Gamelan breakfast
(Yogyakarta)

Music in time
with the street:
mobil engines, frantic feet,
clip-clop andong horses …
as
hungry bellies eye the courses:
Soto ayam
Pecel kampung
Bubur ayam
Aneka buah
Gudeg
Aneka sambal
Kerupuk
Ayam kalio
Kopi panas
Es teh
Ah … kami kenyang –
ready for the day.

Andong = horse-drawn carriage; Soto ayam = chicken soup; Pecel kampung = steam veges with peanut sauce; Bubur ayam = chicken rice porridge; Aneka buah = assorted fruit; Gudeg = fruit stew; Aneka sambal = chilli sauce; Kerupuk = crackers; Ayam kalio = chicken in spiced coconut gravy; Kopi panas = hot coffee; Es teh = iced tea; Kami kenyang = Bahasa Indonesia for ‘we are full’

Plenty
​
a starfruit
fell from the tree –
a golden mouthful
left to rot
on the ground.

Come and eat your chicken
Bali 2023

Alia!
That’s my ibu’s voice
It’s lunchtime, Alia!
That’s my ayah’s voice
Your chicken is ready!
Cooked by STAFF-ONLY in the kitchen
You must be hungry!
Lunchtime is between breakfast and dinner
Time to eat!
My jaws will chomp up the food
Alia!
My name has three syllables: A – li – a
Come and eat your chicken!
Please is the magic word
Are you listening?
To splashing and sunshine humming
Alia! Did you hear me?
Yes, my ears are working
The chicken will get cold!
I ate cold chicken, yesterday
You need energy in your body!
I love using up all my energy
Your lunch looks so yummy!
I can see it in my head
Come now!
It shoots out of the pipes like rainbows
We will be so pleased when you come!
Splashing sounds like clapping
Alia! We’re talking to you!
They are shouting
Can you hear my words?
They mix with all the sounds
Please, darling!
My wonderful mermaid dance is not finished, yet
That’s long enough in the water.
I’m turning into a prune
Alia! I’m not saying it again!
They always do, Ibu & Ayah
Alia!
Their words are making a pattern
You need some food in your tummy!
Every day, humans must eat
Please, Alia!
Look! There’s a beautiful bug looking for food
Are you coming?
The ants are marching!
Come and have lunch!
You don’t eat food in the pool
Eat it while it's still warm!
It won’t stay warm forever
Alia! I'm talking to you!
Your words are in in my head
Stop swimming!
My body is twirling
Please, Alia!
Oh what a beautiful pile of flowers – it’s a prayer
Alia! Are you coming?
Hmm … that voice sounds a bit crosser
Do you want dessert?
Mango, papaya, pineapple, melon … and cake
Darling!
That’s me
We’re not calling you again
They always do
We know you’re having so much fun!
Can we stay here forever? No – we’ve got to go home
You can have another swim, afterwards!
How many swims altogether?
Lunchtime has started!
The food is disappearing
Alia! Can you answer, please!
Hmm … I suppose my tummy is empty

Bahasa Indonesia: ibu = mother, ayah = father

Click to hear the poet read the poem.

BIO: Ayushi Rana is a 19-year-old aspiring writer from India who uses poetry to process social inequity, loneliness, and longing. She writes emotionally raw pieces driven by empathy, guilt, and personal witness.

Ribs Rise Like Broken Wings

There is no food.
Only the sound of hollow stomachs--
louder than the bombs,
more constant than the drones.

Our bodies have turned to shadows.
Ribs rise like broken wings,
as if our chests are trying to fly away
from what we’ve become.
Bird-boned and starving,
in a cage made of war.

Men forget their sentences halfway through.
Women tear bread into ghost-sized pieces.
And children?
They no longer play.
Even joy needs calories.
They no longer play.
Their bodies are too light to carry joy.
They sit in corners,
limbs folded like broken promises,
eyes wide,
but dulled.

Mothers stir pots filled with nothing,
and serve it with an apology.
They flavor it with song,
but the children are too tired to pretend.

The plates are empty.
So are the shelves.
So is the world, it seems--
when we call out.

We faint now--
quietly,
without drama.
It’s what happens when the body runs out
of even the will to stand.

And when the world
begins to hear
the sound of our hunger--
they rush to drown it.
They turn up the bombs
to muffle the growl of our stomachs.
They hold meetings,
not to feed us,
but to feed the illusion.
They say “ceasefire”
when they mean delay.
They say “negotiation”
when they mean nothing at all.
They choreograph hope like theater--
just enough to keep us dreaming
of bread,
just enough to keep the world quiet.
Not peace.
Not aid.
Just silence
wearing a mask.

But still,
We dream.
Because dreaming
is the last right they haven’t stolen.

In Gaza,
a loaf of bread is not a meal--
It's a miracle.
A flag.
A full declaration
that we are still here.

And when the world asks,
"What does hunger sound like?"
tell them:
it sounds like Gaza--
where even silence
is starving.

BIO: Ruba Khalid Al Faleet is an artist, poet, and author from Gaza. They're a member of the "Resilient Voices" project for the British Council and a member of the Gaza Poets Society (GPS).