So there you have it. Modern Mongolian literature in seven days. How wonderful is that? Of course, seven writers cannot in any way tell very much about the wide range (even within the tradition) of techniques, styles, themes and voices. And Mongolia is a country of poets, after all, a country where poetry is the defauly literary expression and where people sing and recite poems long into the night, and drink too, so long as they remain standing up and relatively conscious.
Where now then? Contact me at [email protected], the Mongolian Academy of Poetry and Culture at [email protected] (English is fine) and order books either from the MAPC or from Shopmongolia. To close, here is a picture of some happy poets halfway up Bogd Uul (the holy mountain outside Ulaanbaatar) on Poets' Day a couple of years ago. How I would like to claim that i was there and had taken the picture, but alas this is not the case.
You might recognise Mend-Ooyo (second from left) from Amarhüü's picture...the one in the beige ski-hat is Bavuudorj (Thursday's hero) and the one at far right is Urianhai, the venerable sage of Mongolian letters and a very wonderful and influential poet.
I'd like to thank Stacey Harwood and David Lehman for having me blog this week, particularly since neither I nor my subject matter constitutes the best of American poetry. Nonetheless, I hope that this week has opened the door onto this unknown literary land just a crack and that you, dear readers (as they still address us in the introductory essays to Mongolian books), have enjoyed the journey.