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. Ping Yi writes poetry, travelogues and fiction, and is in public service. His work appeared in Orbis, Litro, London Grip, Aimsir Press, ONE ART, Harbor Review, Litbreak, Vita Poetica, Poetry Breakfast and Wild Greens, among others. Ping Yi is from Singapore, and lived in Boston, MA, and Cambridge, UK.
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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. Born in Nigeria in 1997. First work of fiction and poetry will be appearing in The Kalahari Review and Writers' Journal - Live & Learn by September and December 2024. 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. Peter Lilly is a British Poet who grew up in Gloucester before spending eight years in London studying theology and working with the homeless. He now lives in the South of France with his wife and son, where he concentrates on writing, teaching English, and community building. His debut Collection 'An Array of Vapour’ is available with TSL publications, and his second collection 'A Handful of Prayers' is forthcoming with Wipf & Stock. 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. Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. www.lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry 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. Nicole is an English poet who predominantly explores themes of meaning, atheism and science in her work. She has been published by The Bookends Review, Poetry Undressed, Cats Bite Back, Prospectus and Sunday Mornings at the River. 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 Sheltering an ear whisper beyond means seemly out just for the hurting skin to the bones knowing to the lone dry eyes not much to see lonely cry within a sigh sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper through the alley ghostly ashes in the trash fingernails scraping in the dumpster for a mouse nibbling in the spoiling sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper a child staring at the chalkboard strain veins breathing weak enduring fatigue wishful for a bellyful sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper outsight in the moonlight dusk in in the footsteps tears in silence darkness settle in of many tells it all written on the wall sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world an ear whisper impose damned bare hand reach out for hand outs belittle muffle face without meaning to what ends sheltering endless pain in a plentiful world why Posted May 16, 2021
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Guy Chambers was born in Edmonton and lives out at North Cooking Lake. He has two books published called Flying Kites in the Moonlight and The Theater. Chambers has been published in many Canadian literary magazines in addition to the USA, New Zealand, and Australia. He also has online publishings that has reached global viewing. 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 Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. www.lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry 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. ***** Minati Pradhan writes poems, short stories and essays in English and Odia languages. Her interest areas include nature, gender equality, women’s empowerment, education, social justice and spirituality. Her poetic insights are thought-provoking and compel the readers to take a new perspective. Two of her books- collections of poems, have been published. She has co-authoured two books of essays and one of stories and six of poems and co-edited one book of essays. Her poems, short stories and essays have been published in many magazines and newspapers. She has presented her essays, research papers and poems in various seminars and workshops. She is also a certified counsellor who specializes in guiding the parents of differently-abled children. |
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