A scholarship has been endowed at Oxford University in honor of Neda Agha-Soltan. According to Enduringamerica.com ( Uncertainty And Propaganda ) “The Iranian Embassy in Britain has fiercely criticised the award of a graduate scholarship in the name of Neda Agha Soltan by Queen’s College, Oxford University”

Bloomberg News:Iran Condemns Oxford Memorial Scholarship for Woman (Update1) also mentions it.

An Iranian government sniper shot down an innocent woman on June 20, the Ayatollahs lied about it, and now again they throw dirt in the face of the family. Their crude propaganda machine doesn’t even have enough sense to at least be silent about a scholarship that would normally draw little attention.

Some poems in honor of Neda follow.

   For NEDA AGHA-SOLTAN

Sea of Neda

Impart us with courage, Neda
the Sea of Green parts for you;
cross over to
the promised Love, and
we give ours everywhere
———————————-
The Weeping Willow Sings

Haunting shots
gushing
sorrows
stains,Basiji,
hear my Neda say
my heart stings

I hear singing in the leaves
moving branches
interleaving freedoms
like a green dream sad
autumn reds too early

But rivers of blood

Eyes open
nightmare on Kargar Street,
the world a bitter pixel

I hear my Neda sing:
it burned me

But I can not even mourn
outside Niloofar mosque.
The Ayatollah mocks my song, but
his mysteries don’t intrigue me anymore.

His evil is clear.

My heart sings the only truth, and
it burns me that he hasn’t remembered
his Mother

The Ayatollah is not a woman, not a man
never having any babies
and is ignorant of birth
ignorant of the cry
of freedom

Oh God
save the child
————————————-
Beyond The Dust Storm

Tear gas in the haze
canisters and batons,
oh hail freedom –
it stayed with us,all,for
we walked with God by the crack and hiss

Covered in blood
the flag of her clothing,
she grabbed my hand, said
run with me up Kargar street
and I will not be afraid

We prayed for the crowd
and the dust dispersed

Rising in the settling dust
Neda appeared
high in the sky
smiling at us, and
we walked with God July the 9th
————————
Speaking of Forty Days

Forty days of dry river beds.
Dry silence there.

If a fish can not jump over a camel
floods will come

and when a voice returns
past mourning cleanse
the hump of struggle will be passed.

For every morning drop to come
a prayer will rain in tickling voice, and
chortles will fade
all pings into ding-dongs.

When gales of laughter
blow naked clergy down
rain will come.

If a fish can not jump over a camel,
rain will come.

When drizzle like sprinkled titters
spreads into dry cracks,
a wicked reign shall fall

and fall and fall

In mocking guffaws,
the floods will come.

The sea is nourished.
The green will flourish.

Let every voice be moved to sing
the rain will come
—————————
Fasting

Insomnia has invaded Iran.
No one of virtue dare sleep.

A browser at a book stall
on Enghelab yawned, closed an eye.
The merchant nearly fell asleep, but
screams from sleeping customers
made him
abstain from sleep and food.

No woman dare sleep even in lullaby,
an Ayatollah a Supreme Incubus,
the Basiji the incubi

Even men succumb
to the succubi,
evil seeds obtained.

Around Azadi Tower
professors warned of portents
spoke of symbols, something
about show trials.

Students marched with cymbals to stay awake
but one who slept screamed out:

There is a river of pulp in my dreams,
mallets on pomegranates, astringent
speech not tart enough to staunch the bleeding,
many demons and tribulations, many demons,
no sweetness held in gritted teeth
to drink the bitter tea, many
snipers on roof gardens spreading salt,
many trials, many demons
and rape.

Again the students marched
around the Tower,
bloodthirsty thugs in shadow.

Screams awakened many
who sat in murk.

A prayer for the sun.
A stirring somehow.

To their feet
they walked where sunshine led
to solace in hidden corners
and heard a song
that Neda sang

Portents or not:
a question extant
about being awake.

Who is asleep?

In mourning,
this morning
between the orange sunrise
and the blue of infinity
I see the green waving at me
a rolling dawn daunting,
flaunting the promises,
many days to rain
to dry the face
running through the streets of mourning, and
trying to face the night alone

Something this night is too bright
a light saturates my being
with a horrible gnosis
but I listen in awe
to illuminated silence

How will I tell
what everyone knows
about the silence
where an essence exists

I am swollen with sad joy
and veracity must be born

I seem near term
to let be heard the cry
of freedom, a new child.

How will I tell
what everyone knows?

I would ask my brother
who is of higher rank
to speak for me
but he is dead

My elder son
has marched, been raped in jail
but he is mute, broken,
trembling, hurt, and ashamed
in bed all day crying, “Mommy,” and
I can not comfort him.

I will tell
what everyone knows:

There’s an evil godless man
who’s been running our Iran
and we’re running by the Sea of Green
to reach the hand of God

Alive, he haunts the reins of power
like a donkey wildly kicking

Dead or alive, the Ayatollah holds the keys
to Persian limbo, his nod
the whip of an overseer

Like a fatwah, he haunts
the jailers’ psyche, and
lets the guards
perform their evil sodomy

Everyone has heard
the rumors of truth:
all the prison abuse

I thought I heard old Karoubi say
many patriots are still in jail. Their
guards are godless scum, the
rapist with portfolio, the
overseers given imprimatur to print lies

There’s a plan, but
for those defiled
compromise is too late
injuries too great

The ghost of complicity
will linger in publicity
for the dead and alive

Oh sweet woman
what has startled you?
(you flew away)
(you flew away)

Can’t hear the melody we wrote
with feathers and guitar,
that quiver in your lips
was an arrow in my heart

Oh ardent love
has the fire gone out?
You’ve disappeared
like a starling whose gotten singed

I’ve got the tone to atone for things
and you’ve left your G string here alone

Oh sweet woman
what has startled you?
You left your Champagne unbubbled
in an effervescent huff

Can’t hear our true melody
if you won’t be a flock of two

Every bird must
seize the wind while
all the tea is hot
and all the people stir

I dreamed I had feathers
felt breezes in Tabriz, and
saw government slogans
were like spit into the wind,
didn’t want to banter with chanters, though
I led chirps to life to music
took flight
into freedom
to lift away from history’s grip

Seize the whirlwind leaves of death
for rage of tears can brew the peoples’ tea

I dreamed I had feathers
read tea leaves in Rasht where
there are worms that make the silk for emperors
though emperors are worms themselves,
tasty for a bird to chew.

A bird can fly even
away from Tehran,
over the holy and
into a tea house,
flying lessons its gift

You are an inner voice
a trilling tone in my head;
though tart the prelude, a lick,
orchestration’s so sweet
it deeds me strolls
in muscle tone
by forests
by trees,
quadriceps
extending concepts
traversing
calf-fully guided by
a note
a step
a song –
groves revealed
escaping fruit

Unwinding,
getting a leg up on bliss
inner saunters drift
in gait to gates of mind
in wound up dilemmas
citrus revealed
completed lemonade
healing squeezes
stirring tastes
sweet dreams running wild to
walk me on water
float over to you, a
serenade splash
to pucker by

A gentle voice is floating around ethereal
from doom to dune and in the dusty sky,
the summer’s gone and all the grave are crying
my only child
must go
and I must hide

but bring me back an Irish four-leaf clover
from all my friends who’ve known a sorrow too
for it is I who’s here on slopes of mountains
on Caspian beech I lean to wave my love to you

But arrive you may when all the fish are dying
from sea of green and in Caspian Sea
and if I’m dead, as shot by beech or elm tree
you’ll place a wreath of clover adrift the sea

and drink the wine forbidden with some caviar
your Irish friends will make a wake for me.
If love can skip a stone above Caspian
your love for me will not be any blasphemy

I’ll save my love for you until
you are
with me

For you in my pen
my river meanders
into loops who spell me
spell you
flow so fondly

I will float you
if you’ll swim
into my envelope
open my
drawing of you to me

Drink me
read me
come splash me in the delta:
an ocean of love awaits us

For the festival cry
many at the reflecting pond
see each other see
a lunch time in the park
a man gushing blood on a tree
cops jumping back to catch a

trial day for the
collapsing man on marble
his woman crying by

our exploding Sun where
couples in weeping willows
release spirits from ashes

by meowing lions
lambs in meadow’s lake

for all to
ripple still waters
with sneezes deadly mocking