We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
Jimmy Santiago Baca found poetry in prison, where he taught himself to read by sounding out the words from an anthology of Romantic poets. Now he rises each morning to read and write in his home in New Mexico.
Pretend that this is a movie. You are seeing two men create a curl of dust as they drive in a pick-up down a dirt road. The one driving is old, his features molded like leather, worn and stretched by a hard working foot.
August 1979I cannot write how it was. The world shifted me too fast with each event passing before me, inflicting my nerves with flash-bulb rapidity. I was quietly startled at the fresh novelty. Numb still to the fact I was leaving, disbelieving, an embryo in limbo, sins forgiven, the timelessness suddenly and violently meaning something concrete.
February 1979Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
SEND US A LETTER