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The Hunger DialectKim B. Miller, USAWe sip on tea flavored with righteousness indignationAdd a touch of honey dripping in our own gluttonyWhile we slowly speak the dialect of hungerWe claim to be ambitious on solutionsBut truth says we have never metWe spread lies evenlyAs if, evenness eliminates detectionHungry people see a world of excess who viewstarvation as avoidableVictim shaming is our specialtyThis dialect of deception is clearly recognizableThe language we lie with is so bitter, even when dripping offof sweet religious lipsWe can’t feed everybodyHere comes the lieWe embrace the acceptance that doing nothing is equal totryingYet we continuously knit together new excuses with old liesWe shame hungry people on full stomachs and then werewrite the narrativeImagine a world that throws away enough food to feed thehungry complaining about lossWhile the population who has food insecurity is waiting to befoundEmpty stomachs are not looking for empty wordsWe need long term, right now, sustainable actionsLet’s plant fruits and vegetables and let freedom be thegardenerAllow people to pick fresh food from their communitygreeneryHave community barbeques and well placed public pantriesDonate to trusted restaurants so they can offer free meals tothose in needCreate central areas for restaurants to bring food instead of19

throwing it awayLet’s reinvent how we distribute foodMake it easier to ask without askingAnd no more pretty phrases for ugly thingsStarvation is not “food insecurity”Is death “breathing insecurity”Our appetite for synonyms seems highHunger has many levelsAnd a need to make hunger definable to all is neededLet’s make sure we are not using it to avoid saying words thatstingStarvation is a “life insecurity”Action is the cureBut we’re too busy slicing up excusesWhile hungry people look at an empty plate full of indecisionWe don’t even offer them a cup of hopeTo hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE20

Pitch InSylvia Dianne Beverly (Ladi Di), USAPeople are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.Her meals were from partially eatensandwiches thrown in public trashcans.She watched a child throw away a sandwichone bite out of it.Getting a sandwich from a can immediatelywould be her evening meal.People are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.An apple, a pear, a peach, some cherriesSome grapes to help provide nutritionTo help curb appetitePraying to God above, never to give upFerocious fight.People are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.A project for many years, helping my MotherMake sandwiches in our kitchenwith Family and FriendsTaking sandwiches to organizations, likeS.O.M.E, So Others Might Eat brings oncheers, chants yea food is here.People are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.Standing on Main Avenue in freezing coldAnd snow, holding sign stating HELP MEFEED MY CHILDREN, IF ONLY FOR ONENIGHT!!!21

People are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.All across the world people die from hungerand malnutrition to ignore this plight wouldbe a ridiculous selfish shame.People are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.What can you do, what can I do, what can others do, to endthis international plague?The answer is blowing in the wind, doingSomething consistent, we can all PITCH IN.People are hungry, yet people continue towaste food.To see the poet presenting this poem, click HERE22

TSEHSOHPETANENĖSTOVE TSEXHOTOVANATO: hetsėtseaheLiving Through Difficult Times: ananalogy of todayBy Dr. Richard Littlebear, The Cheyenne Nationinspired by a Cheyenne story and written in Cheyenne, with English e.It was wintertime. It was ow was piled everywhere.Kahmaxėštse tseohkėho’šeme moma’seohtsehane.Camp firewood was being used up.He’nostonėšemȧhenevȯse moxėheomėse haepe’eenȧhenehe.No one could go after firewood because the snow was toodeep.He’nȯhestonėšė nȧho’ȯtsevahetsevȯse.They could not even visit each other.Hestamevohe mohno’ease ma’seohtsehanetseTheir food was dwindling.Menȯhtse naa honovohko mo’asemȧhestȧhenovohe.Berries and dried meet were being depleted.He’nostonėšeeve’tomo’hevȯhtse.It was difficult to go to another teepee to get some food.Heseeohtȯtse, hetanevano’ėstse, al herbs, man sage, cedar and other healing plantswere vanishing also.23

He’nostonėševestȧhmovȯse tsehaomohtȧhetsese.It was difficult to heal those who were sick.Otaxa’mohxae’he’kėto’omoohevo heveenotsevotseThe only thing people could do was to stay in their teepees.Kȧsovaaheo naa hetaneo’o tseešėhae’ehahese mohtaohkeheemȯhnėhevohe, hovahnehe he’no’ke me’ovovȯse; otaxamo’keevȧhoeho’ȯhtsevo.Young boys and older men went hunting, they could not findany animals; they came back empty-handed.“Nahko’e, neseemȧhehaeanamane, nataosėhenėtsevoomo’ehotovao’o naa hevavaotsevȧhnohe,” heške moxėhetȯhevo.“Mother, we are all so hungry. I’m going to look for buffalo ordeer,” he told his mother.Mo’exovee’ėsanehe. “O’haetanoo’e” heškemoxėhetaehevohe. Mȧhtohta hohtȧhe naesohtȯhe aenamėhemohnėstoaenamȧhahe.He dressed warmly. “Be very careful,” his mother said. Hewas only 16 years old.Neše’ešeeva mo’eohtse. Moxėho’oxeohtanehe tohtoo’e.Na’ohkeva’neastomenestovoo’e Esevone moxhešėtanohe.He wandered for two days. He decided to stay out one morenight. He thought he could hear the rumbling of buffalosomewhere.Tsehtšeepėhevevoo’ohtse na’ėstse hotova’emoso’hovenėhehoveoeohtse. Mohma’xeoeveohtse.Nėseehaestohe esevone moso’hovenėhehoveoohevohe.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, abuffalo 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’heenahvohe.They had just been buried in the deep snow.24

Nehe hetaneka’ėškone mostavahenėhetȯhevohehevo’ėstanemo.That young boy went to tell his people what he had seen andwhere.Tse’ešeevama’se anehnenevȯse naatse’ešeevamȧhna’so’enȯhevȯhtse mo’oosevehohevohe nehehetaneka’ėškone. Hotovao’ohme’ovȯhtse.When the meat was butchered and all were fed, a name wasceremoniously given to the young boy: The one who finds thebuffalo.25

From the BalconyForestine C. Bynum, USAOverlooking my balcony, I often sawA gathering of women and childrenMothers with babies tucked tightly in their armsThey were quiet, rather orderlyNot causing a disturbance, walkers passed by politelyBusying themselves as not to see, scurrying toCatch the bus or get to their carsI saw women taking turns scavengingThrough a dumpster nearbyI hadn’t noticed before, for foodThe only sound heard was a tiny cry askingMommy, when will we get foodAnd a voice saying, Feed My People, Feed My PeopleAnd a mother’s soft voice replyingTomorrow, tomorrow my child, I hopeTo mor row, to mor rowTo hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE26

Cold ChickenFin Hall, ScotlandIt’s raining, and windyno shelter from the coldI’m ailing, though young still,I am really feeling oldChristmas is coming,I still can’t find a homeNo money, no shelterWandering the streets aloneMy shoe won’t stop leakingmy toes are turning greenMy stomach is so emptyI wish that I was cleanSearching through the rubbishFor something nice to eatA leftover chicken legA succulent, seasonal treatNourishing, but still hungryWhat else is there to do?I approach a stranger and say“A merry Xmas to you.”To hear the poet presentingthis poem, click HERE27

Dinner for OneKelly van Nelson, AustraliaI remember the angst of scavenging for nourishment;the excitement when sustenancewas found in a tin of spamselected from the self-service menuin a kitchen cupboard slammed with a bang,breaking up an otherwise stony silencewhile preparing dinner for oneNo distraction from acrid smell of poverty,an airborne virus infecting my nostrilsattempting to satisfy growling malnutrition needbecause every child needs a daily feed,no point in letting the situation breed contemptas who gives a shit about trying to representthe groundhog day of the twisted eventthat although lonely was still a highlight when imminent;my desolate dinner for one.My parched lips washed it downwith unfiltered tap waterconsumed while perched on a rickety chair,wobbling as if laughing at my misfortune sitting there.A chipped orphan plate scorning hungry eyesalways lowered, scarred from my mother’s glares filled withdespise,familiarity in that crockery that saw behind the scenesmockerytowards child welfare that forgot to be thereto witness my dinner for one.The pièce de résistance dished up on scratched pine surfacebarren of pretty tablecloth,not ever needed since I’d never dare spill a drop.28

Even if I did I’d use my tongue as a mopto make the most of my dinner for one.Indigestion took hostage of my stomachwhen I too quickly crammed tasteless morsels into my youngmouththat hung open, forgetting to close with the chew,table manners were never something taught by you,fingers my utensils, there was no silver spoonto shovel in my meal because mother would be home soon.Needed time to wash up, no excuse for her to raise handto beat me black and blue for being so bad.It was cold in the bosom of the kitchen without the oven on.Why waste energy serving up dinner for one?To see the poet presenting this poem, click HERE29

Towards LecanveyGer Duffy, Ireland(In Memory of the Famine Walk 31/3/1849)National Famine monument atMurrisk/Lecanvey, County Mayo, Ireland. Thesculpture pays homage to the victims of theIrish Famine (An Gorta Mór) and especially toIrish people who emigrated to the United Satesto escape death, with no guarantee of arrivingalive.Stop a moment by the idle wall, lookright to the red rusting boathouse, talltrees whispering, sheep bleating. Lookleft, follow the waves, their blue green sheendomed by the sky, bend dip with the coastroad. Long fingered land lingers, to reappearas humpbacked hills dotting Clew Bay, cloudsscud across Croagh Patrick, colour changingas you watch. Four hundred walked to DelphiLodge in search of food. They lie amongpotato drills, roofless abbey walls, standingstones, yellow furze. The rise of landdominates, insists that you walk on it, admireit and know your place in the scheme of things.To hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE30

American MadonnaAnn Bracken, USAHunger wears a face full of hopelike the girl on the magazine covercradling a loaf of white breadas if it’s a miracle. Tonight, she willsleep with food in her tummy.Hunger’s face is innocentlike the little boy buying a corndogat the corner store or his neighborwho’s grateful for two plump strawberriestucked in the family’s food box.Hunger tells the same storysweeping across time and placefrom Oklahoma’s Dust Bowlto Mississippi’s Delta towns—Loss and desperation landing sucker-puncheson families across America.Hunger’s face is wearylike the fictional Rose O’Sharonheavy with grief after birthingher stillborn child. Her pain ripplesthrough the air, palpable and rawlike the fresh scar on her heart.She seeks refuge from the rainin an old barn, a boy offersher a musty blanket. She spiesan old man huddled in the cornergripped by hunger like a fist in his belly.31

Rose offers him the only gift she haslying down next to him, baring her breast,and sharing her milk.To hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE32

EnoughJosephine LoRe, CanadaWould words be enough, I would sate your hungerI would build for you a well everfilled with water cleanI would work alongside as you till the fieldWatch hope emerge green from brown earthWould words be enough, I would end your miseryWatch each child of yours grow strong and trueTeach you to read and to write and to singSo that your voice be forgotten nevermoreWould words be enough, I would help you bear your burdenBring healing to your wounds, end strifeSee beyond lines on a map, beyond colourAnd you would know you are my sister, my brotherIf words were enoughTo hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE33

The HarvestAndrés Abella, USATruth will be the seedthe brethren of the earthencounterdroplets of a liquid sunfilling up all wellsthe way that dreamsfill up a melody of illusionThe earth has remaineddry and crumblingwho would have imaginedthat iron showerscould never blooma green of feastsbut rather bleedan old despair?Rich nationslet barrels of foodgo to wastelike depth chargesexplodingin poor people’s faces.Hunger is no longer tragicjust unbearably absurdCome, climb the stairslook up to the spheresand find a cometthat even the blind can seethen stab the earthslit its veins with loveand light and joyand let the truthbegin anewWe will have breadthe field songs34

will struma venerable earthquakeof memoryand we will rememberwhat sharing meantbecause we’ll learnto share again.To hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE35

Remembering the Starving ArmeniansMichael Minassian, USAIn my mother’s kitchenfood was weaponizedplates piled high with pilaftomatoes, chicken, and lamb.Remember the starving Armenians,my mother said.History sat down at the table with us;our lost family kept alivehalf a century laterIn Northern New Jersey,Long Island, and the Bronx.During the First Genocideof the Twentieth Century,America sent ships fullof food, nurses, and nunsto the Mediterranean;posters hung in town squaresand full-page ads appearedin the New York Times:Remember the starving ArmeniansA million and a half dead,another million scatteredaround the world.But I had to finish my dinnerno matter how full I feltand if any scrapsremained on our platesmy mother stood36

at the kitchen sinkand licked each one clean –our kitchen at leastone place on earthwe ate for the empty placeswe ate for the dead.To hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE37

The FlyerJ. Joy ‘Sistah Joy’ Matthews Alford, USAGrocery giveawayFree food for the elderlyPlease bring a bagA neighbor handed it to herAt the bankIt lay on her kitchen tableFor two weeksBefore she taped itInside her bare kitchen cabinetClosed doors hide more than emptyshelvesEven more than empty stomachsToday pride took a stepTo the back burnerSo potatoes, carrots and onionsSimmer on her stove once againPots boil freelyAs aromas riseDrying proud hands and tear-filled eyesOn an apron accustomed to hostingfamily dinners for yearsShe wipes away tears,Then picks up the phoneTime to place a thank you callTo a good neighborTo see the poetpresenting this poem, click HERE38

No Time for PoetrySharmila Pokharel, Nepalthe big lineupin front of the food tankera motherholds a paper plate in her right handdrags a child with the leftthe loudest crowd everto get meals to their childrenthere I saw myselffragmented into thousands of humansand my soul in silencelooking for an answerTo hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE39

Fortify Your NutritionRashid Hussain, PakistanThe elite dines recommending balanced diet.“Balanced Diet,” nutritionist lectures every client.Sure I will prefer sweet over sour,Fresh fruits and corn flour.I will be only a fool and unkind to ignoreStunted children in my country under 5 years, 57% is the roar.Help all grow healthy, advocate a diet well understood.Don’t waste a single bread, galloping wine, fixing your mood.Breakfast, lunch or dinnerThe children here have not much to eat, andBeyond your imagination, much much thinner.I will sacrifice mouthwatering pastriesDeserts and expensive mealsSugary sensationsChocolate trufflesAnd pay last of penniesFortifying nutrition of stunted here.To hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE40

AlmuerzoArgos MacCallum, USAin the summer heathalted by an insolent red stoplightI see a man sitting on his hauncheson the opposite curbof the t-bone intersectioncompact dark and round-eyedcradling a lunch on his kneesas solemn spoon rises to solemn lipssolemn as a state dinnerthe curb a timeless thronewithin an anthem of silencean island in the roar of the worlda feast of rice and beans no doubtfit for both fisherman and pharaohspoon rises and dives like a bird of preythe cardboard bowl the living earththe serpent of hunger is driven awayand won’t be back again today41

A Lady Yells Up and Down MinnesotaAvenue I'm Hungry!Brenda Bunting, USAWhat does hunger look like?I follow the steps of quiet children.Their footprints weren't light or dancing.Bare feet drag to an abyss ofundernourishment.Such big stomachs and tear-less crying,This is what we have seen on television.Staring at a world away we are deceived.By the perception of distance-Hunger does not notice day or night.It is the same a gray edge of pain unbroken.The ailing wake slow and anguished,To the daily promise of a starving nightmare,Every sense of enjoyment is dull to life.We work and drive and live in circles of luxury.The hungry world is not our fault.The street corner looks are drug induced.I can waste more money with fake charities.We demand the freedom of un-involvement.Justifying our apathy with cynicism,I indict myself more than I do you.Emancipated hands of poverty's daughters,Dig into earth looking for a heartbeat,Of sustenance of nutrition gold,To follow a garden line,To a life line of full happiness,With every kind of fruit and vegetable,The rich soil of giving could offer up.But the ground is tight and hard.What is meat but imagination abounding.The breath is a death stench most foul.42

Babies are aware that they are dying.They instinctively suckle at the air.Wide eyes blinking, "Feed us!"I ignore the lady yelling. I think she looks highTo hear the poet presenting this poem, click HERE43

Used to BeZolisa Gumede, ZimbabweThe growl of my angerWas always louder thanthe growl of my stomachBut

many of the poets reading their poem. You'll also discover poems by young and adult poets that focus on a wide array of hunger issues including food waste, hunger's history, famine and malnutrition. Poems in Spanish and in the Cheyenne language are included. Hunger continues to ravage families and communities in the U.S. and overseas.