Poetry
Poetry
THE SKY
The sky, broad like a basket for gathering dung,
above the gathered people,
and when the people are singing,
the great sky is calm.
Poetry
ALL SHINING MOMENTS - 3
I shall blaze like a candle in the isolation of the mind within.
I shall be sky blue in the faraway legends of our wild eastern steppe.
I shall wash in the delicate white rays of the hunchback moon.
I shall rest on the deep broad sands of our Ganga Nuur.
I shall shred the silken threads of grey-white clouds.
I shall examine white in the shadow of white feather-grass.
I shall be captured by the wind-bowed blue-green grass.
I shall roll out towards the horizon, along the great nomadic train.
I shall be sky blue in the faraway legends of our wild eastern steppe.
I shall wash in the delicate white rays of the hunchback moon.
I shall rest on the deep broad sands of our Ganga Nuur.
I shall shred the silken threads of grey-white clouds.
I shall examine white in the shadow of white feather-grass.
I shall be captured by the wind-bowed blue-green grass.
I shall roll out towards the horizon, along the great nomadic train.
Poetry
THE CONNECTIONS
Today I am a thousand riddles, ten thousand connections,
Like an iceberg, most of which is hidden in the ocean,
So my thoughts are hidden deep within my heart,
Concealed by the spirit of my country which inspires my mind.
I exist in the beauty of nature.
Its unfailing melodies can open me,
The distant stars and planets can open me,
The future and the passing of time can open me.
Like an iceberg, most of which is hidden in the ocean,
So my thoughts are hidden deep within my heart,
Concealed by the spirit of my country which inspires my mind.
I exist in the beauty of nature.
Its unfailing melodies can open me,
The distant stars and planets can open me,
The future and the passing of time can open me.
Poetry
THE SADDER I AM
The more I believe that I am come from blue Heaven
the more my place appears among the blue-pearl stars.
I am sad now Hцhdei the Wise has gone out
Into Heaven, pursuing blue Orion.
The more the three hinds of Orion call nearby, the sadder I am.
The more Hцhdei the Wise summons his horses from Heaven, the sadder I am.
I am led further away by the sadness in my heart,
I am sent into Heaven’s blue mist by my sadness,
I am making friends with beauty of being sad.
the more my place appears among the blue-pearl stars.
I am sad now Hцhdei the Wise has gone out
Into Heaven, pursuing blue Orion.
The more the three hinds of Orion call nearby, the sadder I am.
The more Hцhdei the Wise summons his horses from Heaven, the sadder I am.
I am led further away by the sadness in my heart,
I am sent into Heaven’s blue mist by my sadness,
I am making friends with beauty of being sad.
Poetry
A POET`S STORY
The shattered sun reddens, weak
Amid clouds of dust.
Their tired horses' manes droop,
The weary heroes helmets glisten.
They set up the pavilion
With shining standards erect.
At evening, thoughts flash and
Open into the master's mind:
With no chance to shake off even the dust from the road,
He gives his orders:
To find the poet whose star is rising,
The spirit of whose talents gushes forth,
They charge full-pelt along the road,
With urgent missives flying through the day.
Crossing the ravines of peaceful mountains,
Fording a thousand rivers,
Amid clouds of dust.
Their tired horses' manes droop,
The weary heroes helmets glisten.
They set up the pavilion
With shining standards erect.
At evening, thoughts flash and
Open into the master's mind:
With no chance to shake off even the dust from the road,
He gives his orders:
To find the poet whose star is rising,
The spirit of whose talents gushes forth,
They charge full-pelt along the road,
With urgent missives flying through the day.
Crossing the ravines of peaceful mountains,
Fording a thousand rivers,
Poetry
THE CRANES
Excitedly, the black-faced cranes
Come every spring flapping their wings and,
Blue beards fluttering,
They land at will.
It’s not true what they say, that
These wandering birds have no home.
They travel their destiny,
Returning to their birthplace,
Cranes paired together
Over the spacious steppe,
Exhausted from the long flight
Back to their regular haunt.
And, year after year,
The locals become used to these birds.
Near to a farm,
They lay two spotted eggs.
Who could know that
This untrodden place
Come every spring flapping their wings and,
Blue beards fluttering,
They land at will.
It’s not true what they say, that
These wandering birds have no home.
They travel their destiny,
Returning to their birthplace,
Cranes paired together
Over the spacious steppe,
Exhausted from the long flight
Back to their regular haunt.
And, year after year,
The locals become used to these birds.
Near to a farm,
They lay two spotted eggs.
Who could know that
This untrodden place
Poetry
THE STORY OF A POET
Amidst the hot air stiffened with dust and standing in columns
The exhausted sun was blushing feebly
The victorious heroes in glittering helmets
We’re leaning on their tired horses with manes dangling down
Having His Gher-residence in place in no time
And the sacred Emblem enshrined
His Highness Bogdo felt by his heart
A glint of thought, a very unusual one
Hardly having shaken off the dust from the long ride
The Highness announced his Order.
Tracing the relay-service ways
Feathered letters went off on this day
To invite starry poets who
Flush with talent and wisdom.
The exhausted sun was blushing feebly
The victorious heroes in glittering helmets
We’re leaning on their tired horses with manes dangling down
Having His Gher-residence in place in no time
And the sacred Emblem enshrined
His Highness Bogdo felt by his heart
A glint of thought, a very unusual one
Hardly having shaken off the dust from the long ride
The Highness announced his Order.
Tracing the relay-service ways
Feathered letters went off on this day
To invite starry poets who
Flush with talent and wisdom.
Poetry
The Moon over an Old Temple
The moon rises over the old temple,
It’s transfigured light gilding the finial.
An air flows from a bamboo flute, and
The heart is filled once more by distant nostalgia.
Wild grasses push up between the stones,
Along the road where the Buddhas are gathered.
But I can’t see where the Buddhas have gone,
The light is so bright from the time beyond.
It’s transfigured light gilding the finial.
An air flows from a bamboo flute, and
The heart is filled once more by distant nostalgia.
Wild grasses push up between the stones,
Along the road where the Buddhas are gathered.
But I can’t see where the Buddhas have gone,
The light is so bright from the time beyond.
Poetry
SONG OF THE MOON
I dropped into my ink the rays of the silver moon.
And their quality shone within the shining picture of eternity.
I wove the rays of the storytelling moon onto the tip of my vision.
And I sewed my poem-children with a perfect silken thread.
I struck the crystal of the nephrite moon onto my hardened heart.
And, in the darkness, there streamed from my poetry rays of jade.
I placed my song of grace before the mirror of the wise moon.
And my poem, with its shining soul, dwelt in the light of Shambhala.
And their quality shone within the shining picture of eternity.
I wove the rays of the storytelling moon onto the tip of my vision.
And I sewed my poem-children with a perfect silken thread.
I struck the crystal of the nephrite moon onto my hardened heart.
And, in the darkness, there streamed from my poetry rays of jade.
I placed my song of grace before the mirror of the wise moon.
And my poem, with its shining soul, dwelt in the light of Shambhala.
Poetry