He recommended to the class a collection of Robinson poems for which he had written an introduction some years ago. ``I read this through last night to see if I agree with myself, which I don't always, and I must say I do, so it's safe.'' Later Dickey was reading from the critic Edmund Wilson, who wrote in passing that he thought Emily Dickinson was overrated. Dickey's eyes left the page, rolled upward, and he shook his head. ``No, no, Edmund. You're wrong about that, dead wrong,'' he said, then continued reading. ``Mr. Dickey has opinions all right,'' said a student, Alan Asnen. ``You have the feeling he knows what he's talking about. I think he knows ... everything. He certainly knows poetry, and loves it.'' Dickey at one moment appears hard and demanding and at the next soft enough to cry on. Lecturing from his place at the head of the table, he rarely glances at the notes spread before him. Instead, as he talks, his gaze flits from face to face, lighting on each randomly, like a pollenating bee. When he reads a poem aloud he yields completely to the lust of language and rhythm and imagery. The effect sifts through the room like perfume. He caresses each word, his soft voice adding its own poetic sauce. At the end, he holds the final lines in his mouth, tasting them, and raises his face to the class with a spreading glow of satisfaction. ``Cut,'' he says at last, ending the spell. ``Go to black, or whatever it is they say in Hollywood when it can't get any better.'' James Dickey, Georgia born, has been writer in residence at the University of South Carolina for 23 years now. But he is no campus decoration, seen only at book signings and sherry parties. Clearly, he loves the classroom. ``A lot of American writers feel that teaching is an imposition keeping them from their work,'' he says. ``I don't. Teaching forces you to get your own ideas straight. They vary from year to year, but when you get in front of a classroom you at least have to say what you think and how you feel.'' So Dickey teaches two courses, four classes twice a week, although the school has asked him to drop one, a workshop on modern American poetry, to give him more time to write. Lack of time, however, doesn't seem to have hampered him so far. He has eight projects in the works, including a sequel to his 1987 novel ``Alnilam'' which he considers ``20 times better'' than ``Deliverance.'' He's also working on a book of collected poems, a book of literary criticism and a fourth children's book. Just last month he brought out a book of poems titled ``The Eagle's Mile'' which he brought with him to class. ``There will be a signing at the bookstore Saturday,'' he said. Then he added in a conspirator's whisper, ``I'm going to take roll.'' Then he reminded the class of aspiring young poets yearning to be published of what the poet Conrad Aiken said about bringing out a new book of poetry. ``He said waiting for the reaction is like dropping a feather into the Grand Canyon and listening for the echo.'' James Dickey continued: ``For everybody in this class I wish only one thing, that you concentrate your efforts to one end. ``Not to publish. Not to be famous. Not to make money, because that just ain't going to happen no matter how good or famous you are. ``Concentrate all your energies toward writing something that will stand up, that will move people, that will stay with them, disturb them, amplify what used to be called their souls. ``Do that. Do that. There is hope for all of us.'' Class dismissed.
