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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, Ethar would love nothing more than to ease the pain of others who may face similar conditions.

Ethar’s favorite poem as of yet is “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” by T.S. Eliot. She thinks the verse “In the room, the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo” is the definition of poetry, itself.


Currently living and attending college in northern Virginia, Ethar is from Khartoum, Sudan.  Her poems and other publications can be read at: Jannahandme

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

Origami Microchap

Selected Poem(s)

Super Hair

Cover by Ethar Hamid

{mooblock=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.
Ethar Hamid © 2016


An Afternoon


Cover: Wooden Footbridge
by Jan Keough

{mooblock=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.
Ethar Hamid © 2015