СЭТГЭЛ ХУЙЛАРАХУЙ

Friday, May 7, 2010

СЭТГЭЛ ХУЙЛАРАХУЙ

Намрын сүүл сарын намхан үүлс малгай шүргэнэ
Найрчдын газраас шилэн хундага уйтгартайяа жингэнэнэ.
Навчсын тууварт мордсон угалзан шар салхи
Намайг бүслүүрдэн ороогоод дээш одъёо хэмээмүй.

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About G Mend-Ooyo

G. Mend-Ooyo was born into a herding family in Dariganga, Mongolia, in 1952. He grew up riding horses and tending sheep, moving over the steppe by camel caravan.

In 1980, he published his first book of poetry, Birds of Thought, and has since published over forty books of poetry, novel, children’s book, fiction, criticism and essays. His ongoing work of poetic fiction, Golden Hill (first published in 1993), has become one of the most influential pieces of contemporary Mongol literature. Fifth edition of Golden Hill published in 2010, Mongolia.

Mend-Ooyo's writing deals with the life of Mongolia's nomadic herders, their culture and cultural knowledge. In his style and thematic material, he seeks to express the melody and richness of the Mongol language and nomadic society. His work has been translated into over thirty languages, including English, Japanese, Hungarian, Russian, Chinese and French, and has garnered prizes from literary organizations throughout the world. He received title Poet Laureate from World Academy of Arts and Culture /USA/ in 2009.

Also, G Mend-Ooyo is writing the Mongolian Calligraphy. He presented several exhibitions in Mongolia and abroad. Example, last his exhibition named “My Crystal Temple of Soul” in Modern Art Gallery of Mongolia, in January, 2010 and attended the President of Mongolia to it and given opening speech.

Mend-Ooyo lives in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, and directs the Mongolian Academy of Poetry and Culture.

My Gente Lyric by G Mend-Ooyo

I am a child of nomadic Mongolia. We would move at the break of dawn. As a child I used to sit in a basket on the loaded cart, greeting the morning sunshine at the even pace of the plodding camel; perhaps it was then that I felt the rhythm of my future poems. When we reached our new camp, everything – the blue cranes, the small trace of white fog, the cluster of boulders, the variegated hills – would all seem new to me.

My father would seat me on his lap and hold his fiddle in front of me, then play a long clear melody – the “Jaakhan Sharga” of the Dariganga Mongols – and as this song came neighing and whinnying out at me, the local mountains would more grand, the water clearer, the song of the birds more melodious. . . Thus my little body became the instrument and my father played on me. My poetry was tuned to the melody of the Morin Khuur across the sacred space of the steppe...

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Friday, May 7, 2010

СЭТГЭЛ ХУЙЛАРАХУЙ

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