Gary Soto

(1952 / Fresno, California)

Comments about Gary Soto

  • Stephen Fowler (5/22/2018 1:42:00 PM)

    Didn't you write one called oranges and another called baseball in april

    2 person liked.
    3 person did not like.
  • Pheobe Fentress (5/17/2018 8:52:00 AM)

    Me and my friends Kaley and Kaydense made up a name Gary Soto who was our friend. One day we looked up Gary Soto to see if anything came up. We found you and started reading all your writing. It was great. You write with passion and I Love your poems.

  • ????! (5/9/2018 2:26:00 PM)


  • Francis M. Govern (5/8/2018 3:22:00 PM)

    Fresno sounds like a bad place to be. I'll never go there. Oh, and Spiderman dies in Infinity War

  • Ben Dover (5/2/2018 1:25:00 PM)


  • Braden (4/25/2018 2:54:00 PM)

    yo dudes gary soto is a BEAST

  • Leyla CTK (3/29/2018 10:51:00 AM)

    I love Ode to Mi Gato

  • Jane Roberts (3/28/2018 5:39:00 PM)

    Didn't you write a story called You Decide?

  • u ded bro (3/16/2018 12:24:00 PM) view_as=subscriber

  • dhwty (3/16/2018 12:23:00 PM)

    https: // view_as=subscriber

Best Poem of Gary Soto

Saturday At The Canal

I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard
On a bedroom wall. We wanted to go there,
Hitchhike under the last migrating birds
And ...

Read the full of Saturday At The Canal

The Drought

The clouds shouldered a path up the mountains
East of Ocampo, and then descended,
Scraping their bellies gray on the cracked shingles of slate.

They entered the valley, and passed the roads that went
Trackless, the houses blown open, their cellars creaking
And lined with the bottles that held their breath for years.

They passed the fields where the trees dried thin as hat racks

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