Philip Terman: Tell Them Everything

Ghazaal


Effat tells me her niece
Was shot: they’re Iranian, Persian—

Her name: Ghazaal, named after
A poetry embraced by the Persian

Poets of love and longing. Effat sends
a photo: thick black hair, a Persian

Beauty, smiling, flowing orange scarf.
Effat grew up during the Iranian

Revolution against the Shah. When out
She wore the hijab, the law for an Iranian

Woman, under the new Shia Sharia.
Lucky she was, not to spend time in an Iranian

Jail, fortunate to emigrate and meet my brother
And fall in love, a Jew and an Iranian—

Two princess daughters, five royal grand-
Children who are part Jewish and part Persian.

I call her Effie, sweet name, sweet heart.
She brought me to her beloved Persian—

Rumi’s open secrets and Hafiz’ gifts
And every month she recites in Farsi

Ancient forms with a circle of scholars,
Spirits dancing like Sufi—Iranian, Persian—

It’s all about the soul, the dance of love,
That mystical devotion from Persis.

And she urged on me the beloved poet
Sohrab Sepehri–Effie translated his Persian

Heart-infused lyrics: Solitude smoothing
Its cheeks against the window— that’s Persian

Poetry! Now Effie tells me her niece was shot
In the back, walking, ordered by the Iranian

Supreme leader: “by any means necessary.”
She lost her balance, rushed to the Iranian

Hospital. A doctor saved her life from the regime.
She can only eat one spoonful of food a day, This American

Ghazal is a poor attempt to offer you, Ghazaal:
Shalom. Shaleh. Family of my family. Jewish. Persian.


~~~


Tell Them Everything
For Logie and Milia

Nasser writes:

Tell them everything:

Yesterday, a street with children playing billiards
was bombed. More than 10 children died,
all of them under 15 years old.

A great tragedy.

He messages a photo of two girls—
sisters: dark hair, black eyebrows,

one older, perhaps 13, one younger, perhaps 9,
perched like birds on a windowsill—

–how could I help not thinking of my own two daughters,
they, too: dark hair, black eyebrows, four years apart?

These are pressed up against each other, the older on the left,
her right arm across her chest as if containing herself,

her left arm resting on the right, forearm bent,
pink bracelet around her wrist, her left hand

half-closed, eyes shifted to the left—at what?
The younger beside her, her right hand, pink fingernail polish,

clutching her red-dressed-blonde-haired doll.
Their heads are turned toward the camera,

but it’s only the younger who stares back,
her left hand holding onto the window frame,

her mouth, open wide, tongue smoothing
across her teeth, eyes wide, staring at the street,

all those children in their furious play,
at me, wherever I am, whoever I was.

Nasser writes:

They were life behind my home.

One day I asked the older:
what is the meaning of your name?

She said: it’s meaning I’m the most beautiful girl.
Yesterday I knew the name of her new sister.

It’s the same name.


~~~

Renee,


your poem brought you
closer to our skin and bones, your blood,

we can’t live without writing it down
and speaking it out, we can’t imagine

our lives without your language,
our street songs crying we’re alive now and here–

primal, tribal, animal, sometimes
suicidal urge to draw out

from our pancreas & large intestines
and piddly brooks of our souls

the next word and the next
on our coastal Jungles and rocking chairs–
on our street corners and thrift stores–

We’re zealots for the rhythm:

when you are not safe,
we are not safe—

Renee—

We know you better now,
the way all of us word-creatures

know each other and how we suffer
our syllables,

and no matter who we are
or where from

we are citizens of the same universe
that knows no borders—

our only passports
are our souls and lungs and tongues —

we share our breath and heartbeat,
we celebrate our voices

we are married in our language,
in our sorrows,

we mourn our martyrs–
our words are our protest,
we will not rest in this injustice,

on your way home dropping
off your son at school,

at 34th and Portland Avenue,
6 blocks from George Floyd,

and we remember your last words—

we shall repeat and burn
with permanent marker

on our protest signs and
tattoo on our hearts:

that’s fine, dude, I’m not mad at you—

~~~~~

Copyright 2026 Philip Terman

Philip Terman is the author of eight books and four chapbooks of poetry, including the recently published, My Blossoming Everything (Saddle Road Books) and the soon-to-be released The Whole Mishpocha: New and Selected Jewish Poems (Ben Yehuda Press).