Endurance for humanity ‘’A day without food is a wasted day’’ Said the boy in a war torn refugee camp But have you ruminated On life without a farmer, food transporters, donors Agriculture educators, food banks, processors and distributors Again, have you imagined life without Food and Agriculture Organization, World Food Programme And the Capital Area Food Bank with their partners ‘’Yes, I have’’ Then what do you have to tell about that life ‘’You will never know that a madman on the street has brothers Until you kill him! I see one billion people left with no jobs Isn’t that about 28% of the world population I see rampant deaths due to hunger and starvation’’ What else do you see ‘’Malnutrition, diseases and stunted growth in children Delayed delivery of the scanty available food I see many economies collapsing I see extreme poverty and food poisoning due to aflatoxins’’ All the holy books, whether the Christian bible, the Hindu Gita, The Moslem Quran and the Buddhism scriptures Are unanimous in one thing, that growing and sharing food is a good thing With their humility like that of the carpenter of Nazareth, Even in the covid 19 pandemic! Fruits, legumes, vegetables, tubers, grains, meat and eggs have been constantly supplied Aren’t these very crucial in the fight against covid 19 Oh…..even in the pandemic, they have been present! But who are these food architectures, your guess is as good as mine! Therefore, step up and be counted On emulating what these great people do, on passing favourable policies On supporting their hard work On making them feel respected and appreciated When the roots are deeper, there is no reason to fear the wind. Click on the file below to listen to the poem:
Our actions are our future Why cutting down trees Dumping polythenes in soil Settling in wetlands Why abuse and excessively use agrochemicals Pouring waste industrial residues into farm land Is it because they are the solutions for survival today Don’t you know That some of today’s solutions are tomorrow’s problems Such as the 811 million people go hungry What about the 690 million people undernourished Desertification and drought at an alarming rate Low yields in agricultural production Contaminated and unsafe food for consumption Don’t we commemorate the world food day every 16 th October What have we learnt from it Have we put it into practice Are you aware? That you are potential victim Besides, a potential solution to this fate And that if we come together, we can change our destiny Through sustainable agriculture Afforestation and re-afforestation Rightly using agrochemicals Protecting the wetlands Proper disposal of polythene materials Can’t we invest more in agricultural research That we may have plenty of food To mitigate hunger and undernourishment across the globe Isn’t this the right time To exploit the available and explore more postharvest handling technologies That we invest in in refrigeration and silos to store more grains I believe that all this can be done And that it will be done Because if it’s not done we are done May God bless you. Click on the link to listen to the poem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2g4vQ5A8vSk&t=4s Edward Kabali is an Agricultural Teacher at Grace High School in Uganda
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Dear farmers of Talhar, How do you feel when you see a gold expanse of grain Against the silhouette of the sky? You work day in and day out Yet you don’t get get your due, No recognition from mainstream media, No visits from officials posing for camera You sow seeds Of life, wisdom and sugarcane And you reap stones Of stratification, status quo and destiny. The culprits are ignorant urbanes like me Who live in houses made with coffered ceilings Want to grow flowers and shrubs in their backyard But don’t want to step out of that backyard To hold that flower in their palm, Take in its magnificence, And let its aroma beguile their senses In an old village. My mother lived in our ancestral village: Talhar During the four initial years of her marriage, She would speak of living in houses made of mud, Using cow dung as fuel, Sitting together with fellow women in courtyard, Swinging back and forth in seats suspended by ropes, Moulding clay to make earthenware pots, jars or vessels, Reading stories of Akbar Badshah and Birbal - Without rancour, without any malice. I visited our ancestral village first time After my mom's death, The vast, yellow beds of sunflowers, Women ploughing the seeds alongside men, Children helping their fathers in chafing the wheat, Made me see nature as the biggest equaliser of nature. I looked at sunflower seeds, Felt the urge to pluck one seed out after another, Collect them, And give them to each farmer, To help them repay the debts owed to landowners, But I knew they would stop me, As their village was the paradise Where caregivers would lead the cattle. Whether it's the wave crests Or the cascading waterfalls, I saw beauty in all its glory at the village. Lofty brown mountains -- Hidden amid a beautiful mess -- Would open a cave to collect coins for laborers' survival. Pockets of green would expand their size. Rich meadow pastures would open more treasures. When a laborers’ child played hide and seek, He would randomly find thistles and flowers. And his mother would call these little miracles. Everything was on auto-pilot here. Dwellers as well as nature. But above all, Farmers had a voice here. Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published on quite a few platforms including Poetry Village and Poetry Pacific. A Bowl of Broth Folk sneer at broth The opaque oiliness of its slick surface Floating above a watery complexion Leaves only faint flavour lingering In the fluid As it gurgles and scalds Gushing down one’s throat A foodstuff for the poor they say Those of more affluence favour soup With its pungent punches of flavour Its smug assault on associative memory In a blizzard of colours, smells and sloshing sounds Yet consider the humility of broth In the faintness of its taste Preserving a memory of something No longer there Brian Ennion is a poet from Liverpool in the United Kingdom. He is a History graduate and a keen runner. Cookie Monster They call him the Cookie Monster. Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone. Striking while the oven’s hot He can scoff the lot They call him the Cookie Monster. Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone He finds victory sweet To have your cake and eat The food supply tumbles The hungry stomach rumbles They call him the Cookie Monster Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone He’s in a world of plenty Before the tin is empty. But His mind denies He is using up supplies They call him the Cookie Monster Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone A shame less greed Cares not for need More than a hunch He has eaten Africa’s Lunch They call him the Cookie Monster Om nom nom nom And the biscuits gone Make him stop Or the starving drop R.Stephenson Issue 01.4 13/11/12 Richard Stephenson was born 50 yeays ago in Newcastle Upon Tyne. He is now a Chartered Engineer, working in the telecommunications industry. He lives in Reading UK where he runs the Dreading Slam Poetry Competition Joy Unbound Sometimes, While taking to air, The sprightly wings begin to tire The throat gets parched Hunger hounds the hollow belly Rain raids randomly And the sun bakes and boils. Yet, His life takes An unfettered flight imbued with majestic high Prosperity Three basic human needs: Bread, rags, and roof. Bread— The bread I eat these days tastes different. I have forgotten the grim face of hunger. Rags— I dress better than I did long ago But the greed in my heart still goes naked. Roof— I live in a grand and high building these days From where people appear stunted. Chandra Gurung is a Nepali poet based in the Kingdom of Bahrain. In 2007 he published his first anthology of Nepali poetry, and his second collection titled My Father’s Face has been translated into English, has come out in Oct 2020. His work has been featured in many international anthologies including: More of My Beautiful Bahrain, Snow Jewel, The Collections of Poetry and Prose series, Warscapes.com, and many others. Also, Chandra often translates poems from other languages into Nepali. 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 Click on the file below to listen to the recording of the poem:
Guy Chambers living out at North Cooking Lake Alberta. Has two books published called “Flying Kites in the Moonlight” and “The Theater” a story told in poetry about homeless Still Life She showed up late for picture day eyebrows shaved ratty toque pulled low Do you want to take it off? I asked. For the photo? No she pulled it lower with both fists My sister tortures me hiss-whispered between savage gulps of milkless instant oatmeal from a tiny pack stashed in a locked drawer in the school office That’s four times this week the secretary sniffed as if there’s a moratorium on food instability I don’t ask if this one knows where auntie is or if uncle still finds her and her little sister fake-sleeping under T-shirt blankets on the couch She tried to hide the circle seared into her palm the scratches on her knees from the cat, or so she said last time Is there any more? A note from the poet -- As an elementary school teacher of 33 years, I was often confronted with kids/families living with food insecurity. Ask any elementary teacher, and they will show you a snack drawer/closet/cupboard stocked with granola bars, oatmeal, beef jerky, crackers, etc. usually purchased with their own money, for hungry students. This poem is a reflection of that all-too-common situation. Click on the file below to watch the video of Brenda reading her poem:
Since retiring in 2017, Brenda's immersion in family research inspired a collection of poetry based on her paternal ancestry. A proud member of the Edmonton Stroll of Poets and the Parkland Poet's Society, her work has been published in Canadian journals and anthologies. Brenda is completing a certificate in creative writing and is at work on a second collection of poems. The Capuchin Day Centre It’s Wednesday morning and the queue on Bow Street gets longer year on year - a family with two children wait in line for the blue bag from brother Kevin. Bread, butter, beans and more - their home, a hotel room, two bus rides away. Yet somehow this place, is just enough to put a half smile back on a mothers face, on these dirty Dublin streets. Click on the file below to listen to Doreena read her poem:
Doreena is from Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin, Ireland and has been writing from the age of twelve. Her writing is like a diary, reflecting life’s ever-changing emotional landscape. She is a member of the award winning ‘Carlow Writers Co-op’. Enough Would words be enough, I would sate your hunger I would build for you a well everfilled with water clean I would work alongside as you till the field Watch hope emerge green from the brown earth Would words be enough, I would end your misery Watch each child of yours grow strong and true Teach you to read and to write and to sing So that your voice be forgotten nevermore Would words be enough, I would help you bear your burden Bring healing to your wounds, end strife See beyond the lines on a map, beyond colour And you would know you are my sister, my brother If words were enough Click on the file below to listen to Josephine read her poem:
a pearl in this diamond world … Josephine LoRe’s words have been read on stage and in Zoom rooms, put to music, danced, integrated into paintings & visual art, and published in literary journals and anthologies in ten countries. She has two collections, Unity and the Calgary Herald Bestseller The Cowichan Series. https://www.josephinelorepoet.com/ An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger) Ireland 1845 - 1852 I Ireland. The aching. Stomach tight, skin taut, stretched across poking ribs. Mo dhia, prataí ar maidin agus prataí ar nóin mar a duirt an file -My God, potatoes in the morning and potatoes in the evening, - as the poet said - A hot clammy Summer. Potatoes! Lifegiver! dragged from the earth with fevered hands, dirt scared nails, scratching, digging the mulched black thing, cloying to the touch, from the earth. A fouled death stench, from what had been a potato. A sábhála Dia orainn! - God save us! - Níl aon rud eile againn! - We have nothing else! The Land bereft of it's nourishing harvest; potatoes. Even along the coast, the boats are no more, in the cities if you have the money for the inflated prices at the food markets, and islands where there is fish, there is some salvation, if you have the strength and skill to catch them. If you have a currach to set sail to find them, or the ragged groups of women and girls, chipping reluctant shellfish from the sea drenched rocks, or, eating raw seaweed to ease the knawing need, their guant frames poisoned, leading to the agony of death without hope. Cad a Déanfaimid anois? - What will we do now? The cravings, walking barefoot, to the Landlord's House, the smell of cooking from his kitchen. Turned away by his bailiffs with masks about their faces, to hide the stench of human despair. Food. Scenting like hunting dogs, the imagined taste on the air, like ragged unseeing things, they stagger across moor and heath. The mountain wind, cutting through to the bone, II the chill of streams crossed numbing their bloodied bare feet, staring unseeing, with grass-juiced mouths, the final act of despair and madness, dripping from slack jawed lips. Dying in heaving gasps, amidst a mountained landscape, falling to emerald beauty to the quiet of field and valley. The last sight and sound they see, lying face up, in a ditch, or on the side of the road, watching with the indifference of the dying, the slow moving gunmetal clouds pasted across a cold sky, reflected in their eyes. A raven hovering, feathering a winged beat for the approach of endless night. A lonely cry on the air, notes their passing. A lonely place to die, by the roadside, a light breeze, bending blade of grass and petalled flower, fingers clawing the earth in a final rigor of agony, before blessed death takes them. An Gorta Mór: 1845-1850 Click on the file to listen to Tony read the poem:
Tony Treanor is an Irishman living in Limerick on the Mid-West coast of Ireland. He has enjoyed writing and reading poetry all his life. |
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