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Create!

That's the purpose of this section. You are encouraged to read the poems

posted here and elsewhere on the Poetry X Hunger website, to look 


at 
the historic accounts of hunger, famine and starvation, or consider the

​prompts suggested and then... write some poetry about hunger.
 

Poem by Kitty Jospé

6/1/2022

1 Comment

 
Instructions for Hooting at Hunger*

Perhaps you do not live in a place
where you can find red or ochre clay,
to smother your doorway with bright dust
                                 Homowo!
Nonetheless, howl at the arid soil

You perhaps do not live in a place
where it is easy to grow corn
              and do not perhaps have palms
              to pulverize, to extract oil from the pulp
                                 but somehow you must create kpekpei
                                 from those two ingredients--
                                 Homowo!
howl at the remembrance of the great famine

It is the season of ritual return--
first, the waiting, the exodus, the hurry which
does not allow the yeast to leaven the bread,
and this kpekpei sprinkled on doorsteps
as reminder. Homowo!
Sprinkle it at all doorways, places where spirits
of the departed are likely to gather
then howl at the death, howl with thanks for the fruits of harvest
howl until your heart heaves into the heaped bowls
of all that nourishes.

Now is the time to jeer at dark times,
starve the winter gods
                                 Homowo!
Drum on your knees,
start the dance where you bump
into each other without fear of causing offense--

Howl at all social constraints!

Howl as excruciatingly, unbearably, intolerably
as you can with no thought
to embarrassment, no thought to mental agony--
                                 Homowo!

Now is the time to celebrate twins, fertility,
the harvest you bring home
to share Homowo--
the great celebration of howling!

​*
https://encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Hooting+at+Hunger+Festival
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Kitty Jospé: retired French teacher, active docent, received her MFA in poetry (2009 Pacific University, OR).  Since Feb. 2008, she has been leading workshops on art and word, and moderates weekly sessions to help people to be more attentive and appreciative readers of good poems. 
Latest book: Sum:1 March 2021, http://www.foothillspublishing.com/2021/jospe.html


1 Comment

Poem by Judy Kronenfeld

5/15/2022

1 Comment

 
One
“Yemen’s Covid Coverup,” Frontline

Little Hassan sits on the examining table,
his arms snappable twigs, his ribs
washboard, his belly swollen. He pats
his palm on his chest to show
where it hurts. He is eight years old,
but he looks like four. He does not go
to school. His belly hurts, too,
he signs. Malnutrition has stolen
most of his hearing. His head
bends to one side, looking way too
heavy for his ravaged body, and he smiles
a little, like a very old man, probably because
there are people paying attention.
The nurse who runs the clinic
is agitated about the worldwide
concern with Covid. Where is the vaccine
for our war? she asks. She laughs
scornfully, hopelessly. Starving Hassan
will be treated, and sent home
to starve, treated and starved,
one of two million. Right now
he wants us to know his chest
and stomach hurt.
I cannot unsee his face.
Picture
Judy Kronenfeld's fifth full-length collection of poems, Groaning and Singing, was published by FutureCycle Press in February, 2022. Previous books include Bird Flying through the Banquet (FutureCycle, 2017), and Shimmer (WordTech, 2012).

Photo by Alexis Rhone Fanche


1 Comment

Poems by J R Turek

4/30/2022

11 Comments

 
At Pat’s Farms

At a time in our life we’d rather forget,
a happening we will never forget.
Late afternoon, we hover over racks
Reduced for Quick Sale, ripe and
ready produce, pray we find vegetables,
salad fixings, maybe fruit for dessert
if there is any.

We find a cello-wrapped pack
of cucumbers we can slice tonight
and soft tomatoes I can make a hearty
sauce for over our plain pasta.

Our meager finds held in grateful hands,
we stand on line behind shopping carts
opulent with clear bags of lush berries,
fresh veggies, and exotic fruits from
aisles we don’t venture down.

The total is $2.17; we’re ready with
two singles, a dime, nickel, and
two pennies. The cashier smiles,
packs our dinner into a handled bag
and says, “It’s paid.” We hold our
our open palms with the money, stutter
“But — .” She waves over her shoulder
that the woman on line ahead of us who
just left paid our bill. “Have a nice day,”
patting my hand as she passes me the bag.

We talk about it all the way home, still
remarking these dozen years later when
life has almost righted itself, feeding us
with thankful blessings, we revel in how
amazing it was, never sharing the story,
still wondering
how did she know?
--
Backyard Farmer

Sustainability has us tilling soil,
adding amendments, peat moss,
earth-friendly fertilizer, and has us
researching to grow our own veggies.

We attend a garden seminar, learn
that peppermint plants will keep
the family of bunnies living under
our deck from munching on our crops.
Broccoli. I never thought to plant it,
didn’t buy it yesterday from the fruit
stand because it didn’t look healthy,
that not-so-good green I often see
and call pesticide green. We can get
three crops from just one plant,
enough for the season.

Strawberries – he shows us a verdant
pot, tiny buds set, tells us to expect
a bountiful crop of about 40 berries
per plant. This will be a deck pot that
will travel inside – expect berries for
Thanksgiving and Christmas and snow
day mugs full of berries delivered to
blizzard shut-in neighbors in need of
sweet berry smiles.

Next, Romaine lettuce growing broad
lime-green leaves already, plant now
in cool temperatures, no fertilizer,
let it grow. Next, spinach. None for
me. I’ll plant it in a part of the garden
without peppermint plants so the bunnies
can feast. Of course, we’ll plant our usual
crop of cucumbers – kirbys and divas for
me, marketmore 76 for Paul, several more
peppermint plants. Cherry tomatoes –
sungold, grapes, and sweet millions,
enough to feed the entire town. This
new outlook of working the soil, saving
our planet, ravenous to learn and share
sustains us through hungry times of solitude.
--
Poem Garden

What if there were no produce departments
or farm stands, no place to buy grapes or
tomatoes, no watermelons in summer, no
seven varieties of lettuce to salad your hunger
for crisp, healthy eating...

What if words no longer worked to tell a story,
or show a reader the lining of your heart in verse,
no way to know how nourishing a poem can be
for someone starved of metaphoric sustenance,
void of satisfying similes...

What if a famine befell us, like a virus that spread
around the world, in cities and farmlands, urban
and suburban alike, a pandemic to keep us from
hugging, from touching hand to hand or reaching
out across a screen of technology to know we
are not alone...

What if we overcame our fears, followed wise
counsel, emptied our hearts of rage and anger
to write love poems, emptied our refuse piles
to rake in amendments to change our outlook
to planting seeds of unity to sprout nutritious,
delicious meals of poems served on vibrant
platters to everyone in every town, city, state,
country of our survival on a planet we adopt
as mother, plant a garden of wholesome words
with roots to reach everyone...

​would you feel nourished?
I would.
Picture
​J R (Judy) Turek, Superintendent of Poetry for the LI Fair, 2020 Hometown Hero by the East Meadow Herald, 2019 LI Poet of the Year, Bards Laureate 2013-2015, editor, workshop leader, recipient of two Pushcart nominations, and author of six poetry books, the most recent 24 in 24. ‘The Purple Poet’ has written a poem a day for 18 years; she lives on Long Island with her soul-mate husband, Paul, her dogs, and her extraordinarily extensive shoe collection.

11 Comments

Poem by T. A. Niles

4/30/2022

0 Comments

 
The Planter

He knows a thing or two
          about edibles emerging tentatively
          from trampled earth from tilled earth
          from earth that lies dormant
          until impregnation of seed
          until saturation of life’s liquid
          until the warm bright gleam penetrates
          the fleeing darkness

He knows about planting
          planting seeds in soil rich or barren
          on hills swept clean while wind whistles
          near streams that gush or trickle
          ​on desertscapes bereft of promise
          in skyscraper gardens and rural enclaves
          of the lost and forgotten

Yes. He knows about planting
          planting ideas that curl and spiral up
          from smokey inspiration
          spaced just so…
          so they can breathe, can stretch
          their ephemeral limbs
          before settling in
          to the hard work of feeding
          minds and spirits…

He knows their gripping pangs
          their clenching their yearning
          gaping maws reminiscent of avarice
          yet are more kin to need not greed…
          when you dive into the depths
          penetrate into the core of things
          what’s required is sustenance
          not comeuppance

He knows beyond the power of gray matter
          and questing tendrils
          knows somehow in his marrow
          in his molecules that prickle
          all the way to skin,
          from corns and callouses to follicles
          that mere morsels can serve
          as understudies for feasts

He knows that his heart beats
          his blood flows, his neurons fire
          in replication of all who breathe
          have breathed
          will breathe…
          their hues as salient as dandruff
          ​on a white jacket
Picture
T. A. was a seed planted in the Caribbean soil of Trinidad & Tobago on the cusp of the transformational 60s. He was watered and fertilized in the gardens of Brooklyn, New York and Hartford, Connecticut throughout most of the bell-bottomed, “blaxploitation-movie-era” of the 70s. Had trials by fire in the USMC in the late 70s to early 80s. Budded and bloomed in academia in the 80s and 90s, before his withering began at the turn of the 21st century. Yet, before he falls from the stem, and is ground once more into dust, he hopes to feed a mind or two. He relishes the thought of others being nourished by his expressions. T. A. is also thrilled to have narrated Mud Ajar, the latest collection of poems penned by Poetry X Hunger's founder Hiram Larew and made available to the public by Atmosphere Press.

0 Comments

Poem by Blair Ewing

4/30/2022

0 Comments

 
Food is Love – A Toast
Blair Ewing is a poet who lives just north of Baltimore.  He has been publishing and
performing his poems for more than forty years.  His multi-album audio book "Word of Mouth"--rumor has it will appear in digital form in 2022.
0 Comments

Poem by Naomi Ayla

3/10/2022

0 Comments

 
Poverty
from Wild Animals on the Moon
​

It gives you pigeon eyes, makes you
brave as a cracked slate
with all the weight of a house on top.

It bids you
hold out your quaky hand
through bittersweet temptations.

You dream of it as slick
silvery fish between your hands
wide-eyed and breathless
but it circles your bleeding
feet like sharks.

At evening time
between lampposts and garbage
drums turned over in the wind
poverty is black ice
or a train whose departure you miss
whistling at you in the distance.

Your will is chalky on your tongue
like aspirin
and patience hangs like frayed
dreads down your back.

Morning bends
the scalpel-sharp pain
in the ribcage,
love’s sulfur-dazed eyes.

Two teabags in your wallet
for when the day is done 
and poverty at your feet 
like a hungry dog
laps up the sweat of your calves.

You come and go not speaking
fumbling for a ripcord
through a thousand leagues of wild wind.
Click on the file below to listen to the poem:
naomi_ayala_poverty_1.18.2022.mp3
File Size: 2181 kb
File Type: mp3
Download File

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Naomi Ayala is the author of three books of poetry. Her most recent, Calling Home: Praise Songs and Incantations, was published by Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe. She’s also the translator of one novel and a poetry collection. She lives in Washington, DC.

0 Comments

Poem by Emily Vargas-Barón

2/22/2022

0 Comments

 
Hunger, Greed, and Pride
In honor of Hiram Larew

​Hungry children awaken, their cups so very empty
In all times, all places, and without fault
In crumbling cities and towns parched by sun and salt
Dreaming of honey, milk, and food aplenty

Hunger, Greed and Pride
Harbingers of poverty
Denying the poor their security
Onward, onward they stride.

They tell us that verdant valleys
Could feed ALL the world’s poor…
But why, oh why won’t
The Río Cauca feed South America?
The River Nile feed North Africa?
The Ganges feed South Asia?

Hunger, Greed and Pride
Harbingers of poverty
Denying the poor their security
Onward, onward they stride.

Latins, Africans, and Indians, hungry at dawn’s light
Forgotten, fearful and neglected
By autocrats, forever rejected
Condemned to a common, wretched plight.

Hunger, Greed and Pride
Harbingers of poverty
Denying the poor their security
Onward, onward they stride…

Picture
Emily is a “closet poet” who only writes poetry when she
cannot put her thoughts into any other form, and she rarely publishes her poems. She began writing poetry as a child alongside her father who was a noted professor of romance languages and literature. He bred in her a life-long love of poetry, the mathematics of poetry, and the music of poetry – that after all – are ultimately one and the same. She often watched him read poetry at home and on the banks of rivers, and she witnessed the joy it brought him.

​Emily’s life is much more prosaic. She leads an institute devoted to assisting countries in all world regions to build systems and services for early child development with the goal of helping every child to develop her or his inborn full potential. This poem speaks of her anguish over the plight today of millions of young children who needlessly experience hunger, disease and abandonment in societies that ignore them and with autocratic leaders who even disdain them.

0 Comments

Poems by Kalpna Singh-Chitnis

12/8/2021

0 Comments

 
The Best Kept Secret
​

When I first learned the phrase "dirt poor,"
I regarded it as just another expression 
to call someone impoverished.
Much later I realized — its meaning had more to it,
beyond the imaginations of many
who study humanities in elite schools.
I discovered the true definition of the term
while eating my toast, sitting at the dining table
at my home, in the most affluent country of the world, 
watching T.V., planning my next meal of the day.
I watch a mother make mud cakes for her family
in a remote village in Africa. 
She molds the mud little by little with water
like my mother kneaded the flour dough
to make breakfast for our family every morning.
Her children eating the cake have rainbows in their eyes
without rain. Is this what being dirt poor means?
A sudden, I'm enlightened!
These children perhaps will never go to school. 
They will never taste a glass of freshly pressed orange juice
or eat a boiled egg in their breakfast. There is no water in their village. 
They walk miles to fetch drinking water home every day.
Eating my toast treated with imported butter, 
I wondered about the taste of a mud cake,
how it is baked to perfection in the sun,
what elements of earth go into making a perfect mud cake,
what aroma releases when it melts in the mouth.
The recipe for a mud cake is nowhere to be found. 
It's a delicacy, but no chef is trained to make mud cakes 
in culinary schools. 
No restaurant on the globe has it on its menu. 
The mud cake recipe is the best-kept secret on earth,
under lock and key of the world united and defeated.
Dharavi

Suddenly, something beings to smolder,
the dirty, rusty drains open their mouths,
and the stench rising from a distant slum begins to fill our nostrils.
The sun that was shining just now
on the high rise of Air India,
on the dish antennas of a five-star hotel
and our cocktail glasses
was now stuck in the wheels of a vending cart
upside down for seven days in Dharavi.
The hawker, who has just returned home from a blood bank 
with a wad of rupees in his hands, smiles, and tells us,
he will have his cart rolling again from tomorrow.
But the sun, that has lost direction,
and all seven horses of its chariot,
where would it go from here now?
Would it keep moving from one cart to another?
Would it ever find its lost chariot?
In the distance, someone lights clusters of coal,
filling our eyes with thick smoke.
The coal isn't burning,
it is ripening.
___

("Dharavi" is known as Asia's largest slum. "Dharavi" poem first appeared as "Swaroopantran," in the poetry collection, "Tafteesh Jari Hai" (The Investigation Continues), written by Kalpna Singh-Chitnis, published in 1993. The poem originally written in Hindi has been translated into English by the poet herself.)
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Kalpna Singh-Chitnis is a Pushcart Prize nominated author of four poetry books. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Life and Legends and Translation Editor of IHRAF Literary. Her works have been published in notable journals worldwide and translated into many languages. Poems from her award-winning book "Bare Soul" and her poetry film "River of Songs" included in "The Polaris Collection" will head to the moon in 2023, with a payload associated with an Astrobotic Griffin/NASA VIPER Mission landing on the Lunar South Pole. A former lecturer of Political Science and advocacy member of the UNA-USA, Kalpna Singh-Chitnis holds a degree in Film Directing from the NYFA and works as an independent filmmaker in Hollywood. Website: www.kalpnasinghchitnis.com

0 Comments

Poem by Eric Forsbergh

10/3/2021

0 Comments

 
Kwashiorkor

Indigenous,
she stands in that alley still,
and always will, to my eye.
Naked, maybe nine,
her belly’s a swell of leaked fluids
around a shrunk stomach.
Misshapen knobs for knees and elbows.
A passing glance may catch her, just,
her slightest motion slow and thick.
Eyes glazed, expressionless.
What family forsakes its continuity?
Or will added food be set in front of sons?
A Mayan woman sits waiting,
almost at noon, stock-still on the curb.
Her face is a closed wound,
her husband a soiled rumple
in the parched gutter at her feet
sleeping it off.
Throughout this dry season
her demeanor’s caked in dust and ash,
her girl by now
another limp sparrow
impaled on a thorn by shrikes
as the volcano brews
its sullen cloud.
Click on the link to watch the video: ​Forsbergh Kwashiorkor - YouTube
Here is the link below for the poem about being up on the Mayan temple at night: 

​https://youtu.be/N2_iHR92DsE
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Forsbergh’s poetry has appeared in JAMA, The Journal of Neurology, Artemis Journal, The Northern Virginia Review, Ponder Review, The Café Review, and several other venues, including as a placard on an Arlington County bus. A retired dentist, and a Vietnam veteran, he has participated in three medical missions in Guatemala and Appalachia, and has volunteered as a vaccinator against COVID-19 in Loudoun County, Virginia. He lives in Leesburg, Virginia, and is attending seminary part-time at The John Leland Center in the subject of social justice.   

0 Comments

Song by Evan Belize

9/30/2021

1 Comment

 
My African Food is a song written and performed by the musician Evan Belize (A.K.A. Evan A. Trapp). The video was filmed by Joan Dobbie:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOK2ZmhgPIQ
Picture
Evan Belize created this song in honor of the 2008 WORLD FOOD DAY. As a boy in the Caribbean, he witnessed hunger first hand, and also in his travels. He’s been performing since his earliest youth in the 1970s. Over the years Evan has opened for, and performed with, many of the greatest Caribbean and African icons. For a time he had his own band, Earth Forces. Presently he hosts the EBLS Livestream Radio program on YouTube and takes his solo harmonica performances on the road, sharing colorful original arrangements with audiences world wide.

1 Comment
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  • Home
  • Hunger Poetry
    • 2021 World Food Day >
      • Poems Submitted for the 2021 World Food Day Poetry Competition
    • Poets Speak Back to Hunger
    • Now more than ever! >
      • Now more than ever: Submitted poems
    • 2020 WFD Poetry Competition >
      • 2020 World Food Day - submitted poems
      • 2020 World Food Day Poetry Competition announcement
    • World Food Day Poetry Competition 2019 >
      • World Food Day 2019 - Submitted Poems
    • World Food Day Poetry Competition 2018 >
      • WFD 2018 - Submitted Poems
    • Maryland Poets
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  • Young!
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    • Videos
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  • Library
    • Extent of Hunger >
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    • Historic Accounts of Hunger >
      • Africa
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      • Europe and Russia
    • Historical Poems
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