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Crying I heard the familiar cry calling Sound is similar in Asia, Africa, Australia Gaza, Nigeria, Russia, Ukraine, …… I wanted to write A for apple, but what it’s H For hunger That familiar crying child disturbs me Day and night That orphan on the railway station Circling his dead, starved mother To wake up Though she has left some Hunger for him to feed on THEME: Childhood Hunger  Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is 'we were not born to be erased'. Various publications include: Tint Journal, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Ecological Citizen, Origami Press, Poetry X Hunger, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press and elsewhere.
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Hunger: A Tritina darkness threads the sky wild with the throb of hunger the tsunami of broken hope children flail for a cord of hope tossed from the looming sky then fall into wells of hunger they are well versed in hunger their voices low with hope pleading for bread from the sky the sky roars with hunger, shattered by hope Gaza Haiku In Gaza’s lean sky moon bares its slim-edged crescent curved blade of famine hours before iftar children gather in flapping tents singing for water our tables weighted food a shameful privilege we quietly fast Flour Massacre it’s the way crimson blooms across sacks of flour like springtime poppies stripped from their stems buds crushed in storm’s wild onslaught no chance to open or the way bullets pierce skulls charting places of entry and sometimes exit though for Gazans there is of course no exit or the way carmine tracks across white shrouds map the winding cloth in a grim atlas of despair like the haze of flour spilled from ripped sacks clogging the wounds of those who crawled through dirt trembling with hunger ribs etched through skin in stark precision not unlike the exactness snipers bring to their task as they aim carefully bullets penetrating the bodies of those desperate to feed their children a handful of something that will not poison or sicken them something to keep them alive a little longer to push back famine a day and another and perhaps even another until the world decides to make the siege end so that flour becomes an ordinary part of life again dough kneaded with firm hands placed carefully in an oven hot with hope rich with the odor of baking not this dust shrouding trucks stacked deep with the wounded and the dead this despoiled sustenance of stolen life but rather something simple dependable unremarkable daily bread for daily hunger “Flour Massacre” first appeared in Black Warrior Review. THEME: Hunger in Gaza  Lisa Suhair Majaj is a Palestinian American writer living in Cyprus. She is the author of the award-winning collection Geographies of Light (Del Sol Press) and of the forthcoming poetry volume Why Doesn't the Sky Love Us? Her poetry has been translated into eight languages, mostly recently Korean. Her poems were displayed in the 2016 exhibition Aftermath: The Fallout of War—America and the Middle East (Harn Museum of Art).
Lament for Lammas Day I will not decorate the altar with flowers and fruit For how can I celebrate a harvest when the seeds sown in the hearts of vengeful tyrants yield only famine and war? For what do we reap in this season? We reap the bones of children. The wind that blows through the barley carries the weakened cries of a starving nation and the last stolen breaths of thousands. The rain that falls on the ripened corn stings salt with the tears of the mothers and fathers who hold the remains of their mown-down children in their disbelieving arms. This harvest brings a bounty of blown off limbs fresh from the killing fields Each fruit is tainted with the blood of the innocent I will carry no celebratory sheaves home from the meadow Let there be no harvest supper with plates laden with food. I will lay the table with empty plates, empty glasses and weep for the cruelty of men. And I will pray that with the pulling of the plough and the turning of the land, a new season of peace may take hold and grow. THEME: Genocidal Starvation  Kate Gold is a painter and poet living on the edge of Dartmoor and has written poetry since a child. After she studied poetry as part of a creative arts degree, she took her writing more seriously, honing and developing her writing skills. She went on to achieve an M.A in creative writing (poetry) In the past Kate worked as an art, poetry and creative writing tutor in HMP Bristol and ran writing workshops in community settings. Much of her poetry is inspired by her love of the wild beauty of the natural environment and her experience of caring for the dying. Her first poetry pamphlet was published in 2022 by Jawbone Press in Dorset.
Bite my Heart I am hungry, Wandering in the street, No crumbs, no scent, no scrap Of food to eat. I walk Beside a million, yet I’m none-- A shadow moving silent in the sun. I dream of bread, Of warmth beneath my hand, But wake to dust, to ash, to ruined land. No place to bloom, no roots, No patch of grace—just cold air Pressing hard against my face. Like flour spilled, Like petals turned to stone, I fed no soul and starved Within my own. My heart was bitten, But my bread was kind, It never cursed the hunger of mankind. Bite my heart but never my bread, Though hollow, I’m still living, not dead. The plate is bare. My voice begins to fade, More fleeting than a soul Upon a blade. So bite my heart And let it break, But leave my bread-- It’s all I take. THEME: Famine, Displacement, Survival, Human Resilience BIO: Fadel Kishko is a writer from Gaza. His work explores grief, hunger, and the moral weight of survival. He writes to preserve the dignity of those silenced and to speak through the dust where stories are buried.
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.  Jeremy Roberts MCs at Napier Live Poets and interviews poets on Radio Hawke’s Bay. His memoir about poetry adventures in Indonesia, The Dark Cracks of Kemang, was published in 2022. www.read-nz.org/writers-files/writer/roberts-jeremy
I am Sorry Life’s easy when you have a father to feed, a mother to call in need. But there are kids on hostel floors, sitting with empty bowls, licking off false hopes, surviving in cigarette smokes. They cry on college benches, they sleep in deep trenches, betting their lives like they bet their money-- living on knives, and it slips off like honey. Life’s easy when you do not look for money, when you get things for free, when you do not raise a GoFundMe, because Daddy’s there, sweet bunny. But there is a kid in need, hungry but does not plead-- because he is ashamed, and he is afraid. He has friends in need, but they are not friends indeed. Their alcohol sufficing his thirst-- no one stops him, no one to trust. Life’s easy when you have a mother to sleep beside, and a father building your reside. But then there is he, and then there is me-- wishing him good night, but he cannot sleep, because he did not eat. Cannot cry anymore, no kick left in his feet. Like a lullaby to growls, music feeds their hunger. Yeah, it does not kill them... But do they need to be stronger? I wish I could feed you, but I do not even know you. I wish I was there, or you had someone to care. But I cannot. I am sorry. Life’s easy for me. 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).
The Copper Jar Poverty tastes of broken glass in the playground, of boarded up windows, of black mould eating damp wallpaper. It tastes of the dole queue, long dark shadows forming on the deflated lung of ex-mining villages, in a street called Hope, where none can be found. It tastes of empty docks & padlocked gates, abandoned factories strangled with fireweed. It tastes of clenched teeth, of money lost, and lost again on one armed bandits, and in bookie shops. Poverty tastes like the bottom of the copper jar 10p for a handful of potatoes, you chip & fry in hot oil, eat with simple salt. Stop crying, eat, eat, you say, lifting your toddler into his highchair. You can taste poverty like hard metal on your lips. It tastes of fear, of not being able to feed your own child. This poem first appeared in The Cry of the Poor, Culture Matters.  Rachel Burns is published in literary magazines including The Rialto, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Atrium, The Friday Poem, Magma and The London Magazine. Her poetry pamphlet, A Girl in a Blue Dress, is published by Vane Women Press, and her first collection is forthcoming with Broken Sleep Books.
The Language of Angels A calico cloth, laid out flat, like so much of your lands. Thousands of stitches but nowhere near enough in number to measure the lives taken. The tiny drops of blood from a finger pierced by sharpness. Nothing in the ocean of blood that has been brutally spilled. Frustration at the lost thread, slipping from the needles eye. Nothing, when you must pack your few belongings and move on, Again, again, again. Exasperation at my slowness, my lack of skill. Nothing, when you must begin each day and find some thread of hope to do what needs to be done for the children. Hunger that causes me to consider putting aside my stitching. Nothing, when I have ample food in my cupboard and you – you are slowly starving as you feed your children first. I sleep in a safe, warm, comfortable bed, whilst you huddle with what remains of your family under a few blankets for protection. Today I sewed the name of young woman with the same name as my own granddaughter. Aisha, 25 years old, someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter. Maybe someone’s wife and someone’s mother. In many ways I prefer the reverse side of the sewing. The strange, angular shapes. The knots and loops. And I choose to believe it is a language known only by angels. That they might fast-track these souls into the presence of God. Where they might know peace, love and acceptance. Far, far away from the angry egos of bitter, old men. #StitchTheirNamesTogether – a project with women all around the world stitching the names of those killed in the Palestinian genocide. A small way to remember, to honour.  Kate Gold is a painter and poet living on the edge of Dartmoor and has written poetry since a child. After she studied poetry as part of a creative arts degree, she took her writing more seriously, honing and developing her writing skills. She went on to achieve an M.A in creative writing (poetry) In the past Kate worked as an art, poetry and creative writing tutor in HMP Bristol and ran writing workshops in community settings. Much of her poetry is inspired by her love of the wild beauty of the natural environment and her experience of caring for the dying. Her first poetry pamphlet was published in 2022 by Jawbone Press in Dorset.
Hunger Certainly, it’s everywhere, right? All over the world? Yes, someway or the other. I read a report about it. I saw it in the street today. Oh! I met it last year while travelling. I saw the eyes filled with it. I watched a documentary last week. Does it quench? It depends on gnawing a hundred holes. Was it in the past? Yes, of course. Though things were different, so what? Though you distance yourself, you ignore it, you overlook it, you avoid it somehow. Yet, it remains at the corner of your heart, in the prick of your heart, in your searching eyes, in the crevices of your brain. Reflected in anger, frustration, impatience, shrieks, stress, sentences, sights, rights. Sometimes in silence, sometimes out of sight. Condemned to live by comrades of dying. At times it becomes unpronounceable. What else? Suppose we are able to measure it, then what? Escaped to be entrapped. In any case, shot in war. Faces, could you recognise any? Carrying continuously, from here to there. Keep a low-pressure area on the surface life. Can it be divided? Licking the pavements, swallowing the insults, digesting the injustices, biting the bitten heart. Leaving nothing for the vulture, nothing to be eaten, except plastic. On the other hand, the world goes by and we move on. Published in The Poetry Lighthouse.  Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is 'we were not born to be erased'. Various publications include: Tint Journal, Poetry Xhunger, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Comparative Women, Origami Press, Asiatic, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press and elsewhere.
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