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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.)

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

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.   

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

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.