!["2 Poet as Fisherman (contd) [*Last stanza changed in typing, 55 bis…, 18.9.86*] all I have to show are tactics, lore-- so little I know of that pea-sized brain I am casting for, swimming behind words I lure toward this shire. to think it could swim with the phantom-words that lure me to this shore. "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/f/8/3/f834bd13-db1a-4bc2-827d-327d2166548c/attachment/2cbfdeefad367e6f4c72c4d5a0de35d6.jpg)
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Uploaded ![I loved your story about the Amer. Ch. jazz/poetry event.
Welcome aboard. I knew Charles Tyler was in Paris. Its really
quite a story, especially as told by his wife ... too long to
go into and inappropriate. Which, of course, makes the telling
all that much more tempting. Anyway Charles and I worked to-
gether over a 7 year period and I do miss his music- and his
character though he could be a most difficult individual. I also
knew Bobby Few a little from my brief time in Paris. In those
days he was playing with the great Steve Lacy.
Your life and work in Paris and the world sound so beautiful
ot me, and you sound so fine. I’d enjoy seeing a few poems ...
maybe before the summer is out. I hope to have something
ot share wiht you as well. My typing- never very good is now
really falling apart- so I will close. We miss you and think
of you often.
Love to you frome Lorna Dan Jessie and
[signature]
P. S. I just saw Sutter’s review-
it was sent by him in March
bot got lost in the mails till
just recently. I was the last to
see it. Most of the editors found
it too long and the book’s
pub. dates too far away.
I’m going to try to edit it to
make it shorters - tighter. BUT
since you have a new book
about to come out (Leo Ham - tells me)
it may be easier for ABR to
review that one and draw
some from Sutton’s review as
well - ?? What do you think?](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/8/6/a/86aeb1ca-a04d-4d5e-bd1e-56aadb588292/attachment/63a07891edce5d3873d09fc0ed554c58.jpg)
Letter from Anthony Suter June 25 1985 Page 2 of 2
![6/25 [1985]
Dear Jim,
We’ve been up here at Livingston Manor for a full month
now (vacated May 19th for our blessed summer sublets) and
there is not much in the way of news. Up until this past
week I’d taken a total vacation from reading, writing and
figuring the check book- that is, once I’d finished final
exams and term papers and going back to the city to hand in
grades and enjoy final conferences. That was not a bad day
at all: cony was painless and the city itself felt great
after all that grading in the country- I was away from the
family and since I couldn’t go to our apartment I had to
lay down in a strange bed ... and that too was painless;
Back upstate my only activities had to do with the out-
of-doors- cleaning up the place- raking, picking up leaves,
dealing with an assortment of plumbing problems and heater
problems. Everyday a new country chore to absorb me (Dan too)
- a rotten log that needed to be chopped out and filled in
with cement; chimneys that needed cleanding out- a slate
path in need of resettling- that sort of thing. Out of the
self and into the elements or into the self by getting out
of thought (organized thought).
But this week, at last, feeling settled and maybe calmer
away from the city, I’ve begun to work on my poetry every-
day. I work best at night- around 10 to 1am. Then, if I have
the courage, I see what I’ve done as soon as I wake up and then
fiddle with it through the day. I also read a novel through
the week, one I recommend to you especially since you have
been (I think) to Prague- M. Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness
of Being. Asinde from all that, the highlight of the week
was Danny’s graduation from playschool up here. For the past
few weeks he’s been going the Methodist Church where a play
school meets from 9 to 12 every day. We did not expect anything
special from the graduation ceremony. Then Dan appears at
the front of a line with children- in cap and gown- blue and
white. It was quite a to|do. Dan’s first pledge of allegence-
a minister offered a prayer (complete with hands in the right
position). And there was a nice little American audience. I
wish I could have memorized the faces and at the same time
developed the gift of description. A lot of fatness and latent
hatred, the latter covered by the cuteness of the occasion.
What to say about the children? Jessie is already fetching-
saying words; she’s a great mimic and a better eater. Dan is
still indifferent (sometimes hostile) to food, but somehow is
vigorous and quite healthy. Almost every day we do batting. He
is much better at that then chess which we also play. But if
he improves just a little each month he’ll beat me by xmas.
What ever happened to the guy who was reviewing your work? He
did drop me a note that he was working on it etc. But nothing
yet. I’m only afraid that so much time has gone by since the
publications that there might be a squawk from some of the
editors. If the piece is very well written that would tip the
scales in its favor.
Yes, our anniversary was in March 19th. Thanks for remembering.](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/7/f/9/7f9c6171-9dbd-46a6-83a8-8bcccba6ca14/attachment/28d1e716632523851b67e3a57266f497.jpg)
Letter from Anthony Suter June 25 1985 Page 1 of 2
![[*Letter was returned undelivered, with Sonia's name & address vigorously and entirely obliterated.*]
55 bis, bd du Montparnasse
75006 Paris
FRANCE
18 September 2000
Prof. Sonia Sanchez
Department of English
Temple University
Philadelphia, PA 19122
U.S.A.
Dear Sonia,
Just a note, this, to tell you of my
pleasure in finding that you were one of the
very few Broadside poets who went to Detroit
to honor the memory of Dudley Randall on 12
August. I learned of your presence through
Naomi Long Madgett, who sent me materials
that were available that day.
It was impossible for me to be there
because of a sacred oath that I took to honor
another memory: that of the young man who was
with me, I think, when I interviewed you in
September 1970 in the Bronx. But even as I
write this I begin to have doubts: Was my son
with me during the Sonia Sanchez interview? Did
I see Sonia then, or did I have only her written
answers to my written questions? If your memory
is better than mine, you know when you saw him.
All I know is that "Sonia Sanchez" was an impres-
sive name to him--and that my oath to honor his
memory tells me, sometimes, what planes I must
not catch.
At any rate, I am glad that you went to
Detroit. I stay constantly busy, and you must
do the same. Keep on doing that.
Cordial wishes,
Jim
Emanuel](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/e/9/9/e9944dd1-7564-4a54-8914-845c6b34839c/attachment/00001e30560f6065ff6e2a64a7831926.jpg)
Letter to Sonia Sanchez September 18 2000
Letter to Sonia Sanchez June 6 2002
![183
[*”At Bay”: Using the images common to a confrontation between police and a lawbreaker, this poem examines the feelings of the “underdog”.*]
At Bay
My sirens
Ain’t never stopped screamin’
My searhlights
Ain’t got to no sky
My pistol
Ain’t hung up for dreamin’
My tear gas
Ain’t made nobody cry.
Come on, cops.
Ain’t but one way
To live and to die.
1966
1968
183
[*I Touched the Hand of a Solider Dead: an anti-war poem set in the Philippine Islands. The sampaguita is the national flower there.*]
I touched the hand of a solider dead
On Bukidnon hill.
I touched a cold and lonely hand. [*This line reflects my seeing (I thought) a human hand in the water near Manila Bay as the troopship I had been on for 36 days, the General Anderson, neared its destination*]
It was quite still.
It looked not like an enemy,](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/a/3/d/a3d663c6-be19-4e1b-a1f3-83cbb38529fa/attachment/98596816ed1861884b982849fca588f0.jpg)
I Touched the Hand of a Soldier Dead (with annotations) 1
After the Poetry Reading, Black (with annotations) 3
![112
turned to leave the stage,
but stage itself seemed turning,
follow-moving, circling me,
enfolding me upfront--though I felt leaving down the aisle
not looking back--until some curtain roase
and audience was new, was Black,
was waiting.
Must be some trick my Trans-s-lator knew:
pushed in that chromobutton “Black”
and only heard the beating of my heart;
kept pushing it till floor rose up on sounds
like hoofbeats on the grass,
booBOOF- booBOOF- booBOOF-, and faster,
till breath around was tight as if
the climax of some play was on
and I was sitting in the crowd--
booBOOF- booBOOF- booBOOF- as all in the air
[*A listener at City College admired this breathing technique.*]
The brother next to me turned like a page
close to my eyes;
“ThaCHU he was talking bout?” he said.
He meant the short Black man upfront
who meant the poem I mean to write
as I said “Yes”
up-coming from The Veil…
[*Du Bois’s well-known “veil” idea in The Souls of Black Folk.*]
A neat, pale hand extended blocked my path](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/2/c/6/2c68041e-447e-42fd-b316-65c9c437d5ce/attachment/0e236a4541d4b0bd23f9369e08dc3493.jpg)
After the Poetry Reading, Black (with annotations) 4
El Toro (with annotations) 2
After the Poetry Reading, Black (with annotations) 2