Ethar Hamid

Ethar Hamid is an aspiring writer. She likes to write pieces that have an underlying theme of mental illness. She hopes that her writing (one day) serves as therapy for people suffering from mental health issues (whether as formal bibliotherapy, or informal cathartic reading). Having suffered from severe mental health issues as a teenager (currently diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, depressive type), she’d like to help others who face similar conditions.

Ethar lived in northern Virginia for 15 years, but is now living with her family in Doha, Qatar. She is from Khartoum, Sudan.

Her poems and other publications can be read at Finding a Peaceful Place.

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► Ethar's microchaps are available below as a single-page PDF. Selected poems from these collections are also included.

Origami Microchap	Selected Poem(s)
My Journey to Heaven
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover collage by JanK •	My Journey To Heaven: A Satirical Take On God, Faith, and Heaven The path I take is straight and even. It leads to wildflowers and orange trees, and birds that define freedom with their wings - freedom greater than regular birds you see, and regular soaring. I walk inevitably on this path; it’s predetermined that I will walk it. Predetermined like what I say or do at any given time, or like anything that happens at all, in space and time. When I get to the end of my path, there will be a gate that will open. I will be filled with love, joy, and gratitude; this is the gate that will set things right. All the injustice of the past will be atoned for, on the other side of the gate. My crossing the gate into bliss will be after having suffered so intensely that it became meaningless. And so it will be a noble and earned entrance. Crossing over after an easy life would not be noble, and would not be earned. I’ll be allowed to cross through the gate because I’ll have goodness in me that I chose to have, and that is a better phenomenon than implanted, artificial goodness or purity. And so angels - angels who did not choose their angelicness – will make way for me; will exalt me. The other side of the gate will obliterate my pain, injuries, and memories of being harmed, even though memories of being harmed do not usually fade. I’ll be given a sublime kind of consciousness. I’ll step inside, and the flowers, trees, birds, and supernatural things will welcome me. Eternity will begin.	Diary Entry If I could escape, I would. If I could be profound, I would. If I could sing, I would. If I could change the world, I would. Yellow is my favorite color - I don’t understand how anyone could have a different favorite color. But back to what I would do, if I could: I would take away all the pain that exists. And I’d read and write, undisturbed by my own thoughts. Yes - if I could do anything, I would take away all the pain that abounds (poverty, abuse, persecution, etc.), and I’d read and write without intrusive thoughts surfacing. I’d read autobiographies of people who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and who lived by that inclination. And I’d write poetry. So: I’d read autobiographies of saints, and write poetry. Life should be without pain (painless), and should be filled with writings of saints - filled with poetry. Humans A blade of grass resting on a stone has found its center, like people in meditative trances. But the world is brutality, by definition. The constellations that look on are speechless and distraught about us, even as they shine down on us with full brightness and light. Autumn Afternoon A leaf breaks off from a tree, and becomes a ballerina with the breeze. It twirls its way downward onto damp earth. It will decompose, there— forgotten, unimportant. Meanwhile, a girl scurries to her place of worship— the service starts soon. Her mind is far away from any prayer or hymn, though. • Ethar Hamid © 2020
Super Hair
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover by Ethar Hamid •	Dark Skin Chai tea with nutmeg goes well with dark skin; The liquid’s modest shade of brown Intensifies any rich mahogany Flesh that handles it. The amber-colored tea streaming into My mug gives glory to the deep copper- Hued hand pouring it. Set against the Subtle brown tinge of the tea, The waiter’s hand and forearm look Like sublime pottery, His rich brown hue—earthen, pure— Outdoing the light stream of chai he pours Into my cup. • Childhood As she secured her scarf around her neck, The sunlight from the window caught on Some of its sequins, And streaks of gold hastened from them. This caused my heart to turn. The rays shooting out from the gems Of the scarf (like luminous flowers) Stirred up memories of yellowy evenings, The sun sinking away, but spreading its Beams far out on the horizon, in a final Display. Stirred up Memories of love around me, and in me. • Ethar Hamid © 2016	Together One day, the rain will draw you over, to me... Maybe not in the same way a rope swing swings you across the lake, to my hands, But quickly enough for droplets of sweat to Decorate my forehead. You will inch over, each step triggering the Realization that Our fingers would look like art, interlaced. My clutching hands will loosen their grasp on One another When your knock on the door sounds. When our glances finally meet, Our hands will find each other, Regardless of the cold rain pelleting us And all other forces trying to drift us apart. • Super Hair As my mama twisted and turned my hair into braids, The turn of the century came; It took three years to finish my hair (1997—2000). (I was three years old when she started, And six when she finished.) My hair, though, is super-hair: It only grows longer through the years Of people putting it down— Through the years of disparagement, it lives on. Coily and frizzy and poofy— Every word you can think of that is the opposite of straight— That is my hair. And when it defies gravity and grows three inches above my scalp (because it’s super-hair), It is a halo around my head.
An Afternoon
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover: Wooden Footbridge by Jan Keough •	An Afternoon Settled in at a solitary nook of a coffee shop No one knows about, on the outskirts of town, Our conversation turns to how withdrawing from people Was the first symptom of both our illnesses, And how we vow to never be like that, again. We then talk about the irony of our coffee shop preference. Over chocolate cheesecake and iced green tea, We talk about how sugar and caffeine aren’t so good for us, Our eyes smiling at each other, all the while. ~ As you scrape the remnants of icing off of your plate, I come to know that you’re the only one I really have, Perhaps because of the destruction my illness has done, in my life. A not-fully-formed sadness creeps in, And my eyes cast down, for a moment. • Summer The happy faces in the old photos Still dampen my spirit. It’s hard to get used to Lagging behind everyone else. My soul has stretched thin—into a chord That God will play When the dragonflies reign, supreme. By then I might have crippled myself, in angst, Had it not been for the invisible binds That restrain my heart From bursting. Ethar Hamid © 2015	Almost I will go down to the lake And dip my toes in the blue-green water, Tadpoles tickling my feet. It would be a cliché scene If it weren’t for my bottle of morning Prozac Sitting beside me, on the grass. It will be a good morning, The sun rising above me Like a citrus fruit that smolders A rusty scarlet. I will lie down on my back And let a ladybug crawl over my chest. No one will stare at me Until maybe I start muttering To the voices talking to me To leave me alone. I will not look different— I will not be different Unless I lie there, frozen, Too weighed down To even shoo away the birds That gather on my head. • Perfume, Illness, and Resentment The days smelled like musk, I remember. It was only my mom who carried the scent, But somehow, I recall the whole day smelling like that. I also remember Pill after pill That I would have to swallow, Each month a different one, seemingly, Because they never worked. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I be perfect and glowing, like my mom? Her patience and love even as I would kick and scream Were taunting. She even had the audacity to smell like musk as she tried to soothe me, still. ~ I remember green pills, yellow ones, white ones, and blue ones. I remember how it took so long to find a pill that actually worked - A pale pink one that reminds me, painfully, Of my mom. Pale pink is her favorite color. Of course it is.

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