<![CDATA[Poetry X Hunger - International Poets]]>

<![CDATA[Poetry X Hunger - International Poets]]>Mon, 02 Mar 2026 22:27:44 -0500Weebly<![CDATA[Poem by Mandy Macdonald]]>Wed, 11 Feb 2026 05:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-mandy-macdonaldNational Geographic

There are countries
where people are afraid of cameras.
Taking a photograph is theft
of the soul, they say,
and hide their faces.
Imagine yourself, then, a ragpicker,
foraging away your starving days
in garbage dumps, for something you can eat,
something you can sell, perhaps,
to ragpickers less destitute, less hungry than you
by a fingernail’s thickness.
You catch a stirring in the rancid air:
is it edible? No, it is the flapping, still-bright pages
of an old, tattered magazine. You cannot read the date
nor any of the words, even if
they were written in your language.
You are only a girl. But you cannot escape
(even looking at them sidelong)
the pictures: emerald forest canopies,
sparkling arctic wastes, suntanned dunes,
strange, glamorous animals, paradise birds
outglowing the ashy detritus grey.
And suntanned people too,
lazing at picnic tables piled with food.
You let the gorgeous colours ooze
into your mind and your senses
until the rotten dump smell becomes the rich scent
of fruit, of spiced, grilled meat skewered over embers --
and then you see the page with
the stick-thin girl stooped, sifting landfill,
face on the crinkled paper turned away,
hidden by hair the colour of hunger,
and you know: she is your image
she is yourself
your dirty
shameful
discarded

self
Such a person could not have a soul to steal.
Everything has been stolen from her already.
Your spirit shrinks from the devil paper, fails.

THEME: Hunger and Women's Work

Australian poet Mandy Macdonald lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, trying – with diminishing success – to make sense of the 21st century and its discontents. She has worked for NGOs addressing human and labour rights and gender equality internationally. Her poems appear in many anthologies and journals; she has published two pamphlets – The temperature of blue and The unreliability of rainbows – and is currently preparing a collection. When not writing, Mandy sings and gardens, sometimes simultaneously.

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Pulkita Anand]]>Thu, 09 Oct 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-pulkita-anand1373148Crying

I heard the familiar cry calling
Sound is similar in Asia, Africa, Australia
Gaza, Nigeria, Russia, Ukraine, ……
I wanted to write A for apple, but what it’s H
For hunger
That familiar crying child disturbs me
Day and night
That orphan on the railway station
Circling his dead, starved mother
To wake up
Though she has left some
Hunger for him to feed on

THEME: Childhood Hunger

Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is 'we were not born to be erased'. Various publications include: Tint Journal, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Ecological Citizen, Origami Press, Poetry X Hunger, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press and elsewhere.

]]><![CDATA[Poems by Lisa Suhair Majaj]]>Wed, 10 Sep 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poems-by-lisa-suhair-majajHunger: A Tritina

darkness threads the sky
wild with the throb of hunger
the tsunami of broken hope

children flail for a cord of hope
tossed from the looming sky
then fall into wells of hunger

they are well versed in hunger
their voices low with hope
pleading for bread from the sky

the sky roars with hunger, shattered by hope

Gaza Haiku

In Gaza’s lean sky
moon bares its slim-edged crescent
curved blade of famine

hours before iftar
children gather in flapping tents
singing for water

our tables weighted
food a shameful privilege
we quietly fast

Flour Massacre

it’s the way
crimson blooms
across sacks
of flour
like springtime
poppies
stripped
from their stems
buds crushed
in storm’s
wild onslaught
no chance
to open
or the way
bullets
pierce skulls
charting
places of entry
and sometimes
exit
though for Gazans
there is of course
no exit
or the way
carmine tracks
across white shrouds
map the winding cloth
in a grim atlas
of despair
like the haze
of flour
spilled
from ripped sacks
clogging
the wounds
of those
who crawled
through dirt
trembling
with hunger
ribs etched
through skin
in stark
precision
not unlike
the exactness
snipers bring
to their task
as they aim
carefully
bullets penetrating
the bodies
of those
desperate to feed
their children
a handful
of something
that will not poison
or sicken them
something
to keep them
alive
a little longer
to push back
famine
a day
and another
and perhaps
even another
until the world
decides to make
the siege
end
so that flour
becomes
an ordinary part
of life
again
dough kneaded
with firm hands
placed carefully
in an oven
hot with hope
rich with
the odor
of baking
not this dust
shrouding
trucks stacked
deep
with the wounded
and the dead
this despoiled
sustenance
of stolen life
but rather
something simple
dependable
unremarkable
daily bread
for daily hunger

“Flour Massacre” first appeared in Black Warrior Review.
THEME: Hunger in Gaza

Lisa Suhair Majaj is a Palestinian American writer living in Cyprus. She is the author of the award-winning collection Geographies of Light (Del Sol Press) and of the forthcoming poetry volume Why Doesn't the Sky Love Us? Her poetry has been translated into eight languages, mostly recently Korean. Her poems were displayed in the 2016 exhibition Aftermath: The Fallout of War—America and the Middle East (Harn Museum of Art).

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Kate Gold]]>Tue, 26 Aug 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-kate-gold9580120Lament for Lammas Day

I will not decorate the altar
with flowers and fruit
For how can I celebrate a harvest
when the seeds sown
in the hearts of vengeful tyrants
yield only famine and war?
For what do we reap in this season?
We reap the bones of children.

The wind that blows through the barley
carries the weakened cries of a starving nation
and the last stolen breaths of thousands.
The rain that falls on the ripened corn
stings salt with the tears of the mothers and fathers
who hold the remains of their mown-down children
in their disbelieving arms.
This harvest brings a bounty of blown off limbs
fresh from the killing fields
Each fruit is tainted with the blood of the innocent

I will carry no celebratory sheaves
home from the meadow
Let there be no harvest supper
with plates laden with food.
I will lay the table with empty plates,
empty glasses and weep
for the cruelty of men.
And I will pray
that with the pulling of the plough
and the turning of the land,
a new season of peace
may take hold and grow.

THEME: Genocidal Starvation

Kate Gold is a painter and poet living on the edge of Dartmoor and has written poetry since a child. After she studied poetry as part of a creative arts degree, she took her writing more seriously, honing and developing her writing skills. She went on to achieve an M.A in creative writing (poetry) In the past Kate worked as an art, poetry and creative writing tutor in HMP Bristol and ran writing workshops in community settings. Much of her poetry is inspired by her love of the wild beauty of the natural environment and her experience of caring for the dying. Her first poetry pamphlet was published in 2022 by Jawbone Press in Dorset.

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Fadel Kishko]]>Thu, 21 Aug 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-fadel-kishkoBite my Heart

I am hungry,
Wandering in the street,
No crumbs, no scent, no scrap
Of food to eat. I walk
Beside a million, yet I’m none--
A shadow moving silent in the sun.

I dream of bread,
Of warmth beneath my hand,
But wake to dust, to ash, to ruined land.
No place to bloom, no roots,
No patch of grace—just cold air
Pressing hard against my face.

Like flour spilled,
Like petals turned to stone,
I fed no soul and starved
Within my own.

My heart was bitten,
But my bread was kind,
It never cursed the hunger of mankind.

Bite my heart but never my bread,

Though hollow, I’m still living, not dead.

The plate is bare.
My voice begins to fade,
More fleeting than a soul
Upon a blade.

So bite my heart
And let it break,
But leave my bread--
It’s all I take.

THEME: Famine, Displacement, Survival, Human Resilience

BIO: Fadel Kishko is a writer from Gaza. His work explores grief, hunger, and the moral weight of survival. He writes to preserve the dignity of those silenced and to speak through the dust where stories are buried.

]]><![CDATA[Poems by Jeremy Roberts]]>Mon, 28 Jul 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poems-by-jeremy-robertsGamelan breakfast
(Yogyakarta)

Music in time
with the street:
mobil engines, frantic feet,
clip-clop andong horses …
as
hungry bellies eye the courses:
Soto ayam
Pecel kampung
Bubur ayam
Aneka buah
Gudeg
Aneka sambal
Kerupuk
Ayam kalio
Kopi panas
Es teh
Ah … kami kenyang –
ready for the day.

Andong = horse-drawn carriage; Soto ayam = chicken soup; Pecel kampung = steam veges with peanut sauce; Bubur ayam = chicken rice porridge; Aneka buah = assorted fruit; Gudeg = fruit stew; Aneka sambal = chilli sauce; Kerupuk = crackers; Ayam kalio = chicken in spiced coconut gravy; Kopi panas = hot coffee; Es teh = iced tea; Kami kenyang = Bahasa Indonesia for ‘we are full’

Plenty

a starfruit
fell from the tree –
a golden mouthful
left to rot
on the ground.

Come and eat your chicken
Bali 2023

Alia!
That’s my ibu’s voice
It’s lunchtime, Alia!
That’s my ayah’s voice
Your chicken is ready!
Cooked by STAFF-ONLY in the kitchen
You must be hungry!
Lunchtime is between breakfast and dinner
Time to eat!
My jaws will chomp up the food
Alia!
My name has three syllables: A – li – a
Come and eat your chicken!
Please is the magic word
Are you listening?
To splashing and sunshine humming
Alia! Did you hear me?
Yes, my ears are working
The chicken will get cold!
I ate cold chicken, yesterday
You need energy in your body!
I love using up all my energy
Your lunch looks so yummy!
I can see it in my head
Come now!
It shoots out of the pipes like rainbows
We will be so pleased when you come!
Splashing sounds like clapping
Alia! We’re talking to you!
They are shouting
Can you hear my words?
They mix with all the sounds
Please, darling!
My wonderful mermaid dance is not finished, yet
That’s long enough in the water.
I’m turning into a prune
Alia! I’m not saying it again!
They always do, Ibu & Ayah
Alia!
Their words are making a pattern
You need some food in your tummy!
Every day, humans must eat
Please, Alia!
Look! There’s a beautiful bug looking for food
Are you coming?
The ants are marching!
Come and have lunch!
You don’t eat food in the pool
Eat it while it's still warm!
It won’t stay warm forever
Alia! I'm talking to you!
Your words are in in my head
Stop swimming!
My body is twirling
Please, Alia!
Oh what a beautiful pile of flowers – it’s a prayer
Alia! Are you coming?
Hmm … that voice sounds a bit crosser
Do you want dessert?
Mango, papaya, pineapple, melon … and cake
Darling!
That’s me
We’re not calling you again
They always do
We know you’re having so much fun!
Can we stay here forever? No – we’ve got to go home
You can have another swim, afterwards!
How many swims altogether?
Lunchtime has started!
The food is disappearing
Alia! Can you answer, please!
Hmm … I suppose my tummy is empty

Bahasa Indonesia: ibu = mother, ayah = father

Click to hear the poet read the poem.

Jeremy Roberts MCs at Napier Live Poets and interviews poets on Radio Hawke’s Bay. His memoir about poetry adventures in Indonesia, The Dark Cracks of Kemang, was published in 2022. www.read-nz.org/writers-files/writer/roberts-jeremy

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Ayushi Rana]]>Sat, 19 Jul 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-ayushi-ranaI am Sorry

Life’s easy
when you have a father to feed,
a mother to call in need.
But there are kids on hostel floors,
sitting with empty bowls,
licking off false hopes,
surviving in cigarette smokes.
They cry on college benches,
they sleep in deep trenches,
betting their lives
like they bet their money—
living on knives,
and it slips off like honey.
Life’s easy
when you do not look for money,
when you get things for free,
when you do not raise a GoFundMe,
because Daddy’s there, sweet bunny.
But there is a kid in need,
hungry but does not plead—
because he is ashamed,
and he is afraid.
He has friends in need,
but they are not friends indeed.
Their alcohol sufficing his thirst—
no one stops him,
no one to trust.
Life’s easy
when you have a mother to sleep beside,
and a father building your reside.
But then there is he,
and then there is me—
wishing him good night,
but he cannot sleep,
because he did not eat.
Cannot cry anymore,
no kick left in his feet.
Like a lullaby to growls,
music feeds their hunger.
Yeah, it does not kill them...
But do they need to be stronger?
I wish I could feed you,
but I do not even know you.
I wish I was there,
or you had someone to care.
But I cannot.
I am sorry.
Life’s easy
for me.

BIO: Ayushi Rana is a 19-year-old aspiring writer from India who uses poetry to process social inequity, loneliness, and longing. She writes emotionally raw pieces driven by empathy, guilt, and personal witness.

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Ruba Khalid Al Faleet]]>Fri, 18 Jul 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-ruba-khalid-al-faleetRibs Rise Like Broken Wings

There is no food.
Only the sound of hollow stomachs—
louder than the bombs,
more constant than the drones.

Our bodies have turned to shadows.
Ribs rise like broken wings,
as if our chests are trying to fly away
from what we’ve become.
Bird-boned and starving,
in a cage made of war.

Men forget their sentences halfway through.
Women tear bread into ghost-sized pieces.
And children?
They no longer play.
Even joy needs calories.
They no longer play.
Their bodies are too light to carry joy.
They sit in corners,
limbs folded like broken promises,
eyes wide,
but dulled.

Mothers stir pots filled with nothing,
and serve it with an apology.
They flavor it with song,
but the children are too tired to pretend.

The plates are empty.
So are the shelves.
So is the world, it seems—
when we call out.

We faint now—
quietly,
without drama.
It’s what happens when the body runs out
of even the will to stand.

And when the world
begins to hear
the sound of our hunger—
they rush to drown it.
They turn up the bombs
to muffle the growl of our stomachs.
They hold meetings,
not to feed us,
but to feed the illusion.
They say “ceasefire”
when they mean delay.
They say “negotiation”
when they mean nothing at all.
They choreograph hope like theater—
just enough to keep us dreaming
of bread,
just enough to keep the world quiet.
Not peace.
Not aid.
Just silence
wearing a mask.

But still,
We dream.
Because dreaming
is the last right they haven’t stolen.

In Gaza,
a loaf of bread is not a meal—
It's a miracle.
A flag.
A full declaration
that we are still here.

And when the world asks,
"What does hunger sound like?"
tell them:
it sounds like Gaza—
where even silence
is starving.

BIO: Ruba Khalid Al Faleet is an artist, poet, and author from Gaza. They're a member of the "Resilient Voices" project for the British Council and a member of the Gaza Poets Society (GPS).

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Rachel Burns]]>Sun, 01 Jun 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-rachel-burnsThe Copper Jar

Poverty tastes of broken glass
in the playground, of boarded up windows,
of black mould eating damp wallpaper.
It tastes of the dole queue,
long dark shadows forming
on the deflated lung of ex-mining villages,
in a street called Hope, where none can be found.

It tastes of empty docks & padlocked gates,
abandoned factories strangled with fireweed.
It tastes of clenched teeth, of money lost,
and lost again on one armed bandits, and in bookie shops.

Poverty tastes like the bottom of the copper jar
10p for a handful of potatoes,
you chip & fry in hot oil, eat with simple salt.
Stop crying, eat, eat, you say,
lifting your toddler into his highchair.
You can taste poverty like hard metal on your lips.
It tastes of fear, of not being able to feed your own child.

This poem first appeared in The Cry of the Poor, Culture Matters.

Rachel Burns is published in literary magazines including The Rialto, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Atrium, The Friday Poem, Magma and The London Magazine. Her poetry pamphlet, A Girl in a Blue Dress, is published by Vane Women Press, and her first collection is forthcoming with Broken Sleep Books.

]]><![CDATA[Poem by Kate Gold]]>Wed, 23 Apr 2025 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.poetryxhunger.com/international-poets/poem-by-kate-goldThe Language of Angels

A calico cloth, laid out flat, like so much of your lands.
Thousands of stitches but nowhere near enough in number to measure the lives
taken.
The tiny drops of blood from a finger pierced by sharpness.
Nothing in the ocean of blood that has been brutally spilled.
Frustration at the lost thread, slipping from the needles eye.
Nothing, when you must pack your few belongings and move on, Again, again,
again.
Exasperation at my slowness, my lack of skill.
Nothing, when you must begin each day and find some thread of hope to do what
needs to be done for the children.
Hunger that causes me to consider putting aside my stitching.
Nothing, when I have ample food in my cupboard and you – you are slowly starving
as you feed your children first.
I sleep in a safe, warm, comfortable bed, whilst you huddle with what remains of your
family under a few blankets for protection.
Today I sewed the name of young woman with the same name as my own
granddaughter.
Aisha, 25 years old, someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter. Maybe
someone’s wife and someone’s mother.
In many ways I prefer the reverse side of the sewing. The strange, angular shapes.
The knots and loops.
And I choose to believe it is a language known only by angels.
That they might fast-track these souls into the presence of God. Where they might
know peace, love and acceptance.
Far, far away from the angry egos of bitter, old men.

#StitchTheirNamesTogether – a project with women all around the world stitching the
names of those killed in the Palestinian genocide. A small way to remember, to
honour.

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