Ray Clark Dickson, SLO County’s first poet laureate, dead at 97

The keys to Ray Clark Dickson’s longevity were stored in more than a dozen boxes stacked in his garage.

Dickson, who strove to write at least two poems a day even in his 90s, kept decades worth of work in those boxes, some of them published, others seen by a select few.

“Well … poetry helped me live, really,” he told The Tribune in 2007. “My life was poetry.”

San Luis Obispo County’s first poet laureate and a longtime San Luis Obispo resident died in late November while under hospice care in San Diego. He was 97.

Known for his beat-style poetry, his rhythmic reading style and his fisherman’s cap, Dickson was a fixture of the local poetry community and a source of boundless positivity, fellow poets say.

“Ray’s generosity of spirit was obvious in his verse as well as in his interaction with all other people,” said Kevin Clark, a Cal Poly English professor emeritus and a longtime Dickson advocate. “He complimented folks with specific abandon.”

Dickson was born in Portland, Oregon, on July 7, 1919, and grew up in Bend, where his parents, Frank and Ada Dickson, ran the Bond Street Market, according to Dickson’s daughter, Diane Dickson Wilson. Ada Dickson had grown up on the Nespelem Indian Reservation, where her parents ran and taught at the school there. Ada later became the main interpreter between Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce tribe and the U.S. government.

The Dicksons had two children, but Ray’s sibling, Forest, died of scarlet fever before his little brother was born. As a result, the Dicksons smothered Ray with love.

“I’m telling you, it was suffocating,” Dickson said.

He eventually left home to attend the University of Oregon (1942) to study journalism on a track and field scholarship. Nicknamed “Spider Dickson,” he was once second place in the nation for high and low jumps and pole vaulting and was groomed as a possible Olympic athlete.

While in college, he was also a drummer in a 12-piece big band, Spider Dickson and His Web of Melody. His drumming and jazz music would eventually have a tremendous influence on his poetry. But Dickson’s success as a poet would occur years later.

Dickson served in the Army Air Corps for two years and then served four years as a Marine captain, including time in the Pacific Theater during World War II.

He seldom spoke or wrote about his military service, however, and would often say, “I abhor war.”

Upon his return to the States, Dickson moved to San Diego, where he became a car salesman — purportedly selling more than 5,000 cars during his career and eventually owning the first Volvo dealership in California. When he sold his dealership at age 40, it freed Dickson to pursue his writing.

He briefly wrote pulp novels for a Los Angeles publishing house, but he eventually switched to narrative poetry. Dickson’s work was published in prestigious publications, such as “The Saturday Evening Post,” “The Northwest Review” and the “Beloit Journal.” He also published collections of his own works, and in 2001, his work was included in a “Beloit” anthology alongside poems by Adrienne Rich, Charles Bukowski and William Carlos Williams.

“He wrote fusion poetry, combining all types,” said local poet Kevin Patrick Sullivan. “But, man, he was just good.”

He generally avoided dark topics and politics, preferring to write about people, places and music. While he would often mention his age, he was never discouraged by the prospect of death.

“As Isaac Asimov said, and I concur, ‘If my doctor told me I had only six months to live, I wouldn’t brood — I’d type a little faster,’ ” he told The Tribune.

Dickson, who moved to San Luis Obispo at age 60, remained hip in his writing — often musing on technology or popular recording artists. A regular at Linnaea’s in San Luis Obispo, his readings spotlighted another talent. Dickson’s percussion background and a knack for emphasis characterized his dramatic reading style, which both comforted and drew in his audiences.

Dickson, who underlined the words he wanted to emphasize, knew the importance of flow.

“The man’s almost out-of-breath, edging-on-to-the-next-line style was literally breathtaking,” Clark said. “His reading mimicked transcendence.”

Not only could he write a “stop-you-in-your tracks” poem, Sullivan said, he could also “read it with a sensitivity that warms your heart and blows your mind.”

At the same time, poet Glenna Luschei remembers, he was a “friend to everyone and (believed) everyone could be a poet.”

During multiple interviews with The Tribune, Dickson was complimentary to his guest and self-mocking. He often answered questions with quotes he had previously emailed himself. His harshest editor, he would often read his quotes, then quickly critique them with statements like, “That’s kind of ponderous” and “This is real bull----.”

After his second wife, Marie, died in 2014, Dickson moved to San Diego to be close to family. While there, he requested a Celebration of Life be held in San Luis Obispo sometime around his birthday in July. At that time, his ashes will be scattered in the ocean he once sailed on. In lieu of flowers, he also requested donations be made to Cal Poly’s journalism department.

While ailing health forced him to consider his final wishes, Dickson was typically more focused on living. In a poem titled “If I Live to Be a Hundred,” Dickson suggested he’d be playing video games, celebrating with nurses and proclaiming, “To hell with death,” at the century mark.

While he didn’t make it to 100, he did continue to write, his daughter said, completing his life’s work with a series of poems at 97.

This story was originally published December 2, 2016 at 5:20 PM with the headline "Ray Clark Dickson, SLO County’s first poet laureate, dead at 97."