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WRITTEN ON THE CEILING


Fire swords conquer enemies
Fine brushes win hearts.
My blade has let history be,
Instead I have seized my brush.
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Attended the 22nd Genoa International Poetry Festival

G.Mend-Ooyo  attended the 22nd Genoa International Poetry Festival, held between the 10th to 19th of June 2016, in Genova, Italy. 
On 18 June, he read his poems at the Palazzo Ducale in the centre of the city of Genova. 
Damiano Abeni and  Moira Egan worked on the translation of his poems into Italian. 
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Audio Recording of “The Swallows”

Returning from afar, swallows in flocks
Embrace the tales of the gentle, tranquil steppe.
The waters of eternity were spilt into the yellow steppe’s palms,
And, ever since, these little birds have dared not leave.
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YAVUU`S LAST WORD

The 15th of March is the birthday of my teacher Begzin Yavuuhulan, a great poet and enlightener of Mongolia. Here is my essay, through which I want to deliver his last words to our next generation. I am preparing a book of essays in English, in which this essay will be included.
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GANGA RIVER, GANGA LAKE, FOLKTALES AND POETRY: THE FIVE OF US

The famous Dariganga region of Mongolia took its name from two of its iconic landmarks -the Dara Mountain and Ganga Lake. The inhabitants, known as Darigangians, created a peculiar nomadic culture in the southeastern Mongolia. In this region, a large collection of ancient Indian stories, called the Ulgeriin Dalai (Ocean of Stories) is frequently heard. The collection is also placed on top a chest in the northern section of gers of some elders. The collection has a chapter about “Ganga and Dara, two sons of the heavens”, reminding me of the river or lake names in my homeland and in India.

When you lookout from top of the Dara Mountain, or better known as the Golden Hill, you have a beautiful view of sand dunes edging the foot of the mountain, red willow growing on the lake shores and thousands of birds flying in, as if it was the legendary land of Shambala. The lake is fed by twenty-one springs. The numbers also symbolize something special. Mother Tara has twenty one manifestations.
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RIDING OUT OF THE BRIGHTNESS

A HORSEMAN IN THE MORNING OF SPRING
The boundless, misty blue steppe.  It might begin anywhere, it might end anywhere.
The morning sun’s rays of clear light fell aslant into the spring shelter and lit up the whole town.  The land dipped down like an open hand and, in the overflowing light, the steam rose up from the cattle in pale blue pillars.  Smoke from the ger shaped the sky.  It was such a beautiful day.
A man rode out from the ger and headed off clip clop straight towards the south.  Where was he going?  He went up onto the hill and craned his neck back, gazing about him, surveying the scene through binoculars.  And in so doing, it seemed to him that he held in the palm of his hand the outline of the shrubs and feathergrass and the small groups of cattle and hobbled horses and, beyond that, the town.
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THE THREE SOURCES OF MY CALLIGRAPHY

<span style="Times New Roman" ,"serif""="">As the Mongolian script culture flourished and grew, and I came back to consider how to keep my roots safe, I created my own book seal. Not only would my seal have the traditional script, but it would also bring together the history of human understanding, joining them together as in a tribal totem, or a spiritual image, as a sign of the world's good fortune. Mongolians have a custom of branding their horses, and the custom of branding books was a symbolic expression of my own heart and mind. The custom of branding horses remains an aspect of nomadic life, but the branding of books was largely forgotten during the twentieth century.
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LETTER WRITTEN FROM THE WILD STEPPE

If you say you’d understand Mongolia’s wild steppe,
if you say you’d look upon someone else,
we’ll draw up the cart outside a nomad’s tent
like a single button on a broad swathe of blue brocade,
Then I’ll saddle up a little wild horse for you,
this horse will calmly bring the moon closer.
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THE WAY OF THE WORLD - 2

He always lies in wait for his next bloodthirsty opponent
The upcoming battle stalks him everywhere
Though they emerge with their lives, they don’t fin peace
Like an arrow, he pierces through and rips them apart
Everything forgotten the ancient earth.
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