Scholarship In Honor of Neda Agha-Soltan

Honors and Memorials Continue for Neda Agha-Soltan As Iranian Government Protests and Lies About her Death

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?

—Douglas Gilbert

Books by Douglas Gilbert

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