hart has received some potshots from critics for focusing much attention on Dickey's scandalous side. Well, sorry, Dickey's scandalous side was immense and to downplay it would have been intellectually weak. And, sorry again, but dishonesty on the scale Dickey publicly displayed can't simply be excused as a byproduct of "creative temperament." Hart's book is spectacular in the depth of its research, and yet the writing is so strong that the book never bogs down. In the end, once the anger of Dickeyites has subsided, this biography will emerge as the standard Dickey biography, all the more valuable for its unflinching honesty. It's an outstanding portrait of a complex man.

This is a wonderful book, painful and redemptive at the same time, plus interesting as hell. If you thought of James Dickey only as the author of Deliverance, we are made aware here of what a remarkable poet he was and how pathetically ill-equipped he was for fame, marriage or fatherhood. It's far more than just another story of wretched excess, though. Christopher Dickey writes extremely well and honestly about his father and his feelings for him, and at the end you kind of like the old man, which sure seemed impossible for much of the book. But how many of us, if we had his brilliance or prestige that he gained from it, would have been any better at resisting all the trappings that come along? I'm still thinking about this book long after I finished and the end, where James Dickey is quoted at length on what it means to be a poet, is spellbinding and inspirational, worth the price of the book and the time it took to get to the end.

Anyone with a father can relate to this book. No one needs to live the horrors of alcoholism to identify with the unrelenting need to be loved by our parents, especially our fathers. Regardless of age,race,or financial status, we continuously seek the approval of our parents. And Christopher Dickey paints an honest portrayal of what it's like to trust,love,hate and endure our parents. His experiences stir our hearts as we identify with the pain a parent can inflict on us. As his story unfolds, we see a part of ourselves in him as he learns to put things into perspective and let go of the pain. Refreshingly honest,and poetically constructed, Christopher Dickey has a magical way with words that makes us better for having shared his, and our, life experiences. A timeless story,excellently written, and guaranteed not to be forgotton!

We've had many books from authors who grew up as the children of difficult, self-obsessed geniuses, but Christopher Dickey's memoir of his father, James Dickey, ranks at the very top. "Summer of Deliverance" has the ring of bitter truth, and Christopher Dickey is just as hard on himself as he is on his father; this isn't "Daddy Dearest," thank God. The chapters on the making of the film version of "Deliverance"--an abortive collaboration between father and son which ended when the father died--are both hair-raising and delicious. (I'm surprised Burt Reynolds hasn't sued!) "Summer of Deliverance" had the effect on me of making me want to go back and reread all of James Dickey's poems and novels immediately, as well as to check out Christopher Dickey's other books. I suspect most readers will have exactly the same reaction.