Eman Hamed

Collection of Poems

By Yasmeen Rafee

Sweetwater 20200311-1555

It’s this that I’ve discovered: loving you is like sweet water.

It’s the shimmer of sweat upon the brow, a marked tan line tracing across browned skin, gentle wrinkles running down a plaid rayon blouse, unerring warmth blooming within, lily pads floatinglifted upon a stilled lagoon, the richness of the color blue.

the dandelion 20200407-1216

the dandelion sprouts between the sidewalk cracks, yellow petals raptly tuned to his sun’s bloom, drinking in her every dazzling melody and tune, but his sepals, parched, slowly dry to black.

as his petals blanch, wither and wane below, he murmurs to his love: my dearest, release me—let me go.

though it pains her to relent— to tear her gaze from her cherished lover— the sun recedes behind the clouds’ cover, and watches her dandelion frolic in the cooling rain, content.

As sunlight filters through winding creeks, my love for you is just as constant and free.

It’s droplets of moisture upon cracked lips, fingerprint stains fogging the windowpane, the hint of a smile gleaming through nighttime’s bliss, dunes of sand shifting like the tide, grain by grain, soothing kisses upon freckled cheeks, water that is tenderly sweet.

nightrise 20210216-2330

the sun leaped from the horizon and spread its glorious wings across the sky, but i could not lift my head. it sang, but i did not listen. yet as the moon began its gentle croon, i answered its call. i rose and allowed water to wash away the weariness of day. the night beckoned to me. i obliged.

the girl i once was...

I was once a girl

By Noraan Mohamed

small in size, yet soul as big as the brain exceeding the confines of my skull that left classmates stunned and relatives impressed. Tiny facial features too big for my face, but an unwavering gaze That stood up for everything I believed in. And I believed in everything. Sketchers that lit up from the force of my steps and my ever kinetic energy that could never be repressed. Even when a wall was built by those 10x my age, I’d push through until my nose was shattered but never my heart and soul. into a woman, some say, yet I can’t help but look back at that young girl and yearn for her soul as big as her brain, and think that while my brain is the same, my soul has shrunk to the size of my tiny facial features that now fit my face, but slowly form a gaze that begins to waver. Converse scuffed and dirty, gray, though they used to be white, that stop me in my tracks. And I build my own walls now that shatter each and every bit of my soul until there’s nothing left.

By Asiyah Arastu

Quarantine Days A Family Potluck

Four weeks since a playdate with cousins or friends, since pizza, pakoras, and old photos at Phupi’s house, since biking to Dadi and Dada’s to read Urdu, or cook lunch together: dal and salad, or mend clothes, sipping tea between one project and the next.

We’ve kept busy with nightly lecture broadcasts, online classes, Turkish dramas, clan Zoom meetings— but it’s been ages since a good family potluck.

Mummy bustled in the kitchen all of yesterday, baking cookies, pizza, pound cake; making ash. “If we can’t invite everyone over for a party, we’ll take the party to them!”

So this afternoon, we all dressed up. We crammed into our eight-seater van, and we drove: our first family outing in weeks— our second family outing with a bulky infant car seat filling the gap of the eighth seat.

At Nani and Nana’s, we clustered on the driveway, reluctantly keeping our distance at first, but the chill wind whispered “huddle closer” as it toppled garbage bins all the way down the street. We exchanged pizza and cookies for gift money in envelopes, and fresh namak para, pakoras, meethi tikiyas saving some for our cousins at our next stop.

Upon arrival, we gathered in the garage, and took family photos (with a dumpster on the driveway in the background). We traded cookies and pizza for more cookies and chocolate-chip-date-banana bread, and boasted about how much Ertugrul each set of siblings managed to watch these past few weeks.

Art by Tasneem Abdalla

At Dadi and Dada’s, we ventured as far as the front doorstep and even stepped foot in the foyer when the wind egged on the clouds to muster some sleet. Again, we traded goodies: cookies and pizza for vada waffles and lemon cookies. Again, grandmother entrusted my parent with treats for the aunt waiting at the next stop.

This time, we stole a few minutes together in the front hallway and posed for pictures. Then we ushered ourselves back out at the behest of the six-foot-rule, piled into our car —now laden with goodies for home— more satisfied than any trick-or-treaters or Christmas carolers ever could be.