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The following two poems were inspired by Jayne Shatz's artwork, The Empty Bowl, which appears on the Poetry X Hunger website--ART - Poetry X Hunger. Hunger eats away at us Hunger eats away at us, gnawing and the fat have become thin, gaunt. Cyanide kills quickly but hunger takes its cruel time. I have so many clothes at home, useless, why did I buy them, the china, the chairs? The days of “Please pass the salt.” are ancient history, so unreal now. I see tired living ghosts and there is nothing left to eat, nothing to steal. Even the meltwater consumed. I think of those days, when I voluntarily starved myself when there was food in the fridge, to lose extra pounds, to be normal, perfect. I remember the first day of severe hunger, when stopping by the flowers, I ate them. We ate the rats, the birds and the leaves and hence at night, the silence and we pray, for death. Click to hear the poet read the poem. I can’t swim We stare at empty bowls, should it rain, we are ready. Holding onto empty bowls, we look like children playing with clay kitchens, some of us are teenagers still. In the beginning the smart left, hesitated at the peril when it faced them, recognized it and turned away, and the stubborn are left behind, in a lurch. I feel lighter by the day and we are at a doldrum. A hundred of us got on this boat, to migrate to Europe, and every day, someone dies, falls into the sea, in rigor mortis, disappears and we go on. Every day we wonder if we shall capsize. There is a sea of water around, not a drop to drink. We are falling ill but the floating boat, goes on. I think of the families, anxiously waiting for news, news of our safe journey and I doubt that shall happen. We are not criminals, unless the dream of a better life is criminal. Between the devil and the deep blue sea, the fire and the frying pan, I think of the ghosts of dead men beneath the waves, rested in unrest. I have seen the faces of hope, of desperation, of hunger, of thirst. I try to stay awake, and chewing on nothing, and should we capsize, like many on this float called a boat, I cannot swim.  Previously published in Prole, Palisades Review, Litbreak, Molecule, Dreich, among others.
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Naomi and Ruth Ruth is hungry. Ten years married Without child. Created by the Lord Without a womb. Her stomach empty. Famine. She wants bread, A baby. For Naomi to love her. She longs to consume Naomi whole. Naomi tastes bitter Ruth spits her out And moves in; Wherever you lodge, I will lodge. Reaping the gleaned grain. Oh, the modesty. Her cloak a shroud. Behold the faithfulness -- Ruth takes only what she is entitled to. Six measures of barley, Not five or seven. On the piece of land belonging to Boaz. One sandal traded for Ruth and Naomi At the gate with the ten elders. At night, Ruth dreams her mother laughing At the circus in Moab Throwing up her skirts, Head back, Howling with hunger, Unmistakable. Boaz dies on his wedding night. The Lord issues a baby to Ruth And Naomi. I claw my way through these twisty lines The land, the men, Planted, full. The women sacrificed, Hungry.  I have recently returned to writing poetry after many years of writing block.
FISHSTICKS Nobody talks about the anger. Hungry? Take what you need. Grab what you want. Kids laugh at the white paper lunch sack filled with pilfered snacks from the liquor store. Slim Jim’s…Beef Jerky…Hostess Apple Pie. “I brought my lunch teacher, I made it myself.” Nobody talks about the anger. It was a picnic, wherever they were staying. The meal arrayed in her lap. Cold torn bits of sliced wiener stuck to saltines or sourdough heels. The children circle her chair as her chicken hand dispenses each bite. Gaping mouths. Chomp. Chew. Swallow. Take a sip of her Tab cola. Nobody talks about the anger. Crash the birthday party in the park. Blend in-- “I know him from school.” “I forgot to bring my present.” “Is the vegetable platter just for the grownups?” “Will there be cake?“ “Can I take a piece to my brother?” Nobody talks about the anger. At the Dairy Queen-- At the end of the night-- Leftovers go into the dumpster-- It’s all still warm-- Sometimes they throw it away in bags-- That makes it easier-- Nobody talks about the anger. Four Sea King fishsticks-- One slice of Kraft cheese-- A bun if you are lucky-- A packet of tartar sauce-- Snatched from the condiment rack-- At the Seven Eleven-- Taste this Filet-O-Fish-- Nobody talks about the anger. Rather be hungry than have to be grateful. Sad doe eyes of observant adults. Their pity swimming as they try to not feel superior. Three years old, and I might snatch something off of your plate, even if I don’t know you.  Rick Christiansen is a former corporate executive, stand-up comedian, actor and director. His poem “BONE FRAGMENTS’ is being included in the 2023 New Generational Beats Anthology from the National Beat Poetry Foundation. He has been recently nominated for a Touchstone Award. He is the co-host of SpoFest, a member of The Writer’s Place and a member of The St. Louis Writers Guild. He lives in Missouri near his eight grandchildren. rickchristiansen.com
SALT The field is not well seen from within the field. Emerson I’m in the kitchen at midnight again. Less than hungry but craving salt, I snatch a handful of chips from the pantry. Stacks of travel albums occupy the corner table, reminding me of that Vietnamese farmer in his ox-tilled field. Does he, craving salt, grab a handful of chips from the pantry? Though sated by a candlelit repast, I can’t forget that farmer in his ox-tilled field. Does he still turn earth under a torrid noon? Can he sit sated at a candlelit repast? I can’t forget the heft of yellow peaches in the orchard and earth turned fragrant by an unspent afternoon, because hunger feeds the human. I need to feel the heft of yellow peaches in the orchard illumined by a burgeoning moon. I know I’ll forget his sodden footfalls because hunger feeds the human. I feel the sinless earth on my hands, but everything is just salt under a burgeoning moon. I know I’ll forget the heat of the kitchen with each handful of sinless earth, so I throw salt over my shoulder. Is earth just dirt under a midnight sky? First appeared in Prelude 2016  C. John Graham’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Laurel Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Blue Mesa Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Taos Journal of Poetry and Art, The Inflectionist Review, and the anthology Off Channel, among other publications. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and until retirement, worked at Los Alamos National Laboratory’s particle accelerator facility. He now volunteers as a search and rescue pilot, owns an aerobatic aircraft, and continues a lifelong spiritual inquiry. sites.google.com/site/cjohngraham/home/poetry
Cinnamon and Famine After forty years of badges, cubicles and 401 (k)’s all that one does and all that is done to one your privilege is ground fresh beans and yogurt cold boiled eggs in a sunny window. Bills and sick calls crowd your plate. But under the placemat bleeding mouths seep their crises onto the table aroma of cinnamon and famine. The kitchen floats in migrant waters. Juice is the red of the shot boy’s blood. How not to starve when every meal is stolen? How to fill the cruel void of thoughts and prayers? Surrender and the paralysis seizes you Plums and the Boy from Syria Villanelle The chroniclers agree it came from ancient Syria, That tart staple of jam and pie, the Damson plum. It blooms by the roadside, same time as wisteria. The chroniclers record how my son fled from quaking Syria. He wound up a lifeless little boy afloat in the scum, Drowned after boarding a sinking raft of diphtheria. All he sought were the roadsides bordered with wisteria, A land of bread and plums, where he could overcome That gnawing void of his belly, or murder by bacteria. The chroniclers agree he had to leave burning Syria. Strafing and round-ups, bombed-out home, worse to come: Parents shot, family gone, terror beyond all criteria. Down the roadsides blooming with wisteria Drive the ministers, the committees, all aplomb, To meet and decree, again, an end to this hysteria. The rescuers sweep our bodies from the area. We parents and our kids drown fleeing a gone home. The chroniclers shrug or push the blame onto Syria. Bitter plums dot the roadside, among the wisteria.  The Elk in the Glade: The World of Pioneer and Painter Jennie Hicks is a 2022 Publishers Weekly Editors Pick and won 2nd Place at TheBookFest 23. Good Housekeeping is forthcoming in 2024. Publications: The American Journal of Poetry, World Literature Today and more. Anthologies: I Wanna be Loved by You: Poems on Marilyn Monroe (Eric Hoffer Honorable Mention), The Wonders of Winter, and The Strategic Poet craft book. More at www.brucewhitacre.com.
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