Subsistence Economy

After the blight she thought often
of the steamed bun skins she’d
thrown away her whole life.
Lapping up anti-carb hate lit, peeling
those fluffy white skins, tasting
those fillings: pasty red bean, charred
meat, gooey custard, demure lotus seed.

Fingertips scorched, mouth and tongue
burnt by tiny bursts of steam,
chewing through a world of yesterday’s
textures. So many skins on so many
plates – a harvested mountain,
foothills of ivory dough puffing up,
frothing to a crimson peak.

She could have, should have
eaten that for a lifetime. Ahead
was a realm of alien textures,
new appetites to wrestle,
fresh dangers to feed;
still she dreamed
of those steamed bun skins.

This poem first appeared in Aimsir Journal: Lúnasa 2024, 26 September 2024.

About Bread, Germany, 1944
​
I can see myself. A small girl. White vest, black, ballooning
shorts, handmade. She stands on a milestone, giving her the height
to overlook the wheatfield, trying to see the wave.
In the distance a cuckoo calls.

The children have finished picking out the
potato beetles and their larvae by turning over each leaf,
walking slowly through the field where row after row
of the potato green thrives, ready for August. I see the girl
in front of the big farmer’s wife, her apron a sea of colours,
here and there slightly soiled. The woman presses
the big round loaf against her swelling belly,
cuts it in half and hands the child a slice as long
as two of her hands after spreading some lard.

The girl is walking home from the bakery.
The baker lady cut out two coupons from the ration
card. Under the child’s left arm, a big, crusty loaf.
With her right hand, and an experienced finger, she hollows
the bread through the crust from the exposed end.
At this moment she doesn’t think about consequences.

They picked up the last wheat from farmer Braun’s
field after he finished the harvesting. Mother
carried it home in a bag she’d brought. Left the stalks
to dry on the windowsill, beat out the grains.
She sits, the coffee mill between her legs,
her dress sagging between her thighs.

​If we find enough firewood, we’ll have
a small fresh loaf tomorrow.
If the train doesn’t get bombed,
Father will arrive just in time.

From her poetry collection LIFE STUFF, Kelsay Books November 2023.

Glamour

Aunt Lil wore her black hat at a coquettish angle,
its little veil pulled over her forehead.
She was Arpège and blood-red lipstick,
long, pointed fingernails to match, nylon stockings,
everything I wanted to be one day.
She bought me ‘Schillerlocken’*.

My uncle was a lawyer,
a tall tree in a forest of lesser trees.
He seldom bent down to my ten-year-old,
somewhat undernourished body.
With a stentorian voice he hinted
that I was making a nuisance of myself
just by being a kid.
I found out later that he had always thought
my mother a creature of a lesser race.
She didn’t speak like one is used to hearing.

It was whispered behind fluttering hands
that Aunt Lil had been a barmaid.
Now she was the wife of a professional,
was perfume and lace, and a deep-red slit
replaced her mouth when she laughed.
Which she didn’t do often.

The idea that this childless couple would look after me
for ten days while my mother went back
to East Germany (in danger of being sent to a Russian
gulag if caught) to sort out the lives we left behind in a hurry
had been hammered out between the women.

Uncle Fried looked at me across the huge dining table
as he would a fly and frowned.
‘Has nobody shown you how to eat
with knife and fork, child?’
My voice not quite steady from fear:
‘We had nothing to cut, Uncle.’

*
“Schillerlocken” is a sweet, cone-shaped German pastry. The name was inspired by the typical curly wigs that men, like the German poet Friedrich Schiller, used to wear in the 18th century.”

From her poetry collection LIFE STUFF, Kelsay Books November 2023.

BIO: A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and eight poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com

I Am Not Afraid Of You

I am no longer afraid of you,
Dear hunger.
I am not afraid of your pain.
I am not afraid of your sting.
I am not afraid of your stare.
I am not afraid of your footsteps.
I am not afraid of your looming presence.
I am not afraid of the fear that comes with you.

I am a gold in the making,
I am not afraid of the fires.
I am a house full of treasures,
I have all it takes to become great.
I am a man full of potentials,
I have all it takes to prosper.

Your sting is just for a while,
Your pain is only for a while,
Your presence is for a while.
I will rise above all hunger.
I will rise above all pain.
I will rise above all menacing atmospheres.
I will rise above all enemies of creativity.
I will rise above all enemies of the truth.
I will rise above all enemies of joy.

I might be hungry,
But still, I am a full human being.
I might be hungry,
But still, I have a story to tell.
I might be hungry,
But still, the world is waiting to hear my voice.
I might be hungry,
But still, I am not going to hate myself.
I might be hungry,
But still, my creativity is still intact.
I might be hungry,
But still, I am writing this poem.
I might be hungry,
But still, the universe will read this poem.
I might be hungry,
But still, the gates of ignorance will be smashed down.
I might be hungry,
But still, I am going to wake up each morning,
Wash my face,
Take a bath,
And occupy my space with all boldness.
I might be hungry,
But still, I have a story to tell.

Hermit Crabs

An enforced hermitage:
No vows but to try.
No conviction but to live.
No chosen fast,

this hunger,
this distance,
this fleeing
is enforced
by exploding shells,

​and living promise
must hide in cellars
from the volatile weight
of opposing progressions.

"Hermit Crabs" speaks of the hunger of people displaced by war.

​Click to hear the poet read the poem.

Love Starts with Bread and Bandages.

The street laughs
at my cracked and bleeding soles,
and that is not
how love is supposed to be.

The thorn in my side
is surrounded by new splinters
from cactus fingers
and that is not
what love is supposed to do
to your wounds.

​The nutrients was expelled
along with the poison
when my body purged itself,
all that is left
is that nauseous combination
of hunger and exhaustion
and that is no foundation
for love.

"Love Starts with Bread and Bandages" defines feeding people and physical care as the starting place of love.

​Click to hear the poet read the poem.

Window Shopping

Each and every story recites
beads of neglect and abuse
threaded with the hair-thin string
of fragile breath.

a twisting of the will,
a burnt hair smell,
a repeated jolting of already-fractured limbs,
a rubbing of the eyes with sand covered fingertips.

The hands that feed
often become fists
that beat, and palms
that smother screams.

If you want to help
you cannot bemoan the teeth.

The papers paint them plastic,
keeping us blind to the cold side
of display windows

where security means
being free from alarms
and able to sleep a night
without the disturbing displacement
of officers of arbitrary enforcement.

"Window Shopping" appeared in my debut collection "An Array of Vapour", and mentions how, if we want to feed people or help them in other ways, we need to understand who those people are and their vulnerabilities.

Click to hear the poet read the poem.

Generous Munchkins

In a humble home so bare, 
Children had but crumbs to share. 
A beggar came with tearful plea, 
Unaware of their scarcity. 
"Take our bread," the children said, 
"God loves those who give," they pled. 
Hunger stayed, but hearts were bright, 
Their kindness shone in darkest night. 

BIO: Tuba is a 20 year old woman from India.

Where No One Counts

When will we count the dead in Gaza?
Those buried in named graves we know,
all the tens of thousands of them,
those buried in the rubble,
the disappeared
with no one left to name them,
are still unknown
uncounted.

Then the other Disappeared,
prisoners of war
if it were a war,
but with only the rights
of terrorists
who have no rights at all
in this unequal conflict
that some call ‘war’.

And how can we count the injured in Gaza
when there are no hospitals left
and its people don’t count
so no one can count those numbers.
and perhaps no one will
in a country where people don’t count.

Now the starved and starving
have joined them,
the bags of baby bones
the unaccounted numbers
of intentional famine
in Gaza where still
no one counts.

First published in New Verse News, April 17, 2024.

The Flour Massacre

The world closed its eyes the day that flour was airdropped 
Into a broken city. A child’s dusty hands reach out  
To a loaded gun. His stomach already knows the bite of hunger.  
 
When his father died, he could count  
through the shroud: 24 ribs. 118 bodies 
Spilt over flour. If he survives, he will remember the taste 
Of blood every time he breaks bread.  
 
The world turned its back the day that they rolled in on trucks 
With sacks filled with grain. This is the price of aid.

Life and Breath
                                                              unblessed street
                                                                     bare feet
                                                              a fleshless shadow
                                                              on the alleyway wall

                                                                     deprived
                                                                     degraded
                                                                     benumb

                                                              inward emptiness
                                                              longing for a bite
                                                              even just
                                                                     just a crumb
                                                                     would be enough

                                                              unblessed street
                                                                     bare feet

                                                              express less
                                                              skin and bones

                                                              weakness
                                                              endure alone

                                                                     straiten pain
                                                                     depleted veins

                                                              unblessed street
                                                                     bare feet

                                                              life and breath
                                                              under born worth

                                                                     cry snuffed
                                                                     close the eyes

                                                              wanting to feel alive
                                                                     in a time
                                                                     to survive

Somewhere Else The Birds Are Singing

He managed to open the shutters a little way
but the gap was smaller than he expected.
He eased his head and shoulders inside.
The rest of him,
his arse and legs,
remained outside
covered in a blanket
then, as dawn broke,
covered once more
by a blanket of early spring snow.

He was hungry.
He was always hungry.

​Somewhere the birds are singing
he thought
somewhere else
the birds are singing.

Blighted

Once, in Ireland one million died
and we’re still counting.
One million fled
for their lives
and we’re still counting.
Equivalent to the population
of Gaza
before
starvation ruled the land.

​Starvation ruled the land in Ireland
when the potato crop was blighted.
Without potatoes there was no food.
Without potatoes there was no money for food.
Without money for rent colonial landlords evicted,
slave labour of starving men women and children
followed the rule
through occupation
and colonisation.
And no help came.
No Aid came
to help them.

And still
potatoes were exported.
And still
the landlords did well.
All the colonialists did well.
They always do.

So Ireland knows how it feels
in the depth of its turf,
in the depth of its being,
its rock, its stones, its bones
it knows the story
and that change will come
with survival first
one step at a time
and sometimes
words and money
can effect change
as readily as weapons,
that time the past shows
is the time to make a stand
against political manoeuvring
against another respected decision
un-welcomed again by the most powerful.

History shows the time to make a stand.
For Ireland knows
how lives are blighted.

First published in New Verse News, January 2024

War and Hunger

You fight a war
​To be a so-called winner.
But, can you free yourself
From the clutches of demon hunger?
Against the backdrop of
Destruction and rubble.
The ever-crying hungry eyes
Become silent and feeble.
War spares no one
Affecting everyone
Dwellers of the slum
Or the owner of a mansion.
When natural disasters pay a visit
Can you measure its limit?
Why create hunger on our own, then
In the name of just war, when we're to blame
Flexing muscles to show
Superiority that's so obscene!
Stop this thoughtless act and
Fight hunger together for our own good.
Make the earth green and hunger-free
And ensure every stomach gets food.
*****