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


It was a time when they were afraid of him.
My father, a bare man, a gypsy, a horse
with broken knees no one would shoot.
Then again, he was like the orange tree,
and young women plucked from him sweet fruit.
To meet him, you must be in the right place,
even his sons and daughter, we wondered
where was papa now and what was he doing.
He held the mystique of travelers

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