Jimmy Santiago Baca

(2 January 1952 / Santa Fe, New Mexico)

Jimmy Santiago Baca Poems

1. Yesterday 1/2/2012
2. V 1/2/2012
3. There Are Black 1/2/2012
4. This Day 1/2/2012
5. The County Jail 1/2/2012
6. Tire Shop 10/11/2011
7. Too Much Of A Good Thing 1/2/2012
8. What Is Broken Is What God Blesses 1/2/2012
9. Ix. Part 6 1/2/2012
10. Sanctuary 1/2/2012
11. Matanza To Welcome Spring 1/2/2012
12. Ten 1/2/2012
13. As Children Know 1/2/2012
14. From Violence To Peace 1/2/2012
15. It Would Be Neat If With The New Year 1/2/2012
16. Meditations On The South Valley, Part Xxiii 1/2/2012
17. El Gato 10/11/2011
18. Into Death Bravely 1/2/2012
19. Immigrants In Our Own Land 1/2/2012
20. Cloudy Day 1/2/2012
21. Main Character 10/11/2011
22. Listening To Jazz Now 1/2/2012
23. To My Own Self 1/3/2003
24. The Day Brushes It's Curtains Aside 1/3/2003
25. When Life 1/3/2003
26. The Blackbird 1/3/2003
27. Llano Vaqueros 1/3/2003
28. Old Woman 1/3/2003
29. Choices 1/3/2003
30. Ancestor 1/3/2003
31. As Life Was Five 1/3/2003
32. Oppression 1/3/2003
33. Count-Time 1/3/2003
34. A Daily Joy To Be Alive 1/3/2003
35. Green Chile 1/3/2003
36. Like An Animal 1/3/2003
37. I Am Offering This Poem 1/3/2003
38. Who Understands Me But Me 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Jimmy Santiago Baca

Who Understands Me But Me

They turn the water off, so I live without water,
they build walls higher, so I live without treetops,
they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine,
they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere,
they take each last tear I have, I live without tears,
they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart,
they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future,
they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends,
they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell,
they give me pain, so I live with pain,
they give me hate, so I ...

Read the full of Who Understands Me But Me

When Life

Is cut close, blades and bones,
And the stench of sewers is everywhere,
Blood-sloshed floors,
And guards count the dead
With the blink of an eyelid, then hurry home
To supper and love, what saves us
From going mad is to carry a vacant stare
And a quiet half-dead dream.

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