When the moon rises over an old temple,
its fleeting rays gild the ancient finials.
The wind grieves across the holes of the bamboo flute,
brings the sadness of distance back to the heart.


…When I awoke in the light of dawn, the wind was stronger and the air cracked cold and moist. The rain was far away, and the sky was clear. There was a light in the eastern sky. At that moment, there was a strange sound, as though somewhere in the temple a bell was ringing. I had never heard that kind of sound before.  I shuddered and woke up and looked around, but all was silent. The sound came again on the whistling wind. A strangely tuneless sound. After daybreak, I waded through the grasses and vegetation of the temple and heard, under the roof, the sound of a single, orphaned bell, as though quietly ringing sadness, and then fading to peace, as though collecting sounds.

I the sadness of the shadows of the world,
there is surely a light, a candle of the mind.

A Melody Heard in the Mongol Script

After I had come back from Civitella, we were Facebook friends. I was looking once at a picture which Felipe had posted of his study at home, and on the wall next to his piano he had hung my two calligraphies - “music” and “fire and water” - in elegant frames. Everything had been incomplete. Through the beneficence of the electronic network, I read some fascinating comments about my Mongol script. There was a continual flow of news about Felipe's east-coast tour of America with Claire Chase, and there was news of the performance of the piece which he had dedicated to me, “Meditation and Calligraphy.”

The Holy One

G.Mend-Ooyo's new novel, The Holy One, tells the story of the nineteenth century poet, educator and spiritual teacher, the Noyon Hutagt Danzanravjaa (1803-1856), and of his realisation of, and how he expressed, the secret wisdom in the teaching and practise of the historical Buddha and his descendents.
The novel also deals with the extremely difficult period during the late 1930s when, with the Mongol government persecuting monastics and intellectuals, the man who was in charge of protecting Danzanravjaa's memory and his cultural and material possessions, O.Tüdev, sought to protect this heritage against its destruction by the state.
The Holy One also reveals how Danzanravjaa's life speaks to Mongol intellectual culture and the nomadic tradition of the Gobi area in which he lived, and how this tradition is an expression of the land and the environment in which he lived.

Extract from The Holy One

This desert we speak of is a highly secretive place. The wisdom of antiquity cannot outsmart it. This desert we speak of, though we see it, its yellowed borderlands are unknown, it is a sky blue world of a myriad unseen riddles. In the silence beyond, there is melody.
An old man in a tattered red deel, riding an old yellow camel with crossed humps, was crossing this oceanic desert, heading westwards. The camel loped along beyond the light blue hills, which showed amid the blue haze of morning. Some unknown song played away in the old man's mind. “Thirty-three deserts there are, but only three have I crossed..." - that was where the melody came from. And as the yellow camel with crossed humps crossed through the red saltwort of the vast desert, pulled by the wind, the grasses and the bushes whispered and rustled.
The old man tended always to be in a hurry. Today he was in a particular hurry. The sand grouses flew up here and there. Otherwise not a sound. He had no chance to whip the old yellow camel's sturdy sinews, nor to consider his own almost eighty years. The old man's dark, wrinkled face, his gnarled and cracked hands, were like the sandy folds of the desert, like the wounds in the hills. This desert we speak of has brought forth, over the course of time, animals and humans and rocks, all in their proper colors and forms.


Fire swords conquer enemies
Fine brushes win hearts.
My blade has let history be,
Instead I have seized my brush.

​How the Flames of Gal Blazed Forth

During our time as students in the 1970s, our close group of friends created the Gal group based around our common interest in poetry, and it is true that we, with our youthful desires, would come to create an era in the history of Mongolian literature. We first made friends in class, during 1974 and 1975, and on 8 November 1977, we initiated the secret literary group Gal. The social system at that time meant that we had to keep ourselves hidden, away from the legal framework regarding the establishment of groups. About the establishment of Gal, Ü.Hürelbaatar has written a great deal. While everything was overturned during the 1990s, the members of Gal remained loyal to one another, and so we have reached the present day through generously dedicating the valuable time of our lives to one another in friendship. We lack for nothing.  But there remains a wonderful story of how we focused together on the great work of literature. When we meet with our readers, they are interested in what Gal is, who are its members, and so I would say a few words about how those young men of literature flourished. These were the flames of the fire, the flames of Gal.

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. 

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.