Poetry Jan 1,
Unclip your briefcase, on the hood of your new car spread a few official papers, point with manicured fingers, telling me what I must do.
I lift a handful of earth by your polished shoe, and tell you, it carries the ways of my life. My blood runs through this land, like water thrashing out of mountain walls, bursting, sending the eagle from its nest, that glides over huddled seeds as do my hands.
I carry wisemen in me, I carry women and children in me. My heart is a root in wet earth. You tell me you are not to blame for the way things are. Invisible fingers wrench my life away, plunging deep, carrying a handful of wet earth.
Mountains give me their patience and endurance when my children look up at me.
They ask me, Oye Papa, how can a skinny man like that take away our land? The earth filled with my tears and blood! But my wife knows my arm is twisted behind my back, tearing the joints, a boot crushing my spine, my lips to the wet earth, whispering to her, I shall speak no lies and cry only truth to my tormentors.
Then stare at his car as he leaves and carry his image in my heart that he is blind too, and speak with him there long after he has left.
Tapestry Of Downtown The grumbling charred factory.
Jimmy Santiago Baca (from Working in the Dark): “One night in my third month in the county jail, I was mopping the floor in front of the booking desk. Some detectives had kneed an old drunk and handcuffed him to the booking bars. Jimmy Santiago Baca An American writer of Apache and Chicano descent, Jimmy Santiago Baca didn’t learn to read and write poetry until his incarceration as a teen. Jimmy Santiago Baca's Immigrants in Our Own Land is a powerful first collection of poetry. A Chicano poet, Baca served a ten-year sentence in an Arizona prison, and his poetry .
Its stack a black bone flute, mournful songs of smoke wheezed by withered lungs and fingers chapped as desert brush, scrawl across the unscrubbed sky dull gray notes of hope, puffs of sand in our eyes. On one of the old factory windowsills, six birds have made their nest, huddle their shale feathers against the sharp cold of morning, bundled up, dark barbs of coal.
Twitters crack like dry twigs, kindling crackling in the icy dawn. The first spark of sunlight catches the windowsill, their wings ignite, flurry, brown flames tossing in the air.
Black Mare On the white rocky driveway her steel shoes clokk clokk softly against white painted rocks, nostrils spew steam, her chest fills with dawn, her large head dips to nibble, newly sprouted tufts of grass between white rocks, at a daisy she shakes her mane Black Mare!
I Am Sure Of It Just after supper sheets were passed out, the sheets smell clean as I make my bed, warm from the laundry dryers and soft. I spread the first sheet over my mattress, smooth it out and tuck it in. He leaves the letter on the bars and goes.
I open the letter and read the few paragraphs.
My poems were beautiful, and would be published soon. I take a few steps to the toilet and pull myself up, put my mouth on the black grill at the back of my cell, just about to holler down to my buddy in another cell, when I am struck silent by the window across from me, and look outside, gaze upon a few convicts at dusk, running in pairs around the baseball diamond, others, close to the fence separating them from freedom, walk, pointing across to freedom.
The grass is green and trees lulled in deep spring slumber, the sun going down at the west edge of earth. Shadows hover covering sunrays, shaking the sun from leaves, boughs are dark, the field darkens perceptibly, leaving one slow solitary walker, hands punched in coat pockets, looking down, a blue beenie cap over his head, thinking, thinking, as he walks around the field one last time, and disappears.
Floodlights around the mainyard compound flash on. The baseball diamond is empty now. The smell of cool spring in the night air is above all things, and toy-size cars crawl in the black distance, headlights rove into the darkness of a long road, leaving a small town behind sparkling in its street lamps, the car slides into the great wave of darkness a nightworker breathing the fresh air, searching stars, the hum of engine and wheels lost in silence of Tuesday nights.
Grass crickets tune their fiddles, dark grass wind-blown by big rumbled trucks on the highway, while construction workers fill homey bars, smoke cigarettes, cock caps to one side, and stroke pool cues through greasy thick fingers, suck their unbrushed teeth watching intently, quarters and dimes plunk in the jukebox, drink more beer, smoke swirling and plumbers coughing.
Outside night darkens over the city. Old fathers push on screen doors, sit in the kitchen, drink coffee with their married daughters.
Porch lights collect bugs outside. My life so filled with simple things! With beds and people crying and laughing and fighting towns and voices and kisses and unforgettable nights, walking on sidewalks or through grass at dusk, this is life, I am sure of it.
I step down from the toilet, grab the sheet and tuck it in.To learn more about Baca and his journey, you might enjoy listening to the NPR piece on Baca: “Jimmy Santiago Baca, From Prison to Poetry.” To get a taste of Baca’s memoir, you can read an excerpt at The Sun magazine – a publication that has championed Baca’s work for many years.
Gmail is email that's intuitive, efficient, and useful. 15 GB of storage, less spam, and mobile access. Jimmy Santiago Baca wrote the collection, “Winter Poems Along the Rio Grande” in after living on the banks of that river.
Every morning, he ran through snow, rain and mud in a ritual that. Announcing the Winner of the No-Fee RRofihe Trophy Short Story Contest: TISA for "The Runaway" — read it here.
Two New Stories! Read "Trampoline" by JESSICA HOLLAR and "Tuesday Night Figure Drawing at the Community Center". Jan 03, · Jimmy Santiago Baca began writing poetry while he was serving a five-year sentence in prison.
His new anthology tells the story of his journey to becoming a celebrated Chicano poet.
|Inside the life of poet Jimmy Santiago Baca | WBEZ||See image credit below.|
|Baca, Jimmy Santiago||To listen to the free dharma talks on this site, we'd like to invite you to our mailing list. After entering your email, this page will reload, and you will have instant and unlimited access to the hundreds of dharma podcasts on this site.|
|Jimmy Santiago Baca at Omega||Through language, we can forge friendships, cultural ties, and economic relationships. Not only is it a means of communicating thoughts and ideas, but it is obviously a vital tool.|
|Baca, Jimmy Santiago | benjaminpohle.com||Click here for a 1.|
|Latino Poetry Blog: Post your Poetry Analysis here||He went to live with a grandparent for several years before being placed in an orphanage. Cast off by everyone he trusted and loved, he ended up living on the streets as a violent and bitter teen.|
When Jimmy Santiago Baca was 20, he was convicted of drug charges and sentenced to prison. He was illiterate when he arrived at the Arizona State Prison. When he got out five years later, he was well on his way to becoming one of America's most celebrated poets. Baca writes about oppression, love.