Location via proxy:   [ UP ]  
[Report a bug]   [Manage cookies]                

Working in The Dark

Download as pdf or txt
Download as pdf or txt
You are on page 1of 2

“Working in the Dark”

Jimmy Santiago Baca


Reflections of a Poet in the Barrio

I was born a poet one noon, gazing at weeds and creosoted


grass at the base of a telephone pole outside my grilled cell
window. The words I wrote then sailed me out of myself, and I
was transported and metamorphosed into the images they
made. From the dirty brown blades of grass came bolts of
electrical light that jolted loose my old self; through the top of
my head that self was released and reshaped in the clump of
scrawny grass. Through language I became the grass, speaking
its language and feeling its green feelings and black root
sensations. Earth was my mother and I bathed in sunshine.
Minuscule speckles of sunlight passed through my green skin
and metabolized in my blood.

Writing bridged my divided life of prisoner and free man. I wrote


of the emotional butchery of prisons, and of my acute gratitude
for poetry. Where my blind doubt and spontaneous trust in life
met, I discovered empathy and compassion. The power to
express myself was a welcome storm rasping at tendril roots,
flooding my soul’s cracked dirt. Writing was water that
cleansed the wound and fed the parched root of my heart.

I wrote to sublimate my rage, from a place where all hope is


gone, from a madness of having been damaged too much, from
a silence of killing rage. I wrote to avenge the betrayals of a
lifetime, to purge the bitterness of injustice. I wrote with a deep
groan of doom in my blood, bewildered and dumbstruck; from
an indestructible love of life, to affirm breath and laughter and
the abiding innocence of things. I wrote the way I wept, and
danced and made love.

You might also like