![]() ![]() ![]() His Apollo 7 poem was a curtain-raiser for what lay ahead for me: The vibe was unmistakable: Here was America’s Byron. In time, I learned that he’d been a college track star a decorated combat aviator in World War II and Korea a serious bowhunter and guitar player and a Homeric drinker and lover. I wanted to know everything about James Dickey. ![]() I was impressed-“ Ah have a Christopher, too.” Dickey bent to shake my hand, his grin now a headlight beam, and said in an exuberant Georgia drawl suffused with bourbon-it was 9 a.m. He was a physical big deal, too: 6 foot 3, with the frame of a former athlete. I’d never met a poet before, much less a very-big-deal one. ![]() Recognizing my father among the VIPs, Dickey approached, hand outstretched, grinning. As the ground shook beneath our feet, I watched as an armadillo, a creature that has been around for about 35 million years and was no doubt thinking, Again?, grumpily waddled out of the marsh in search of less apocalyptic quarters. Life magazine had commissioned the poetry consultant to the Library of Congress-America’s de facto poet laureate before we officially had one-to commemorate the occasion with a poem. The occasion of that meeting was the launch of Apollo 7 in 1968 at Cape Kennedy, in Florida. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ![]()
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