!["Negro Digest 1820 SOUTH MICHIGAN AVENUE Chicago 16, Ill. CALUMET 5-1000 June 1, 1967 Dear Mr. Emanuel: Thank you for your letter. If it is possible for you to get the selected material to me by June 15, I would be grateful. And I would prefer that you select what you feel is appropriate for reprinting in DIGEST. Langston Hughes' death was a shock to everyone. Two writers to whom spoke on the phone upon hearing the news were in tears. He will be missed. Sincerely [signature] Hoyt W. Fuller Managing Editor Mr. James A. Emanuel 405 Nuber Avenue Mount Vernon, New York 10553 HWV/pb A JOHNSON PUBLICATION "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/4/0/e/40e444ef-15af-4927-8cd2-51e30ac30f92/attachment/40fcff8ea0b8ee2269928277353dcafd.jpg)
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294 resources. Showing results 21 through 30.
Uploaded !["Felices Pascuas Merry Christmas Joyeux Noël Frohe Weichnacten Jan 5. [1976] Dear Tim We’re just back from two running weeks in the Caudries. Glad you seem to be getting more recognition as a poet in Eastern Europe, but sorry I don’t know of any Fulbright request here in France (Paris III requested one but in economy or sociology) yet I’ll keep an eye open, although the only real possibility to talk with colleague would be the confer [indecipherable] AFEA in March and this would be too late. Not much new here, where depression also is to be felt. I’ll be going to the USA for a month in March or April to work with the Yale Univ. library who requested Wright’s papers and also to attend the ASA [indecipherable] conf. in Philadelphia. Best wishes from all of us, and keep in touch. Michel Michel FABRE 12, Square Montsouris 75014 PARIS "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/7/1/4/714b44d9-786b-4159-b445-a7a1064711cb/attachment/d6f574119d4d2a6cdedf639a7a395ab4.jpg)
Christmas Card Letter from Michel Fabre
Letter from Leroy Hart Bibbs November 1991 (page 1 of 2)
Boxes, Trunks, and Darkness 2
Boxes, Trunks, and Darkness 1
WHITE-BELLY JUSTICE 2
Draft, WHITE-BELLY JUSTICE
!["p. 2 retyped 21 Jan. 79, and revised and[/or] contd, 6:05 p.m.—7:09; whole revised somewhat, 8:40 p.m.—9:01 THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER the ice spread calmly near its heart but turbulently strained to its extremities, in every middle zone still [clutching] trapping arms and legs (portions of metal chairs half visible, reaching through the ice, thrust up or down, depending on the drama [played] that had played). No face approached me, not a hint, no shudder in the ground; and yet a memory of peopled autumn chairs came by: poolside sponsors doing on their sailboat [crew, crew, bank] tenders when suddenly midwinter came, QUICK as forgotten pain, [they panicked] [ousting] whishing panic on both resting watchers (and their [innocent band] [dripping] shirtsleeve crew, [*change dripping*] [*26 Feb. 79: line by itself*] some dashing with their chairs into the pool, some wading out--precisely when the water froze. No movement in the bodies led me on, and over my shoulder, a noontime certainty declared the others would be gone: the woodcutters, the bundled loungers in the sun. I let go of the pool, measured its drift by throwing a small, clean rock dead center. I set my watch by the nearest public clock, heading home. "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/8/7/5/875082c2-0dc5-4a1f-a8fa-f6329bdf7414/attachment/2c503591ef72cc8438d478194c2cb029.jpg)
Draft, THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER 2
!["Partial fair copy of poem begun 19 Jan. 79, av. Du Maine, Paris, 20.1.79, 10:50 a.m.—11:37; 11:45—12:00; 3:22—4:24 (with changes) THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER A January moon, almost, and flat-blue sky from the Obelisk down to the Louvre beckoned me up thin, white steps and past a rigid dog sniffing an icy footprint melting in the sand, past woodcutters bent over in a truck, unmoving, as if to hide behind their planted cross: it said historic trees were cut to guard the public’s ... the missing word had smashed the corner of the sign. It was in front of me somewhere, the Boat Basin, floating up-- no, I was stepping downward-- [those] more disappearing footprints fitting mine, loosening beneath the sun, stopping. Looking up, I saw them scattered around me, people sitting bent and curved like deep-freeze packages slow thawing in [a] some drafty door propped open, their scarves poked out for breathing, their bones all angles, gloved and padded, positioned as if for a vigil. Partly guided by their gaze, I kept [the] a chosen path until the Boat Basin widened in my eyes, ten years of sudden changer [dropping] beaming like icicles dropping silently around the border of the pool, breaking fitful gleams across my sinking memory of sailboats out of hand, their gleeful little captains by turns awestruck and then distressed to see their bobbling colors drawn away, drifting to the center of the sea-- and if brought back by stratagems [somewhere buried] of strangers in the crowd, they anchored changed, less ownable for having sailed away alone. The dead of [winter this [undecipherable] time] winter tightened by brow its changing spirit [undecipherable] warmest at the center of the pool [*put on line alone*] in the bending statue there pouring Sea God potions into the Boat Basin, keeping its heart alive, companionable, [but] while its slowly pulsing ripples, circling outward, stopped suddenly on ice, [recoiling from the frozen scene] recoiling from the frozen scene I inward saw, and outward woke to like a little dream: "](https://cuny.manifoldapp.org/system/resource/3/0/1/30192152-3879-4021-bd65-b74d649fbe02/attachment/dc398c5506f71026b9b19e5b53455d44.jpg)
Draft, THE BOAT BASIN, YEARS LATER 1
BETWEEN LOVES: A TRAIN FROM LONDON 3