1979 protests in Iran (Photo: Hengameh Golestan)
Hair in the Game...
Stench of burning burkas accompanying
rhythms of swishing scissors shearing sable
curls, wavy
brown manes, straight tresses salt and pepper,
And locks of sundry shades of grey and white.
Harmonizing with soprano shouts of “Death To
The Dictator!” morphing from cries for
Equal rights exploding in Red Sea streets…
Iranians are rising again! Rising in prerequisite
Movements…Maybe it’s a flashback—1909?
Maybe it’s a Mosaddegh moment? Maybe
more? Maybe this is it? Maybe it’s the next one?
Some of us remember Iranian
demonstrations— circa late 70s.
Brilliant/militant feats of flesh
and Blood engineering…
Young and strong. Marching all night long—
thru twists and turns, staunch slogan
soundtracks; Playing cat and mouse out cul-de-
sac traps set
by San Francisco’s political police—Truncheoned
thugs whose hand-eye coordination with the Shah’s
SAVAK intelligence tentacles reached out from icy
fog
Some of us remember marchers’ names. Firouz, Mansour,
Mahdi, Azad…
remember they spoke English—but read the Germans
in Farsi.
Some of us remember standing in solidarity with them
as the peacock throne collapsed
Under gargantuan weight of street heat/fire of millions of
Feet in the street.
Some of us remember our comrades’ and friends’ rapture—
rushing home and rejoicing—
Never to be heard from again…
Today we stand in solidarity with women who have hair in
The Game—Women marching through
Mushroom clouds of teargas, tsunamis of lead—Red Seas of
Death—resisting misogynist mullahs and murderous ‘morality’
Police…To topple theocratic thugs wrapped in robes of graft
Today we stand in solidarity with hearts/souls/spines of
the Common People:
Mothers, daughters, sisters, wives of warehouse workers—
of bus and truck drivers, of train operators—fierce fighters—
Once again on their long and winding road of revolution…
friction lubricated by oil workers throwing themselves in the Resistance
Martyred Mahsa Amini’s the Rock of Gibraltar bloodthirsty clerics lifted
to
drop
on
Their own scarlet-stained sandals, crimson-covered combat
boots— TEACHing
Us how we must take on our own Texas Taliban/Florida
fundamentalists…
© 2022. Raymond Nat Turner, The Town Crier. All Rights Reserved.
Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; BAR's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC. You can Vote for his work at: GoFundMe and PayPal.
"When I Grow Up" is the latest work from BAR's poet-in-residence.
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