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Slow Food for Sandor Katz In the age of modern miracles: Frozen logs of plastic-wrapped dough make perfect cookies in minutes. You give your spouse the extra time to bring home the bread, the wheat, the staff of life, modified for convenience in the company lab. It’s food on the table, once you’ve paid the gas and pinched the moment in a microwave, lending more minutes to your dual income for delicious splendor in fractions of the moment. But ancient wisdom says: Food for the soul takes a good spell in the kitchen to make a little sweetness in your life, to bake a proper loaf you might need patience for the yeast in the air to make love in your dough, give it rise, punch it down, kneed it with your arms, place it in your womb, the oven of your ardor – a creation from the mountain of earth, the straw from your fields and rocks from the river, in the fire you made with your own hands from the wood the trees gave you in the last big storm.  Buffy Aakaash grew up queer in the hills and lakes of New Jersey west of New York City. His work is published in The Poet Magazine, Oberon, Iris Literary Journal, Write Launch, Main Street Rag, and others. He lives, travels and moves about with his dog, Bodhi.
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Lost Legacy of Farming Life All terrains from extensive plains, to the valleys, hills and mountains cleared bushes and carved terraces diked plots to win nature’s graces turned all wastes into bountiful manure reaped harvest then, nurturing the future Pens and barns, full of goats, buffaloes, cattle perennial chores of livelihood battle tending livestock with love & care adoring feeding stalls to grazing pasture as if a genuine steward of natural treasure in lieu of pails of milk for family to savor and supplement labor with draft power reaped harvest then, nurturing the future Selling produce, goats, cattle and buffalos a desire to observe festivals with new clothes enduring heat, cold, storm and rain grateful for enough to eat, feed and entertain respecting heritage of colorful culture reaped harvest then, nurturing the future A rustic homestead with a house and barns dwelling joint family of three generations from grandparents to grand children sharing woes & with love & affection together with kin, cohorts and neighbor reaped harvest then, nurturing the future The tale is not just a poetic fiction but is the gist of nostalgic recollection and a reflection of childhood of my own witnessing ancestral diligence and devotion may it give us wisdom and inspiration perpetually for future generations  Nityananda was born and raised in a farm family in a rural mountainous village of Lumbini zone in Nepal. A quest of higher education brought him to
Canada. After getting a Doctor of Philosophy degree in plant science from University of Saskatchewan in Canada, he has been working as a research scientist in Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada. He is a life member of the Association of Nepalese Agricultural Professionals of Americas, where he currently chairs the Resource and Capacity Building Committee. hunger in a parallelogram of sunshine beyond a breezeway window ten barefoot steps from a small kitchen’s small sink grows a well-staked garden under some rabbit proof mesh not far from where an old hose seeps over moss-covered flagstones raised from seed and tidied by fussing fingers and a Mother’s wooden-handled spade, the plants come of age, jostling in their cribs and cracking the pottery coiling with ringlets, feral interests, squash blossoms, and green hairy stems, they are no longer the grower’s nurslings and have questions: why do we belong in this gardener’s dream? why not someone else’s? someone for whom a handful of berries might fill a plate too long empty slake a hunger, borne forever kale, squash, dill-weed, beets, peppers, parsley, basil and butter beans leafy foods in every color, how can there not be enough for every plate? i have no answers, she tells them, then savoring the bounty, wishing she could do more, the gardener fills her bowl to the brim, and after sating her hunger, scrapes the leftovers into the compost bin and reties the garden stakes because there are hungry rabbits too  After decades of teaching literature and philosophy, Patricia now lives in Northern Michigan’s Sleeping Bear Dunes area in a cradle of sky, water and trees, where she writes and makes art about people in relation to their habitats. Past publications include small press literary journals; academic philosophy forums, Women’s Day Magazine, and a feature column for a tri-county paper.
Homeless and Hungry Where do I go to be safe? Where, oh where do my children and I get a bite to eat during this pandemic? Let it be told so someone can help our stomachs not to hurt. So hungry, so cold at night! My babies can not stop crying Fear and pains reasons why. Change gotta come for survival to remain. Hard times drive us to be Homeless and Hungry Wide-eyed Innocent Children stare in Wonderment All babies know are severe pains of hunger All babies want are a peanut butter and jelly sandwich How about an apple, how about a banana, or sip of milk, some juice. Hear babies’ feeble cry Listen how they whimper. Can you please show us way to shelter and food? Food will take away pain Unite to help rid our hunger, help Mothers stay sane. Unity brings phenomenal change. Thank you for awesome help you give to ex out gloom. So my babies will stop crying So my babies will have cover over head soon  Sylvia Dianne Beverly (Ladi Di) entered this poem about food waste in the 2018 World Food Day Poetry Prize competition. A collection of her work is housed at George Washington University's Gelman Library. Ladi Di celebrated the 40th Anniversary of Host Grace Cavalieri, reading on her show "The Poet and the Poem" at the Library of Congress Experience.
Hunger is the Norm The child, a mere skeleton, looks up with glazed over eyes, and a blank stare. I look back and wish to help, too feed him, but it is too late. His frail body cannot absorb nourishment. We are looking into the eyes of death. He accepts it without question. For, you see, to him starvation and death are the norm.  Milton says, “My poems are not entirely mine. They belong to the people and events of my passage through life. The sum of my life experiences, with more to come, I am sure. Once the dam is breached its contents flow unabridged. I also express myself through my art and craft work of dream catchers and mini sculptures. With the support of family and friends I continue to be creative and productive.”
MOM, NO MORE Mom, please… I know it’s not right to say, But, Mom, there’s not enough food for My six siblings and me to eat. You see, I wanted another peanut butter and jam sandwich last night. But, you said, “Only one sandwich per child.” It’s just too many of us to feed, Mom. We are always hungry and sad. Mom, I know you are doing your best, But my stomach tells me it needs more food. Maybe if you pray another hour, God will hear your cry—and the growls of my stomach! Hunger is not the best feeling for a child. It’s not good for a growing child, you know. All I think about is eating a good, hot meal. I do believe it will get better one day. But until it does, Mom, please… No more babies. The cry of a seven-year-old boy--  Joyce Williams Graves is a native of Fredericksburg, Virginia. She lives in Fort Washington, MD (over 20 years) with her husband Glen Graves. She is a woman of faith. She has been retired for 7 years. Ms. Graves worked at the Environmental Protection Agency for 22 years for the Office of Inspector General as an Information Technology (IT) manager. She is an Entrepreneur and works as an independent skincare consultant (Jafra International) for 8 years. She has been a US Notary Public for over 30 years. Ms. Graves is a playwright. Her play is called, “Cotton Field to Concert Hall.” It was performed at the Public Playhouse (2017) and the Kennedy Center (2018). Her hobbies are painting, writing poems, swimming, walking, playing chess. Ms. Graves is a Numismatist (Coins Collector).
Raspberries On our bed we lie like flatfish. Outside, stars grow older. The moon, a white cocoon, casts its image on the river. In sparse shadows a willow dangles. Along the thorn fences raspberries bleed. They remember once being the fire drawing the moth flapping its wings to flames of love.  Anna Yin was Mississauga’s Inaugural Poet Laureate (2015-2017) and has authored five collections of poetry and “Mirrors and Windows” (Guernica Editions) in 2021. Her poems/translations have appeared at ARC Poetry, New York Times, China Daily, CBC Radio, World Journal etc. Anna won several poetry awards and also teaches Poetry Alive. Her website: annapoetry.com
Fractured Food System Blues (a blues in 5 voices) 1. They call me a small farmer, but I’ve got a big list of to-do’s Feed the world… cool the planet… Try walking just one day in my shoes Cause, I got the Fractured Food System Blues 2. I’m Jamaican, but I’m kneeling down on your land Never Canadian, but what you’re eating was picked by these hands No rights, no shelter, no heat in winter, And the worst kinds of abuse I've got the Fractured Food System Blues 3. I’m a community garden, right in your neighborhood I can connect friends & families, young & old Leafy greens, peppers, tomatoes, of all sizes, shapes and hues To wash away your Fractured Food System Blues 4. We’re Food Policy Councils, now how do you put that in a song Peoples voices and ideas that make decision-making strong! But inclusive governance mechanisms will never make the news We’ve got the Fractured Food System Blues 5. Agroecology and food sovereignty We’re more than just words, or theories, or novelty We’re the roadmap, and the journey, so go ahead and take your cues We’re Transformative Pathways, for your Fractured Food System Blues. Click on the file below to listen to the poem: Faris Ahmed is a poet from Ontario, Canada.
Hunger In the battle between hunger and thirst thirst may win. And yet the song of the empty belly fills the air with its plaintive notes. There are only losers here.  Linda Pastan’s 14th book of poems, Insomnia, was published in October of 2015. In 2003 she won the Ruth Lilly Prize for lifetime achievement. Almost An Elegy will be published by Norton in 2022
Food is Important Food is important, but it’s not the only important thing. The world is dependent on cooperation. If people didn’t cooperate, lions would have wiped us out Long ago. Cooperation means we all work together To make the world better for all life forms. Not just us. There are already more human beings than there ought to be. That’s why there’s hunger and starvation in the world. But we also have very clever people Who can figure out ways to collaborate for a better world. Cooperation means we all work together To make the world better for all life forms. Not just us. We need to adjust the climate, increase green energy, Stop burning fossil fuels, and improve agricultural techniques. We need to preserve species from extinction And learn more about the biology of our single blue planet. Cooperation means we all work together To make the world better for all life forms. Not just us. We need to find a way to stop having wars, Religious, political, and crime-related wars. We need to stop pollution, stop destruction, And transform the world to a collaboration Of all people. Cooperation means we all work together To make the world better for all life forms. Not just us. Here's a link to the YouTube of Henry reciting his poem: https://youtu.be/oUUlMiqaqbQ  Henry Farkas, MD is an old retired country doctor. He's also a cancer survivor.
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AboutThe poems that follow are powerful evidence that Poetry Speaks Back to Hunger! Archives
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