The Best American Poetry

Journal Excerpts: Notes Toward the Formation of a Mongolian PEN Center [by Ming Holden]

Natsagdorj, Mongolia's touchstone poet

October 15, 2007

The Arts Council of Mongolia occupies the fourth floor of a large office building in central UB. I was there to tell Ariunaa, the director, about my hope for Mongolia to have a PEN center. Ariunaa had beautiful glass earrings on and over tea she admonished me to reschedule next time I was sick from bad dumplings instead of coming in anyway. But I know better; it had been as hard as pulling teeth to get her in the same room as Chilaajav. Accordingly, “Execution and partnership are the two hardest areas in Mongolia,” Ariunaa now warned. Every single organization head I have spoken with about the possibility of opening a PEN center here has been very positive about the idea, but the part where it actually begins to happen is the part with which I, as a foreigner and a relatively short-term expat at that, have the least to do. It’s also the most crucial, that action step, and if what I’ve heard about the culture here is right, it’s the least likely to happen.

This Is the Week That Will Be (Will Be, though The Future's Not Ours to See)

When we travelled in Mongolia in June, we had the good fortune to meet several young American ex-Pats who generously agreed to post for us about their lives and work.  Each will post for a day this week beginning tomorrow.  We have no idea what they'll write about, but we do know that their days are full and that they are a talented and dedicated group. We hope readers will enjoy these posts and comment on them. -- Eds.

The Poetry of the Peace Corps: How It Is [by Mark Minton]

Ed. Note: Next week we will be running dispatches from current PCVs -- Peace Corps volunteers -- in Mongolia. Here's a poem in their honor by one who knows them. -- DL

How It Is In the Peace Corps

Shy idealists come, sing,
study strange languages:

High hopes, seeking friends,
fearing separations:
"am I tough enough to stay,
and can I bear the isolation?"

Hot summers surprise;
goats are slaughtered for the feast,
their arteries plucked out by crooked fingers
thrust into blood and guts.

Dust devils blow sand into our hair;
friends pull together, eyes smiling,
to hold up tent poles in the storm.

Later, loneliness and frost arrive,
bodies stiffen and turn numb
hunching over a coal stove,
heating water for weekly bathing.

Winter comes: "I'm so fucking cold}
and sick of mutton and miss home;
I've never smelled so bad and, by the way,
does anyone really love me?"

We go from ger to outhouse,
strange, coldweather beetles
busily building our shit stalagmites,
rolling up our small possessions in a ball.

Fermented mare's milk, vodka,
whiskey, wine --
the blessed release of friends,
my fellow kind:

talking over each other's words on weekends,|
confessing all,
arms around each other's necks:
they say we're too unruly and it shows,
but we need this and
we need it bad!

Visitors come and we put on a jacket
and a show:
to lead our class through songs and recitations,
playing games,
and showing what we do.

We fetch the cattle from the field,
the water from the river;
we clean our space or not
and bake plum pudding for the VIPs.

At Christmas, deep depression,
we get a sack of coal from neighbors
and shed bright tears of gratitude and pleasure.

Our host's children, our students, are our family;
we love them but feel sometimes like pets,
playing a role called "young American,"
fed and led but kept outside the house.

Our hosts are strong and brave and keep us close,
but have been known to disappoint us:
they can be brutal, think us naive,
shock us with lies and petty vices,
while we seem soft and callow.

Still, we suffer what we love:
we asked for this and still think it is worth it;
we will miss it when it and we are gone,
and we become just ordinary again,
instead of being small celebrities.

We'll always remember this life until we don't,
or at least until we board the plane for home,
when we will start a family in the suburbs
forgetting that old young savage on the steppes.

All now is strong emotion, love and anger,
a pride and testing ground to prove:
I am a man, I am a woman and can make
a better world if I just meet this challenge.

I'm in the stream, beating against the current,
making headway, showing my resiliance;
I sense the other swimmers all about me|
and will not forget this unforgiving river --

until I'm returned to the safety of my shore.

And that's how it is in the Peace Corps.

– Mark Minton

The Three Miracles: a Mongolian verse form

The Mongolian poet G. Mend Oyoo introduced me to a Mongolian verse form known as "the Universe's three" or "the three miracles." The form consists of three lines (a "triplicit") in parallel syntactical structure.

Among my favorites is "The Missing Three":

A column is missing from the sky
A lid is missing from the ocean
A belt is missing from the earth

Consider, too, "The Three Empties":

Though you can hear it, an echo is empty
Though you can see it, a mirage is empty
Though you are living it, a dream is empty

See The Best of Mongolian Poetry edited by G. Mend-Ooyo with translations by Simon Wickham Smith. I would like to write a few of these myself.

-- DL

He'd Walk a Mile for a Camel

For the events leading up to this spectacular photo of our man in Mongolia, watch this video:

We took a ride last Thursday night to the country outside Ulaanbaatar.  Along the way, we encountered this camel.  The voices you hear in the background are of the young Mongolian man trying to negotiate the terms of a ride; U.S. Ambassador Mark Minton; Kevin Nolan, an intern in the Embassy (whose speech moves fluently from English to Mongolian); David; me ("I don't want to get on") and the compliant camel. 

-- sdh