Poetry X Hunger
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Now More Than Ever:
Submitted Poems

Poem by Lynda Scott Araya

5/15/2020

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Hunger
​

Hunger is a tricky beast:
Those who have it
Growling and grumbling,
Nagging to be satisfied,
Hide it from others.
After all,
Not everybody wants to know it
They fear its demands
Believe that to placate it
Will mean less
For themselves.
Sometimes,
Hunger, though shy with strangers,
Leaves clues of its presence:
Perhaps an empty cupboard
Where once it had foraged or
Its owner’s clothes
Now worn and hanging thin
Over rattling bones.
A child might sit apart to eat
One small sandwich
Trying to keep Hunger at bay
Which stares
Big-eyed at the children
With canteen money, filled rolls and fruit.
Hunger grows during times of hardship
And breeds during a pandemic.
It looks for solace,
To be fed
But so many are blind
They look away
Shake their heads at swollen empty stomachs and
Hollowed cheeks.
They are sure
Another will help.
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Lynda Scott Araya is an educator and writer who lives in New Zealand. She has been published or as work forthcoming in Verse-Virtual, Grey Thoughts, The Wild Word, The Pangolin Review and more.

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Poem by Marsha Mittman

5/13/2020

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VIGIL

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places…”
J.R.R. Tolkien

It was light once
Before the land imploded

Before the shutdown
Before children shuddered

The sun shone then
And the moon

Appeared crisp and clear
Not like now –

Shrouded in smog –
And there were animals

And growing things
Like trees and food

Instead of ration packs
And there was water –

Clean water –
There was hope then

All but obliterated now
Yet like a winter solstice

When light returns
We few wait…we wait

Though still in darkness
For the slightest glimmer
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Marsha Warren Mittman’s humorous memoir, You Know You Moved to South Dakota from New York City WHEN… (Scurfpea Publishing), is a “Western Horizons Award” winner. Poems/essays/short stories have appeared in American, British, German, and Australian literary journals and anthologies, including six Chicken Soup for the Soul tales. The author of three chapbooks, Mittman’s received various poetry/prose distinctions in the US and Ireland, and a Writer’s Residency at Alabama’s Fairhope Center for Writing Arts.

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Poems by Dee Allen

5/10/2020

1 Comment

 
A brief statement by Mr. Allen follows each poem

OUR DAILY CURSE
Give us this day
Our daily curse

Which impacted our kin,
       Seventeen of us youth,
             Our elders, including our two dear
                   Eldest females under one roof--

Give us this day
Our daily curse

Which presented us w/
       Almost emptied shelves,
              Cupboard & refrigerator nearly clear,
                     Our meals reduced to mustard sandwiches--

Give us this day
Our daily curse

Which forced us to contend for space
        With colonies of roaches &  the occasional rat,
               Two or three in a bed against evening cold,
                      Waiting for warmth, conditions like that--

Give us this day
Our daily curse

Which robbed us of necessary
          Charmin© rolls on the toilet, had us reaching
                For newspaper for wiping, deprivation
                      Was the norm in my 7-yr.old life--

Give us this day
Our daily curse

Conclusive proof
         That the god we prayed to nightly
               Was so sadistic, they abandoned
                         Black folks to suffer slowly from

Our daily curse.​


My early childhood remembrances of dealing with hunger & poverty at the same time. At my old house (and it was a big one), as quick as my aunts, uncle, grandmother and great-grandmother would bring food, beverages and sundry items home, they'd be gone within days. We'd run out of food, toilet paper, you name it.  This feast-and-famine cycle happened a lot, especially with kids to feed and raise.

FEED

This ain’t no charity.
This is a protest.

Supermarkets, hotels,
Eateries, coffeeshops,
Make waste out of fresh & prepared
Food, tonnes, at day’s end.

This ain’t no church function.
This is a protest.

Bullets, assault rifles, tanks,
Aeroplanes, destroyer ships, bombs
Make far-away lands killing fields.
National budget spent mostly on this, forget homes.

This ain’t no city programme.
This is a protest.

Hunger tends to exist
In the First World, too.
So food is recovered
From rotting as waste.

This ain’t no welfare line.
This is a protest.

Ongoing against military build-up,
Gearing up for war, nights and days
Dining from empty plates, drinking from empty cups,
Sleeping on empty bellies, dreaming of a decent meal.

Revolution sometimes begins from
The bottom of a bowl.

Public space gets reclaimed.
That space becomes inclusive.
Fresh, prepared, free
Vegetarian food is shared with neighbours.

Afterwards, workers & poor alike leave
The corner with fuller bellies.
Hunger is much worse on the streets.
So some do what class society fails to do:

Feed the people.
Food to every fork.

This ain’t no charity.
This is a protest.


My salute to the work of international hunger relief collective Food Not Bombs. I used to work with the San Francisco and East Bay chapters. They were the one social justice group I knew of that connected hunger with poverty, food-wasting and the federal government's national defense budget. They were saying, through their actions, "Feed the people, not the war machine.

BARREN
​Barren
Streets—Oakland’s 74 miles closed
To cars—Mayor Schaaf prioritises
Two-wheeled exercise and safety
For gentrifiers.
Barren
Subway stations—Social
Distancing maintained
To the extreme. Underground
Solid concrete ghost town.
Barren
Hotel rooms—They’d make better
Shelter in place for the homeless than being
Warehoused in close quarters on mats. Existing method:
Good way to get infected.
Barren
Shelves—Inside the supermarket--
The spirit of hoarding
Cleared them of supplies.
Long line of humanity outside are in for a nasty surprise.
Barren
Heart—There’s
Nothing left dwelling within the husk for some.
Nothing left but hostility—Blame for sickness
Lands on descendants of Asia.
Barren
Describes this reality, re-configured
By rapid infection—Humanity homebound--
There’s no reverting back
To normal after this.
I survived
Ten presidents, the residual terror of four
Foreign wars, power outages, outbursts of nature,
A petrol shortage, evictions and homelessness.
I will survive this, even as this contaminated air
World quickly goes
Barren.

Personal observations/feelings on how the Coronavirus pandemic changed the Bay Area, Oakland and San Francisco.


WOULD YOU?
Would you…
Bite into a watermelon without seeds?
Munch into an ear of corn without taste?
Suckle the bittersweet juice from a pomegranate the size of
a baby’s skull?
Would you…
Chew on a tomato grown with fish genes?
Eat bread made with wheat that can withstand heavy
clouds of insecticide mist?
Cook a meal with spicy chili peppers that can make their
own pesticide?
A loaded gun is no longer required
To play Russian Roulette with your own body.
The game can now be played much slower
When feasting on the cisgenic harvest.
Keeping hunger away
Original intent
Perhaps an excuse by scientists.
The poor are left to take that gamble.
White rats in a cage took a chance
On a potato they were fed for dinner.
Liver failure
Weakened immunity
Are what they’d gotten in return.
Will these be the effects

That mistakes of science
Corruptions of nature
Have on us?
A loaded gun is no longer required
To play Russian Roulette with your own body.
The game can be played much slower
When feasting on the cisgenic harvest.
I wouldn’t take such a chance.
Would you?
W: 9.6.13
[ For Miguel Robles, Rachel Parent and Tami Canal. ]
[ From the new book Elohi Unitsi: Poems [ 2013 -2018 ],
Conviction 2 Change Publishing, 2020. ]
​

A statement against the genetic modification of food. A few documentaries, including one produced by the University of New Mexico, inspired this poem. 
In this audio recording Dee Allen is reading his poem "BARREN":
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Dee Allen is an African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. He’s been active on the creative writing & Spoken Word scene since the early 1990s. He is author of five books (Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater and Skeletal Black, all from POOR Press, and his newest, Elohi Unitsi*) and 24 anthology appearances including Your Golden Sun Still Shines, Rise, Extreme, The Land Lives Forever and Civil Liberties United, edited by Shizué Seigel. *TSALAGI (Cherokee): “Mother Earth.” Pronounced: Ell-oh-ee Oo-nee-chee

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Poem by Henry Crawford

5/4/2020

1 Comment

 
Prayers in Need

The prayers of missing meals grow cold
on the backroom tables of the poor,
down the long hall of broken promises.
The prayers of mothers fall on vines
of famished words. So few are the ways
to tell a child—there’s not enough.
The prayers of empty bowls and the prayers
of useless spoons clatter in closets of want.
In silent kitchens, the prayers of being heard
simmer as they wait for answers.
Tonight, in the skies above the twinkling cities
of the satisfied, the prayers of those in need
wither before they reach the stars.
Click on the button below to listen to Henry Crawford reading his poem
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Henry Crawford is a Maryland poet and the author of two poetry collections, American Software (2017) and the Binary Planet (2020).

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Poem by Anne Harding Woodworth

5/1/2020

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Question

And if we know that there is food for all--
and many out of work are starving now--
why do the powerful disregard the call?
The hungry wait in line, standing tall.
Some leave empty-handed—why and how?
Of course, we all know there is food for all.
It’s said that it will worsen by the fall--
no flour, meat, no creamy milk of cow.
See how the powerful disregard the call.
The farmers find no market for their haul,
and so they hide their crops beneath the plow.
The powerful know it could be food for all.
Where’s the people’s aid in protocol?
Destructive like the trash from an ocean scow.
And the powerful disregard the call.
The hungry infants cry. The world has stalled.
Sweat does not collect on many worker’s brow.
And if we know there’s food out there for all,
why do the powerful disregard the call?
question_by_anne_harding_woodworth.m4a
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You can click on the file to listen to Anne reading her poem: it will open and play in a new window
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Anne Harding Woodworth is the author of six books of poetry, with a seventh, Trouble, coming out in late 2020. Her poetry, essays, and reviews are published in journals in the U.S. and abroad, in print and on line. She lives in Washington, D.C., where she is a member of the Poetry Board at the Folger Shakespeare Library.

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Poem by Martin Chivaku

4/26/2020

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Hunger attraction

“Stay! Keep a distance_”
 
A talk to set people free
For a slave master arrived_
Descended and made self at home
In the East_ thus had to spread
To the West, North and South
Like the wings of a bird
Ready to migrate...
 
“Isolate! Keep in quarantine_”
 
An innocent directive lifting guilty
Repercussions to! summon the less
And even the used-to-be privileged_
Into the shelter of insufficiency.
 
“Listen to live_ to die!”
 
The best option there is_ there was
And there will be...because it feels better
To live and die_ than to die at first glance
Without a face mask and clean gloves.
 
The world wrestles dirt and entirely
Becomes cleaner than a whistle_
 
But when the referee blows the whistle
The bellies carry cleanliness more than the food,
It was just but supposed to carry in the,
 
Pre-virus period -- hence godliness becomes
Easier as the wholeness died of
Hunger and thirst.
 
No more brother’s keepers as the brother
Lies on a deathbed coughing, sneezing,
So feverous and in dire need to provide
Food for his other brother but...
 
The virus took the muscle back to the gym
And watched weakness, panic and fear
Awash the land with destruction.
 
Where did the virus come from?
Why did the virus come at a time of this?
 
The aftermath and the present-math
Is a world full of hunger and what’s_ there for us
When the end just comes to an end?

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Martin Chivaku is a poet from Zimbabwe. You can find Martin on Twitter here: Chivaku Martin

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Poem by Linda Ankrah-Dove

4/23/2020

1 Comment

 
​My Pantry
 
Big jars full of quinoa, brown rice, millet, even teff and couscous.
 
A poor flat world—Bolivia, Bengal, Zambia, Ethiopia, Morocco--
has given me here in the Shenandoah Valley these exotic food gifts.
 
Countries trade staple foods for milk condensed and gushed into cans
from the teats of cows overgrazing our western prairies.
 
The rich flat world desires ever more, whatever grows over the horizon.
But we need some hills to see over. So, tariffs and custom controls.
 
Now the voracious virus has jumped the man-made walls.
The entire flat world flips over like an omelette missing the pan.
 
Village farmers in Bolivia, Bengal, Zambia, Ethiopia, Morocco,
can no longer tread the feeder roads to haul their crops to market.
 
Families in war zones—Yemen, Sudan, Ecuador—have no safe moist soil
for food. Humans there waste with hunger. Starvation soon.
 
I watch the news and close my eyes at swollen bellies,
infant eyes enormous, arms and legs like the shift sticks on our farm trucks.
 
Not in my back yard, though.
 
I have learned what inanition does to school-age children
with supurating sores, mothers with breasts like emptied sandwich bags
and black eyes when frustrated fathers rage with their hands.
 
And now the food banks in my home town are short of basics
for the long lines of hungry here in this rich agricultural valley.
 
And this season, I plan to grow in my own back yard
potatoes, cabbage, onions, beets and maybe sunflowers as a luxury.
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Linda Ankrah-Dove has done aid work in many food-insecure countries. She now trusts poetry to touch hearts and motivate us to change the world into a healthy paradise for all.

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Poem by Paul Guenette

4/19/2020

3 Comments

 
This Virus Knows No Boundaries
 
Farmers turn the dirt
My uncles in rural Michigan sure did
My birth certificate says occupation father: farmer
With borrowed tractor and harrows strong
Corn, vegetables, dairy, and beef
My big sisters helped, could name all the tools
We put up vegetables to eat all winter
 
Farmers turn the dirt
In rural Senegal my uncles farmed too
My host tribe so gentle and generous, and poor
With hand tools from branches and backs bent strong
Millet and sorghum in the rainy season
My little sisters hauled water, prepared our food
Fight the birds and rats, make it last all year

To see the video of  Paul reading his poem, click on the button below - it will open and start playing in a new window:

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Paul Guenette is a recently retired economic development manager with expertise in international agribusiness. Mr. Guenette designed and managed development programs in a career spanning 45 years and 90 countries. 

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Poem by Richard Littlebear

4/15/2020

1 Comment

 
Inspired by a Cheyenne story
W/editing assistance by Wayne Leman

​
TSESSOHPETANENĖSTOVE TSEXHOTOVANATO: hetsėtseahe
LIVING THROUGH DIFFICULT TIMES: an analogy of today.

Mo’aenevėhanehe. Mo’ȯseetonetȯhanehe.
It was winter time. It was very cold.
Hesta’se mohma’xėhovėsetsevanȯhehe.
Snow was piled everywhere.
Kȧhamaxėstse tseohkėho’ėšeme moma’seohtsehanehe.
Camp firewood was being used up.
He’nostonėšemȧhanevȯse moxheomėsėhaahpe’eenoo'ehanehe.
No one could go after firewood because the snow was too deep.
He’nostonėšenȧho’ȯhtsevȧhtsevȯhtse.
They could not even visit each other.
Hestamevo mohno’easema’seohtsehanetsehe
Their food was dwindling.
Menȯhtse naa honovohko mo’asemȧheestȧhenovohe.
Berries and dried meat were being depleted.
He’nostonėšeeve’tomo’evȯhtse.
It was difficult to go to another teepee to get some food.
Heseeotȯtse, hetanevano’ėstse, šeštoto’e mo’asema’seohtsehanevotse.
Medicinal herbs, man sage, cedar and other healing plants were vanishing also.
He’nostonėševestȧhemovȯse tsehaomohtȧhetsese.
It was difficult to heal those who were sick.
Otaxa mohxaehe’kėto’omoehevohe heveenotsevotse
The only thing people could do was to stay in their teepees.
Kȧsovaaheho naa hetaneo’o tseešėhaa’ehahese mohtaohkėheemȯhenėhevohe, hovahno he’nohkeme’ovovȯse; otaxa mo’ȯhkeevȧho’ėho’ȯhtsevo.
Young boys and older men went hunting, they could not find any animals; they came back empty-handed.
“Nahko’e, neseemȧhehaeanama, natao'sėhenȯhtsevoomoo’e hotovao’o naa heva vaotsevahno,” heške moxhetȯhevohe.
“Mother, we are all so hungry. I’m going to look for buffalo or deer,” he told his mother.
Mo’exovee’ėsanėhehe.  “O’haetanoo’e” heške moxhetaehevohe. Mȧhtohto hohtȧhnaesohto aenamėhehe mohnėhestȯheaenamȧhehe.
He dressed warmly. “Be very careful,” his mother said. He was only 16 years old.
Nešee'ėše mo’eohtsėhehe. Moxho’oxeohtaanėhehe tohtoo’e. Naohkeva’neaestomenestovoo’e Esevone moxhešėtanȯhehe.
He wandered for two days. He decided to stay out one more night. He thought he could hear the rumbling of buffalo somewhere.
Tsehtšėšeepėhevevoo’ȯhtse na’ėstse hotova’e moso’hovenehoveoeotsėhehe. Mohma’xeoeveohtsėhehe. Nėseehaesto esevone moso’hovenehoveoehevohe.
Once he was settled and warm, he prayed to Ma’heo’o, asking for guidance for himself and food for his people. Then, finished, he looked around. There a distance from him, a buffalo suddenly stood up and shook the snow off.  Soon, there were many buffalo standing up, shaking off the snow, and beginning to graze as only buffalo knew how.
 
Mohva’neahto’heenȧhevohe.
They had just been buried in the deep snow.
 
Nehe hetaneka’ėškone mostaevėhenėhetȯhevohe hevo’ėstanemo.
That young boy went to tell his people what he had seen and where.
Tse’ešeevama’seanehnevȯse naa tse’ešeevamȧhena’so’enȯhevȯhtse mo’oesevehohevohe nehe hetaneka’ėškone. Hotovao’ȯhme’ovȯhtse.
When the meat was butchered and all were fed, a name was ceremoniously given to the young boy: The one who finds the buffalo.

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Dr. Richard E. Littlebear is President and Interim Dean of Cultural Affairs at Chief Dull Knife College located on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana.  He actively promotes bilingualism, advocating for bilingual education on a local, state, national and international level.  He encourages the continued oral, written and reading usage of the Cheyenne language specifically, and of all indigenous languages generally.  He considers learning to read and write the Cheyenne language -- his first language -- as his greatest academic achievement.  

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Poem by Judith Robinson

4/15/2020

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Questions
 

What do I know of hunger?
They say the starving dream of food.
I heard Depression era stories
My mother’s painful account: days with nothing to eat.
I confused her with Cinderella.
What do I know of hunger?
They say the starving dream of food.
There were childhood commandments
My father’s admonition: please finish everything on the plate.
There were children in Europe with nothing.
What do I know of hunger?
In dreams I see old lovers, old cities,
I fall from trees and mountains,
Forget exams, speeches, names of others.
They say the starving dream of food.
What is the difference between hunger
And starvation?
A few days, a week or so?
A difference in dreams, perhaps?


Here is a video of Judith reading her poem.
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Judith R. Robinson is a poet and visual artist from Pittsburgh, Pa.

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  • Home
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    • World Food Day Poetry Competition >
      • 2021
    • Poets Speak Back to Hunger
    • Now more than ever! >
      • Now more than ever: Submitted poems
    • 2020 WFD Poetry Competition >
      • 2020 World Food Day - submitted poems
      • 2020 World Food Day Poetry Competition announcement
    • World Food Day Poetry Competition 2019 >
      • World Food Day 2019 - Submitted Poems
    • World Food Day Poetry Competition 2018 >
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    • Extent of Hunger >
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