Wednesday, April 2, 2003

My daughter wrote a poem a few weeks ago in her fifth grade class. She attends Fayette Intermediate School. Her assignment was to write a poem from a picture. The picture she was given was one of a little girl about 6 years old and two older men back in the 1940s along a city street. The little girl is holding a threadbare blanket and looks like she might be homeless along with the other two men. No other information about the picture was given. It was all based on your own interpretation.

She wrote the poem in one 50-minute class period. No rewrites or rough drafts. A few erasure marks here and there. She brought the poem home and had it typed exactly the way she wrote it. Her teachers were so impressed, they shared it with six other teachers. Many were crying after reading it. She really has a gift. The poem is called "Hungry Little Girl." I hope you enjoy it as much as we did. Thanks for taking the time out of your busy day.

Jeff David

Fayetteville

Hungry Little Girl

Hungry little girl,

with a ragged blanket

on your head.

Ripped rags

for your clothes.

A star

on those rags.

A dirty, painful

little face looking for someone to listen.

With no one to hear your cry for help,

because there was no one in the world to listen.

Even with a bowl of so little food,

there was no one in the world who would help.

All there is, is an empty street that would echo,

but even then, no one was there to listen.

No one was there to look for the noise of your

hungry voice, only there to put you to sorrow.

All but one little portion a day to share,

and still your heart is crying out and breaking apart,

because no one will try to listen to your dirty, painful face.

No one to rescue you from a life of death,

but to put you in it.

Hungry little girl,

with a ragged blanket

on your head.

Ripped rags

for your clothes.

A star

on those rags.

A dirty, painful

little face looking for someone to listen.

For just one mouth for our world to feed,

for you,

a child.

And though the world will not listen,

I will.

I will be the one who will listen and help.

I will be the one who will listen and search for

your voice.

I will be the one who will give you a feast and rescue

your life from death.

Hungry little girl,

with a ragged blanket

on your head.

Ripped rags

for your clothes.

A star

on those rags.

A dirty, painful

little face looking for someone to listen.

By Austyn David, March 10, 2003