Poetry X Hunger
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Hunger Poems

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 Elise Power

1/14/2023

0 Comments

 
The Store on
Shakespeare Street


It feels like a funeral.
They’re closing a final door on the oatmeal,
the cage-free eggs,
the Bush’s Baked Beans (Original),
the frozen peas that flow from this old store
through our kitchens and into our skin,
our blood, our hearts.

Shakespeare is dead.
Where is he
now that I really need him? (Shall I compare thee to a Shop n Save?)
His street will be buried twice now.
They built the store and kept the name
and now the store and the name and the poetry
will soon be gone.

They’re packing up in boxes
the work of Myra, Bernice, Debra, Tom and Larry,
who smile for my camera on this Last Day.
Each of them for over forty years
has released the food to us and taken our money.
They have done this faithfully and together.

One aisle over as I pass half-empty shelves,
someone says to Larry, “Come sit with us.”
That’s it.
That’s what this day calls for most.
Customers and workers,
we all need to just come sit together
on that ledge beside the doors and the shopping cart,
as a summer storm tosses treetops
one last time
out beyond the streaming plate-glass windows.
About Elise Power: I am a member of Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange and have had poems published in six journals and newspapers. I draw portraits and caricatures and play bluegrass music and the piano. I am a retired public school teacher.
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Poem by Dee Allen

12/24/2022

0 Comments

 
OUT FRONT

I am grateful for...

The arched roof above my head
The twin rafters with
The twin lights, holding it in place
The four walls surrounding me
The two windows with
The two Venetian blinds, down & shut at all times
The red brick floor below my feet
The wooden shelves full of books & movies
The VHS by themselves & DVDs in clear totes
The Keetsa© mattress I sleep on
The melatonin that helps me sleep
The vegan food in my fridge, a meat-free zone
The fruit & vegetable juices I savour
The filtered water I drink more than tap shit
The hardcover journal notebooks and
The rollerpoint pens I sue to express myself
The shower I use, even though I'm a bathtub man
The Hewlett Packard laptop computer aiding creation of
The once and future poetry volumes
The Samsung© TV & VCR/DVD player combo
The little house in East Oakland I call home
The vast collection of political slogan t-shirts
I wear the convictions of my heart
On my chest
SOMETIMES ANTI-SOCIAL ALWAYS ANTI-RACIST
Remains a personal favourite but
BEING BLACK IS NOT A CRIME
Gets me the most love on the street

But most of all

I am grateful for...

The bus drivers
The firefighters
The restaurant
Deliver drivers
The subway train conductors
The launderette clerks
The grocery store workers
The farmer's market workers
Which I happen to be one
The doctors
The nurses
The paramedics
The pharmacy workers
The protestors for the rights of all Black lives
The dead and the living
The mutual aid collectives
Giving food, water, medicine and household
Items to the people living hand to mouth
During this goddamn pandemic
And long before

All the heroes
Out front
In our service
Seeing to our immediate
Survival needs

They could use the praise

And you don't need
Super powers
To be a hero

Just be there
Out front
For us--

W: Stonewall Anniversary 2020
[ For Jennifer A. Minotti. ]
[ From the book Rusty Gallows: Passages Against Hate, Vagabond Books, 2020. ]
Picture
African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Author of 7 books--Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater, Skeletal Black [ all from POOR Press ], Elohi Unitsi [ Conviction 2 Change Publishing ], Rusty Gallows [ Vagabond Books ] and Plans [ Nomadic Press ]--and 67 anthology appearances under his figurative belt so far. Currently seeking a new publisher to turn his finished manuscript into a finished, printed 8th book.

0 Comments

Poem by C.C. Arshagra

12/4/2022

0 Comments

 
Now Carry the Tears that Feed You

Go head and close the eyes
that look into the pain you feel
when extreme hunger
pulls on your belly

Here
see the love
of yourself now
as a mother to be

Now carry the tears
of a child inside you
being nourished alone
by your undying heart

Understand the cost
of there is no way, use, or time
for you to blame poverty,
the profiteers of war,
the heartless manufacturers
of mass migration,
the GMO malnutrition markets,
God's tax exemptions,
organized religion's vaults
of priceless jewels, art,
and real estate holdings

For now the littlest of heartbeats alone warm you.

There's no use in waiting
for inhumanity incarnate to stop being global oligarchs
who only live to play war games
with their puppeteering selves

​You are too busy giving
every morsel of compassion
you have
to your belly of hope,
and yet still share your heart
with everyone selfish enough
to only pity you
while they eat.
Picture
Arshagra is self-taught; guided by benevolence to live and leave a body of work. He owned and worked in the upholstery and interior design business. After his mid20s he spent most of 20 years in Boston driving taxis and horse carriages. His life in the arts include the movement and healing arts, free-speech advocacy and activism, venue concept creations, videographer, public arts archivist, publisher, author, visual artist, a multi genre writer, and a poet with a new book. More at www.ccArshagra.com

0 Comments

Poem by Ton Donlon

11/24/2022

0 Comments

 
YES, THEY WERE HUNGRY

I still have pay stubs from McDonald’s
where I worked in the 1960s in high school.
I made $1.10 per hour. We were allowed
to eat for free during breaks. We gobbled
burgers and fries. At Kentucky Fried Chicken,
we were able, at closing, to take home buckets
of extra cooked chicken. It was the way of life
in Northern Virginia.

When I got drafted and chose the Navy
in 1972 to avoid Vietnam, I was assigned
to ships that traveled around the world.
On one cruise, we circumnavigated Africa,
visited Iran, Pakistan, Bahrain, Sri Lanka,
and sailed through the Red Sea to the
Mediterranean. The first stop across the
Atlantic had been in Dakar, Senegal
along the northwestern coast of Africa.

It was the blank-eyed, homeless people
living in cardboard boxes on street corners
that woke me up. Barely clothed boys
surrounded us begging for help. We were
careful to protect our Kodak cameras and
wallets. I’d never heard of a famine before.

During many port stops, it was the same:
poor, homeless and hungry people were
everywhere in struggling countries. Today,
as I sit with my family and enjoy the
abundant dinners and view the full cabinets
of food at home, I take each bite with a prayer
of thanks.
Picture
Tom Donlon lives with his family in Shenandoah Junction, WV. He earned an MFA from the American University in DC and was awarded a chapbook, Peregrine, by the Franciscan University in Steubenville, OH. He has received Pushcart Prize nominations and a fellowship from the WV Commission on the Arts.

0 Comments

Poem by Jay Rose Ana

11/15/2022

0 Comments

 
Break Bread

Break bread here,
     bake bread.
Mill the flower,
     knead the dough.

Tend the yeast,
     ​you are welcome here.
As you are,
     at this simple feast.

Set the table,
     if you are able.
Help with dishes,
     if your heart wishes.

For you are we,
     you will always be.
Welcome right here,
     for we are eternity.
Picture
Jay Rose Ana is a Worcestershire poet, originally from the heart of the Midlands in the United Kingdom. She explores the world from her laptop and writes her words through lived experiences, a deep soul, and a creative imagination. Jay Rose Ana is hostess of Words Collide Poetry Open-Mic and The Poetic Podcast. Her work can be found at www.jayroseana.com

0 Comments

Poem by Jay Carson

11/11/2022

2 Comments

 
After My Prayers

for me, I often have time to look
out the window at the tree-trimmed
easy lush nook of my city
and ask why the rest aren’t as lucky,
that people go hungry,
so many lining up for food,
that some in the world are starving.

I usually just stop there.
Too horrible and complex.

Last night, headlights flickered
through that delectable foliage
to my pretty-perfect apartment,
like a Morse code,
which I never took the time to learn,
and my silly woke sister
said it read:
​
Look at the plenty I have given.
And all I ask is that you share.

Jay Carson taught for many years at Robert Morris University where he was a founding advisor to the literary magazine, Rune. He has published more than 100 poems and a number of short stories in local and national journals, magazines, and collections. Jay is also the author of Irish Coffee (Coal Hill Press) and The Cinnamon of Desire (Main Street Rag).
2 Comments

Poems by Vincent J Calone

11/8/2022

1 Comment

 
​Teach a Man to Fish

Teach a man to fish- fixes it all-
Right? No? Wasn't that what they taught us?
Give a man a fish and he eats for
a day. Teach a man to fish and he


eats for a lifetime. Sounds simple right?
Well, what if there is no fishing rod?
What if there is no fishing line. What
if there is no ocean or any

fish left to catch, or stove to cook on,
or knife to clean and filet them so?
What if there was no more hunger? Or
belly to fill? Or need to nourish?

What if the man knows how to fish but
chooses not to? What if that man hates
fish. Maybe, he's allergic-what's next?
Do we force-feed him the tuna raw?

Like an obstinate child. Sent to
his room without dinner, with hunger
still unsatisfied. We think we know
what's best. Open up, chew and swallow.

*Form- Clicks Syllabics- CLXXX (Roman Numeral for 180)
​
(9 syllables per line, 5 stanzas, 4 lines per stanza, 180 syllables)

Never Expect Too Much

If only someone had saved me
the last slice of pizza...
Optimistic, but naive.
But, wouldn't it be nice?

A friendly hand to hold a door.
I beg your pardon. Oh, what for?
Never expect too much from people
and you won't be disappointed.

Always assume the worst outcome,

you'll be sad, but remain undaunted.
The world's an unkind place,
when you're waiting in a line.

When shortages and overreactions

seem to monopolize our time.
Or are we outta time? I suspect the latter.
It's inherent, baked within the batter.

If you were listening to me

in the first four stanzas, this about sums it up.
If you were expecting more,
sorry to end this so abrupt.

*Form-drabble
Picture
Vincent J Calone is a New Formalist poet. He studied under Lewis Turco- author of the "New Book of Poetic Forms" on New England Press.
Poet, playwright, actor, director- he wears different many hats but the message remains the same- Why do we do what we do? How can we change it? And how can we learn, grow and evolve? Vincent's writes and posts a new poem everyday on Raven Wire Poetry Prompts on Facebook continuously since 08/01/22 based off on the daily poetry prompt. Vincent is proud to                                                                     be part of the writing collective.

1 Comment

Poem by Laura McGinnis

10/23/2022

0 Comments

 
Thanksgiving Gratitude

Before we ate, we went around the table:
"What are you thankful for?"
The usual: health, family, home.
Then the formal prayer, grace before we filled our faces:
"Bless this meal and the hands that produced it. Amen."

The hands are more than those who came from the kitchen.
The hands come from farms
where turkeys are bred, grown, fed day after day
until they are ready to grace someone's holiday table.

They come from acres that are prayed over
for just the right balance of sun and rain
to produce the yams, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins --
the feast they cannot afford for themselves.

They come from fields, from stooped-over pickers
paid pennies to gather in the harvest,
moving from field to field, farm to farm until the season ends
and they must subsist until it's time to do it all again.

They come from the bowels of the waterworks,
giving 24/7 attention to the knobs and dials
to keep the water flowing and potable,
who give up their holidays to make sure everyone else has theirs.

​How can I, with my head bowed,
bear the weight of all the hands
who prepared this feast?
Picture
Laura McGinnis is a retired project manager. She studies with the University of Pittsburgh's Osher Lifelong Learning Institute and Carlow University's Madwomen in the Attic. She has been published by Clarendon House, Poetry Quarterly, Sweetiecat Press, and Indie Blu(e).

0 Comments

Poem by Ron Shapiro

10/13/2022

5 Comments

 
Homeless on the Trail

Slouched on a bench along the walking trail,
A black man with scruffy beard and wearing
A dirty tan parka more reminiscent of deep winter
Than an early September afternoon temperature
Hovering in the nineties. His face shrouded by
The hood, its strings pulled tight so only eyes
And mouth appear. His worn soul leather shoes
By his feet, stockings plaid with an oppressive odor
That smells of neglect. I’ve seen him before, sitting
Outside a Starbucks sitting or sleeping on a bench.
Homeless with little belongings, no shopping cart
Only a dark green Hefty bag, his physical load light.
On this steamy day, I walk over to him, hand him
A couple of bucks for a “cold drink.” He takes
The money, mumbling something that I could
Not make out. Does he ever talk? Speak to someone?
Or is he invisible? Unseen in this affluent community?
I wonder what would happen if I sat down across
From him? Would he talk? Or might be feel threatened?
His space invaded by someone from the other side of life?

The Last Buffet

In the middle of a dream,
I hear the words
Your eyes are bigger
Than your stomach
And right then I find myself
Likely in a restaurant,
Quite probably, a buffet
With its all you can eat sign
Posted over the menu’s banner.

​In such places, the customers
Fill their plates with everything
From baked beans to fried chicken
Steamed carrots to pasta primavera.
Like architects from some god-forsaken
Planet who never tasted human food,
Eaters layer meat, starches, and even
A vegetable or two making those who designed
The Tower of Pisa envious of this concoction.

In such places, eyes are huge as saucers.
Lines move slowly for fear of missing
A plop or two of gravy potatoes.
Gluttony overwhelms moderation
In these moments as now two hands
Need to carry the victuals back
To the table where room is scarce.
No room for a flower here
But leave the sugar packets,
Salt and pepper for sure.
They’ll be needed later.

And then there is the stampede
For seconds and if it’s shrimp
Or sushi, crab legs or lobster rolls,
Hold on to your plate. Get a good grip.
Then back to the table with the last plates
Awaiting their removal
Still covered with half-eaten food.

This moment of yums
Will later transform into
A moment of Tums
Along with the over-eater’s mantra,
How much did I eat?
Yes, how much can one person eat?
Too much, it seems.

Meanwhile,
Across the world or
Even in one’s own neighborhood,
Another can opened,
Another box of dry flakes missed with milk,
Another fast-food burger,
Another mouthful of fries,
Another glop of ice cream,
Another slice of white bread,
Another box of pasta,
Another hunk of cheese,
Another bowl of canned soup
Is dinner or lunch
On most days.

Two sides of America:
One overeating
Another under-eating.
The haves with their big eyes
And the have nots with their empty stomachs.
In a perfect world,
Eyes and stomach would be in harmony.
No need to overeat, to stuff one’s ‘pie-hole’
For fear of missing a bite.

Years back in India,
I heard someone ask
Why do some Hindus welcome
Missionaries to their villages
With the purpose of converting them?

A small voice replied,
“First give us food then God.”
An empty belly questions the concept
Of a benevolent deity, and rightly so.
It’s hard to pray on an empty stomach.

Back in those buffets,
The sounds of silverware meeting plates
Is akin to that of a church choir belting
Out an Ave Maria or Amazing Grace.
Then the closing belch or even a fart
Is the amen to this rather profane setting.

Here the prayer should be:
Let the eyes see what the stomach cannot.
Be thankful for the food on your plate.
Be aware of the waste that you leave
And how it could feed another person.
Understand that your gluttony means
Someone is hungry. But for the grace
Of God, it could be you. Amen.


And so back to their cars they go.
No one smiling.
Stomachs bloated.
Eyes bagged up.
Minds clouded.
Lungs gasping.
Heart straining.
Hips sagging.
Feet lumbering.
Death lurking.
Picture
Ron Shapiro, an award-winning English and Creative Writing high school teacher, teaches Memoir Writing through George Mason University to older adults. The recipient of an Outstanding Teaching Award from Cornell, he has previously published works in The Whole Word Catalogue, More Strategies for Teaching Writing, and NoVa Bards 2022 Anthology.

5 Comments

Poem by T.A. Niles inspired by Diane Wilbon Park's artwork

7/1/2022

0 Comments

 
Full Empty Bowl

By T. A. Niles
02/15/2022
(Inspired by Diane Wilbon Parks’ creative genius
& Poetry X Hunger)

 
Spoons…a fork…
all with handles stretched and thin
as a mother stretches thin
her supplies for grateful gruel
 
Mouths…open wide
in hope and anticipation
of sustenance that never shows
except in drips and drabs
that can’t sustain
 
Faces…faces hue the spectrum
shapes geometrically twisted
like innards filled with pangs
angry entrails spit
parched accordion growls
 
The big empty…
the big empty-empty bowl
holds naught but air
so like the bellies
of those who stare
into its barren depths
 
And fruit…and veggies…
all outside the bowl
so full of emptiness
so full of broken-meal-promises
and shards of sated dreams
 
And eyes…
eyes that stare in longing
bulging squinting
in their unrelenting seeking
searching for even a tiny morsel
 
A morsel… mighty enough
to start saliva flowing in arid maws
filled with too-soft teeth
or none at all
 
A bowl…a bowl wide enough
deep enough to hold
only but an infinitesimal smidgen
of the soup we
—the full--
discard daily

​Click on the file below to listen to the recording:
full_empty_bowl-0215_2022.mp3
File Size: 4080 kb
File Type: mp3
Download File

Diane Wilbon Park's artwork: 
Picture
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.

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  • Home
  • Art Auction to Alleviate Hunger
  • Hunger Poetry
    • Hunger Poems
    • World Food Day Poetry Competition >
      • 2021
    • 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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    • About the Initiative
    • Initiative Founder
    • Advisory Board
  • News & Blog
  • Young!
    • Poems by Young Poets
    • Videos
    • Materials for Teachers
  • Library
    • Extent of Hunger >
      • Global Hunger: Progress & Challenges
      • Hunger in the US
    • Historic Accounts of Hunger >
      • Africa
      • The Americas
      • Asia
      • Europe and Russia
    • Historical Poems
    • Interviews
    • Recent highlights
  • Contact/Submit/Take Action
    • Submission Guidelines
    • Call to Action
    • Resources & Donations >
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