I've been a poet longer than I've been literate. I "wrote" a poem when I was five, and continued to do so until I had over a hundred by age ten.
Upon reading my poems, someone once thought it's fortunate that I began as a Mongolian speaker, then acquired near native English in my teens. Perhaps much depends on how that fact influences my word choice and ear for the sounds, that may seem slightly off beat. Or somewhat odd. Awkward at times, being a strange fusion--like I melded an ornate gold plate to a brass cup. Don't ask me which language is the cup. I'm bound to offend people.
Mongolian poetry is gorgeous, lyrical objects, heavy and juicy. Full of richness and weaves through repetition of sounds and meaning, and creates a different kind of longing than the intellectual prowess and cool puzzle-like aspect of modern English poetry. I am also fascinated by how each culture treats poets and poetry.
There is an element of high art and respect for successful poets in both cultures but Mongolians more widely and deeply embrace the art. They regard their poets with the same status as a cultural mascot of sorts and a rock-star rolled together and watch the yearly Bolor Tsom with an avid regard that could rival Americans watching football. It's sensational and made for sharing loudly, and for the revelers in the language. It is a beautiful, guttural, bracing language made from meat and fat, made to withstand minus forty degrees. One could say, Mongolians survive this way.
In the US, poets are found in bars and lounges, reading to yawning audiences who are used to looking for entertainment and shock value instead of the poets' daring call to think and pay close attention! The vestiges of people who are willing to scour their brains on something raw are listening to these poets. Or perhaps the poets are found on the streets with crumbled sheets, soliciting no one.
They are even in the closets, writing furtively without daring to share the words that have no function whatsoever except for having been strung haphazardly in a dash of mild curiosity or a chance wild emotion that needed to be thus tamed.
I mean to say this. The poets and the poems in America are at the margins. Even successful poets give, give insights, thoughts, give feelings, give rise to rebellious or submissive action, give pop culture its bad habits, and find the destiny of the nation -- and receive little in return except a listen by a few, maybe if lucky.
But I don't care. I'm going to keep writing poems, on that fence between Mongolia and the US.
Upon reading my poems, someone once thought it's fortunate that I began as a Mongolian speaker, then acquired near native English in my teens. Perhaps much depends on how that fact influences my word choice and ear for the sounds, that may seem slightly off beat. Or somewhat odd. Awkward at times, being a strange fusion--like I melded an ornate gold plate to a brass cup. Don't ask me which language is the cup. I'm bound to offend people.
Mongolian poetry is gorgeous, lyrical objects, heavy and juicy. Full of richness and weaves through repetition of sounds and meaning, and creates a different kind of longing than the intellectual prowess and cool puzzle-like aspect of modern English poetry. I am also fascinated by how each culture treats poets and poetry.
There is an element of high art and respect for successful poets in both cultures but Mongolians more widely and deeply embrace the art. They regard their poets with the same status as a cultural mascot of sorts and a rock-star rolled together and watch the yearly Bolor Tsom with an avid regard that could rival Americans watching football. It's sensational and made for sharing loudly, and for the revelers in the language. It is a beautiful, guttural, bracing language made from meat and fat, made to withstand minus forty degrees. One could say, Mongolians survive this way.
In the US, poets are found in bars and lounges, reading to yawning audiences who are used to looking for entertainment and shock value instead of the poets' daring call to think and pay close attention! The vestiges of people who are willing to scour their brains on something raw are listening to these poets. Or perhaps the poets are found on the streets with crumbled sheets, soliciting no one.
They are even in the closets, writing furtively without daring to share the words that have no function whatsoever except for having been strung haphazardly in a dash of mild curiosity or a chance wild emotion that needed to be thus tamed.
I mean to say this. The poets and the poems in America are at the margins. Even successful poets give, give insights, thoughts, give feelings, give rise to rebellious or submissive action, give pop culture its bad habits, and find the destiny of the nation -- and receive little in return except a listen by a few, maybe if lucky.
But I don't care. I'm going to keep writing poems, on that fence between Mongolia and the US.
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