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The Poem That Still Speaks: An Essay on the Poetics of Political Exile — Ming Holden

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Part I.

I got to Ulaanbaatar knowing it would be cold. Knowing the face of Myangaa, The Asia Foundation’s driver, his tall boots, his hearty embrace. Knowing the drive into the metallic air of Ulaanbaatar. Knowing the puke and the used condoms on the street outside the new apartment block in which I stay in a spare room. The knobby cot and set of drawers that’s already breaking like the ones I got last fall at IKEA in Brooklyn and had to keep fixing with CVS superglue. (I used CVS superglue on my boots. I was that broke.) I wake up knowing the annoying song of the gas trucks, the mountain on the south side of the city past Jargalan Town with a white outline of Genghis Khan’s face.

Where a flat-sided steep frowns over the present world,

My elbows rest in sea-gaps

Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and shape

The body lurking there within thy body,

Carrying even her moonsails. Read the rest of this entry »


Written by caperjournal

2009 at AM