Click to see Sergey YeseninÒs autobiography
SERGEY YESENIN
Collection of Poems
Translated by Alec Vagapov
Contents
- Scarlet Light Of
SunsetÅ
- The
Night
- What Is Gone Cannot Be RetrievedÅ
- My
Life
- The
Stars
- You Were Crying On A Quiet NightÅ
- Canes Have Started Rustling Å
- Trinity Devotions. Morning Cannon Rite...
- IÒm A Shepherd, And My ParloursÅ
- White Is The Sweatshirt, And Red Is The SashÅ
- IÒm Tired Of Living In My LandÅ
- The Witch
- IÒm Back At Home. My Dear LandÅ
- I Will Not Be Wandering About
- Over There Beyond Fields Of YellowÅ
- Like Smoke In The Room You Are Out Of View...
- I Do Believe In HappinessÅ
- Silver Bluebell, Are You Singing...
- I Have Left My Endeared HomeÅ
- ThereÒs the silly elation...
- Silver road, I wonder where...
- My Love Has Changed. I Know You FeelÅ
- I Do Not Regret, And I Do Not Shed TearsÅ
- Sing, Old Man, To The Bloody GuitarÅ.
- I Will Not Deceive MyselfÅ
- Yes! ItÒs Settled!
Now And For EverÅ
- Azure Space Is Aflame Up AboveÅ
- Both This Street And This Little House
- .ItÒs Sad To Look At You, My LoveÅ
- LetÒs Sit Down Here, My Dearest
- You Have Been Used By Someone Else Å
- We'll Depart This World For Ever, Surely...
- DonÒt Torment Me With Coldness And StiffnessÅ
- Little House With Light Blue ShuttersÅ
- .A Letter To The Mother
- Now My Grief WonÒt Be Spilt By
The RingingÅ
- A Letter To The Woman
- The Golden Birch-Tree Grove Has Fallen SilentÅ
- The Snowstorm Is Crying Like RomanyÅ
- Oh My Dear Maple, Frozen Stiff And BareÅ
- Blue Is The Fog, The Expanse Is Snow-BoundÅ
- Blue Is The Night, And The Moon Is Glancing ...
- Snow-Clad Is The Plain, AndÅ
- Snowdrift, Piled Up, Is Nowà Brittle And CallousÅ
- Don't Fall, My Little Star, Keep Shining...
- Life Is Tricky With Enchanting PathosÅ
- I havenÒt forgotten you, dearie...
- The Flowers Say Good-Bye To MeÅ
- Leaves Are Falling Here And Yonder...
- DonÒt You Force A Smile, GirlÅ
- The Snow Is Whirling Lively And Strong...
- Oh, What A Night! I Cannot Sleep...
- DonÒt You Look At Me So ReproachfullyÅ
- You DonÒt Love Me And
DonÒt Feel Compassion
- Maybe, ItÒs Too Late Or,
Maybe, Early...
***
Scarlet light of sunset shows up on the lake.
Grouses
are crying in the wood, awake.
Hidden
in a hollow, cries an oriole.
I donÒt
feel like crying, brightness in my soul.
YouÒll
come out to meet meà later in the day,
WeÒll
sit down there under stack of hay.
I will
kiss and squeeze you, like a loving boy!
One
canÒt blame a man for being drunk with joy.
You will chuck
your kerchief as I hold you tight,
I will
keep you, tipsy, in the bush all night.
Let the
birds keep crying as we neck andà bask
ThereÒs
a happy yearning in the purple dusk.
1910
The tired day
droops, slowly waning ,
The
noisy waves are now tranquil.
The sun
has set, the moon is sailing
Above
the world, absorbed and still.
The
valley listens to the babbles
Of peaceful river in the dale.
The
forest, dark and bending, slumbers
To warbling of the nightingale.
The
river, listening in and fondling,
Talks with the banks in quiet hush.
And up
above resounds,à a-rolling,
The merry rustle of the rush.
1910
-1912
WHAT IS GONE CANNOT BE RETRIEVED
Lovelyà night I will never retrieve it,
And I wonÒt see my sweet precious love.
And the nightingaleÒsà song, I
wonÒt hear it,
Happy song that it sang in the grove!
That sweet night is now gone irrevocably
You canÒt tell it: please come back and wait.
Autumn weather has nowà set in
locally,
With perpetual rains, damp and wet.
Fastà asleep in the grave is my sweetheart
Keeping love, as before, in her heart.
And however it tries, autumn blizzard
Cannot wake her from sleep, flesh and blood.
So the nightingaleÒs singing has ended,
As the song-bird has taken to flight,
And I canÒt hear the song now,à so
splendid,
Which it sang on that sweet chilly night.
Gone and lost are the joyous emotions
That I felt in those days and conceived.
All I have now is chill in my conscience.
What is gone canÒt be ever retrieved.
1911-1912
The Stars
Stars little stars, youÒre so high and so clear!
What have you got in you, so fascinating?
Stars, deep in thought, so discreet you appear,
What is the power that makes you so tempting?
Stars, little stars, youÒre so dense and so solid!
What is it that makes you so great and alluring?
How can you,à heavenlyà bodies, afford it:
Stirring a thirst and desire for learning?
Why, as you shine, are youà nice
and inviting
Into your wide open arms, on the instant?
Pleasing the heart, so benign and enticing,
Heavenly stars, so remote and so distant!
1911-1912
It appears, myà life is fated to torment;
My way is dammed up by grief and distress.
My life has beenà severed from fun and enjoyment,
Vexation and wounds are afflicting my
chest.
It seems IÒm fated to suffer from pain.
All I have in this life are bad luck and
misfortune.
I have suffered enough in this life,
and again
The expanse, vast and hazy, promises
joy,
A storm will break out, the thunder - oh
boy! -
Will ruin the magical luscious illusions.
Now I know lifeÒs deception,
and nevertheless
I donÒt want to complain of bad luck and
misfortune.
So my soul doesnÒt suffer from grief and
distress,
No one ever can help to relieve me from
torture.
1911-1912
àààààààààààààààààààààà ***
You were crying on a quiet night,
Those tears in
your eyes you werenÒt hiding,
I was so sad,à it was a real plight,
And yet we
couldnÒt overcome misunderstanding.
Now you are gone,
IÒm here, on my own,
My dreams have
faded, losing tint and colour,
You left me, and
again I am all alone,
Without tender word and greeting, in my parlour.
When evening comes
I often,à crowned with rue,
Come to the place
ofà our dating here,
And in my dreams I
see the sight of you
And hear you
crying bitterly, my dear.
1912-1913
* * *
Canes have started rustling on the river bank,
Princess-girl is
crying with her face pale, blank.
Pretty girl has
chanted Ó loves me - loves me notÔ,
The unwoven
flowers down the river float.
She is not toà marry later in the spring,
Goblin has
foretold a very frightening thing.
Mice have stripped
the birch-tree ofà the bark, so hard,
They have
frightened girlie out of the yard.
Horses fight, so
threateninglyà jerking their heads,
Ah, dark hair is
what goblin really hates.
Incense smellà is coming from the nearbyà groves,
Loud winds are
singing their dirge-like songs.
On the river bank
she sadly walks around,
As the foamy wave
is spinning her a shroud.
1914
ààààààààààààààààààààààà * * *
Trinity devotions. Morning cannon rite,
Villagers are
comingà after festive sleep,
àIn the chimes of wind the heady spring
willà steep.
There are bands
and branches on the window panes.
I will cry with
flowersà over grieves and pains.
Sing, you birds,
lamenting, I will sing along,
WeÒll consign to
dust my boyhood to this song.
Trinity aurora.
Morning cannon rite,
Birch-trees in the
grove are filled withà ringing light.
1914
ààààààààààààààààààà ***
IÒm a shepherd, andà my parlours
Are theà ruffled pasture sides,
Slopes of verdant hills and furrows,
Balks,à withà
booming cryà of snipes.
Yellow foamy clouds are trimming
Pine-tree woodà with lace
designs,
While I listen, lightlyà dreaming,
To theà whisper of the pines.
Dewy poplars, softlyà waving,
Shine with verdure on the scene.
I am a shepherd, andà my dwelling
Is theà gentleà
field of green.
Cows salute and hail me chatting
Using their tongue of nods.
Fragrant flowers are inviting
Kindly toà the river spots.
I forget all grief and care,
On a heap of twigs I dream.
To the sun I say my prayer,
Make communion by the stream.
1914
à
ààààààààà
* * *
White isà the sweatshirt,
and red isà the sash,
IÒm picking the poppies beginning to flush.
Deep is the sound of the choral song
,
I know she is there now, singing along.
She cried,à I remember, on entÒring
the hut:
ÓYouÒre handsome, but you are not after my heart.
The wind is enflaming the rings of your curls,
IÒve given my brush to somebody elseÔ.
I know she dislikes me and makes me feel small:
I danced less than others and drank least of all.
I stood by the wall and was humble and sad,
While they were drunk and singing, like mad.
HeÒs lucky, heÒs one of those brazen men, -
His beard would stick to her neck now and then.
And joining the circle of dancers, with grace,
She burst out laughing straight in my face.
White is the sweatshirt, and red isà the sash,
IÒm picking the poppies beginning to flush.
Her heart, like a poppy, is blooming along.
It isnÒt for me that sheÒs singing the song.
1915ààààààààààààààààààààààààààà ààààààààààààààààààà
à
ààààààààààààààààààà * * *
à
IÒm tired of living in my land
Withà boring fields and buckwheat fragrant,
IÒll leave my
homeà for ever, and
Begin the life of
thief and vagrant.
à
IÒll walk through
silver curls of life
In search of miserable dwelling.
My dearestà friend will whet his knife
On me. The reason?
ThereÒs no telling.
à
The winding yellow
road will go
Across the sunlit
field of flowers,
The girl whose
name I cherish so
Will turn me out of her house.
à
I will return back
home to live
and see the others
feeling happy,
IÒllà hang myself upon my sleeve,
On a green evening
it will happen.
à
The silkyà willows byà
the fence
Will bend their
tops low down, gently,
To dogsÒà barking, by my friends,
Unwashed, I will
be buried plainly.
à
The moon will
float up in the sky
Dropping the oars
into the waterÅ
As ever,
And dance and weep
in every quarter.
à
1915
White and
dishevelled, she looks outrageous,
Running
about,à brisk and courageous.
Dark is the night,
it is scared to death, and
Clouds, like
kerchiefs,à have covered the crescent.
Wind, letting
outà hysterical hoots, à
Whirls like a
shotà to the back of the woods.
Fir-trees are
threatening to hit with a spear
Owls lie hidden,
a-wailing from fear.
Waving her
harridanÒs clutches she shouts.
Up in the sky
stars are winking from clouds.
Vipers, like
rings, hangingà down her hair,
Spinning with
blizzard,à she whirls in the air.
Ringing, the
pinesà make the witch dance and cry.
Clouds grow dark
as they, trembling,à float by.
1915
ààààààààààààààà ***
IÒm back at home.
My dear land
Is pensive, spreading all around !
The twilight waves its snow-white hand
To greet me from
beyond the mound.
The grizzle of the gloomy day
Is floating byà over my home, and
Theà evening
fills me with dismay
àLike insurmountable torment.
Above theà church, over the dome,
The sunset shade
has fallenà down.
My dear friends,à IÒm back at home,
Andà wonÒt be
seeing you around.
The years have
flown like a whirl,
And where are you,à my friends, I wonder?
All I can hear is the purl
Of water by the
mill-house yonder.
And often, sitting by the hearth,
to sound
of sedge crack, or whatever,
I pray to steaming
mother earth
Fore those whoÒreà are gone lostà for ever.
à1916
Over there beyond
fields of yellow
There are villages
stretching ahead.
ThereÒs aà wood and theà
sunset of mellow
And a fence with a
nettle thread.
There overà the domes of the temple
Is theà turquoiseà
dust of the sky,
And the wind rings
the grass, wet and gentle,
As it comes from the lakes nearby.
It is not for the
song of the valley
That I love this
greenery spill,
Like a crane IÒm
in love with the alley
And the convent on top of the hill.
When the azure
gets misty and blooming,
And theà sunset hangs over the bridge.
I can see you, my
wandering woman,
Go to bow to the
cross and beseech.
Chaste is life in
the convent village,
Public prayer
absorbs you all,
Pray before our
SaviourÒs image,
Preach to God for
my fallen soul.
1916
***
Like smoke in the room you are out of view.
Your oatmeal image feeds my soul,
You are my helper, my friend and all.
The world is sown with the solar flame
The holy truth has got no name.
The sand of the dream is keeping time,
YouÒve added new grains to the sublime.
Words are growing on the arable plot,
The green feather-grass is mixed with thought.
On solidà
muscles of raised up hands
The sound erects whiteà
churches in lands.
The souls are delighted inà trampling your glow
And seeingà your
steps on the recent snow.
But self-abasementà
and faded zeal
Of those dropped off are lovelier still.
1916
***
WeÒll depart this world for ever,
surely,
To repose in peace and quite. Oh, my Lord!
Maybe, I shall also have to duly
Pack my things preparing for the road.
Oh, my birch-tree woods! Amazing pictures!
Oh, my dear land! My sandy
plains!
In the face of crowds of mortal
creatures
IÒm unable to conceal my
pains.
IÒve been filled with love
and admiration
For
the things embodying the soul.
Peace to aspens, lost in
contemplation,
Spreading branches, staring
at the shoal!.
I have thought in silence
days andà hours,
I have written songs. And I
donÒt grieve.
To
have had a chance to breathe and live.
I am happy,
I have kissed a woman,
I have slept in grass andà flower-bed,
And I never, like a decent
human,
Hit a dog or kitten in the head.
The unknown land! No
blooming pictures!
No amazing fields of wheat,
so fine!
Hence, before the crowds of
mortal creatures
I have always shivers down
the spine.
In that land, I know, there wonÒt be any
Fields of wheat that shine like gold at night
ThatÒs the reason why I love those many
Living with me in
this country-side.
1924
***
Tramplingà goose-foot in the bushes any more;
Andà I know youÒllà never come around
In my dreams, oat-haired, as before.
You were tender beautiful
and fair,
You resembled rosy
sunset glare,
And, like snow, you
were lustrous, fair and bright.
Having shed their grain your eyes are fading,
And your name has melted like the sound of chimes;
But the folders of your crumpled shawl and veiling
Have retained the smell of
honey from your arms.
When itÒs quiet and the sunset smartens,
Like a kitten, washing up its face.
I can hear the honeycomb-like patterns
Chat about you, along with wind and haze.
Well, the evening tells me you are
oderous,
Like a dream, a flower and sweet song,
After all, who has designed your waist, your shoulders
Apprehending holy secret all along?
I will not be wandering about
Tramplingà goose-foot in the bushes
any more;
Andà I know youÒll never
come around
In my dreams, oat-haired, as
before.
ààààààààààààààà ***
The sun has not
yet faded. Rays
Of sunrise like a
book ofà prayers
Predict the happy
news. Oh yes!
I do believe in
happiness!
Ring , golden
Oh blow you wind,
so unabated!
Blessed is the one
who celebrated
Your shepherdÒs sadness, hope forlorn.
Ring, golden
I love the wild
impetuous streams,
The shine of stars upon the water.
The blessed
dejection, crying quarter,
The blessing
people and extremes
Of roaring wild impetuous streams.
1917
ààààààààààààààààààààà * * *
Silver bluebell,à are you singing,
Or,à perchance, my heart isà dreaming?
Light from rosy
icon flashes
Falling on my golden lashes.
Though IÒm not
that gentle infant
in the flapping
splash of pigeons,
Yet my golden
dreams are distant,
Somewhere in the woodland regions.
I donÒt needà the narrow house,
Word and mystery
wonÒt reckon.
Teach me, please
to dream and drowse,
Fall asleep and
never waken.
1917
àààààààààààààà * * *
I have
left my endearedàà home,
Getting outà ofà
theà land of blue.
Little grove by
the pond will warm
My old motherÒs
sorrow anew.
Like a golden croaker the moon
Lies prostrate on the water, tranquil.
Grizzly hair, like
apple-tree bloom,
In myà fatherÒsà
beardà will spill.
I will not come
back readily, and
Singing blizzard
will ring on and on.
Maple-tree guards
theà blueà
Russian land,
Standing there,
one-legged, all alone.
And I know that
itÒs joyous for those
WhoÒve been kissing the rain of the leaves.
For the maple and
I, we both
Are alike, in the
headàà that is.
1918
***
The garden the
windows look on!
Soundless sunset
reflection
Swims in the pool,
like a swan.
Greetings, golden
serenity,
Shadows of trees,
black as tar!
Crows on the roof,
in sincerity,
Hold vespers in
praise of the star.
àà
Timidly, overàà the garden
Where the
guelder-rose springs,
A girl in a
snow-whiteà garment
A beautiful melody
sings.
Like a blue gown,
the eveningà à
Cold from the
meadow sweepsÅ
Happiness, sweet silly feeling!
Virginal blush of
the cheeks!
1918
***
You are calling me anew?
Like a Thursday candle there
Shines a starletà over you.
Are you fraught with joy or sorrow?
IsnÒtà madness your intent?
Help me, heart and soul,à tomorrow
Love your hardà snow to the end.
Give me sunset for the sleigh and
Willow branchà that beautifies.
Maybe I will in the end à
Reachà the gate of paradise.
1918
ààààààààààààààààààààààà * * *
To Kluyev
The
crescentÒsà sweeper couldnÒtà spill
The pools ofà lyrical creation.
Upset,à but taking in good part
The star that fell
upon your brows,
You spilt you
heart aboutà the house,
But thereÒs no
house in yourà heart.
The one you waited
for to greet
Has passed your
shelter like a cynic.
The key for with
your singing lyric?
YouÒll never
versify the sun
And neverà see the HeavenÒs bound.
Just like a mill
that flaps its fan
But cannot tear
off the ground.
1918
àààà
* * *
I do not regret, and I do not shed
tears,
All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass.
Turning gold, IÒm fading, it appears,
I will not be young again, alas.
Having got to know the touch of coolness
I will not feel, as before, so good.
And the land of birch trees, - oh my
goodness!-
Cannot make me
wander barefoot.
VagrantÒs spirit! You do not so often
Stir the fire of my lips these days.
Oh my freshness, that begins to soften!
Oh my lost emotions, vehement gaze!
Presently I do not feel a yearning,
Oh, my life! Have I been sleeping fast?
Well, it feels like early in the morning
On a rosy horse IÒve galloped past.
We are all to perish, hoping for some
favour,
Golden leaves flow down turning grey.
May you be redeemed and blessed for ever,
You who came to bloom and pass awayÅ
1921
àààààààààààààààààààà ***
Sing, old man, to the bloody guitar,
and
Let your fingers
show natural bent.
I would choke in
this drunken enchantment
YouÒreà my last and my only friend.
DonÒt you look at
her wrist and the blooming
Silky shawlà hanging down her head.
I was looking
forà joy in this woman
But I found
perdition instead.
I did not know
that love was infection,
I did not know
that loveà was a plague.
Sheà just came andà
feigning affection
Drove the
rowdyà mad, no mistake.
Sing and let
meà remember, brother,
Our fidgetyà youthful whirl.
Let her kiss, pet
and fondleà another,
Ah,à this beautiful wicked girl!
No, no, wait.à I donÒt blame her or bully.
No, no, wait.à I donÒt damn or disgrace.
Let me singà now about yours truly
To the sound of
thisà string of base.
Rosyà vault of my days is streaming.
IÒve got plenty of
golden dreams.
I have pettedà so manyà
young women,
Touched andà squeezed them,à governed by whims.
Yes! There isà bitter truth of the world
When a child I
caught sight of that truth:
Troops of hounds,
excited and wild,
Taking turns lick
a bitch all in juice.
Why be jealous of
her? I donÒt get.
Being sick would
mere pretext.
Our life is
justà bed-sheet and bed.
Our life is a kiss
andà a vortex.
Sing , old man! In
the fateful sphere
Of these hands is
a fated end.
Tell them all to
fÅ out of here.
I will never be
dead, my friend.
1922
* * *
I will not deceive myself, admitting
I have worries in
my heart, so dreary.
Why am I reputed
as a cheating
Crook and
trouble-maker, really?
I am not a villain
nor a thief in hiding,
And I never shot
imprisoned convicts.
I am just a
thoughtlessà idler, smiling
Friendly and
avoiding conflicts.
I am a naughty
reckless
All along the main
street, and around,
Every little
dogà in every corner
Knows me by the
way I tread the ground.
Every jade I meet,
rundown and hopeless,
Gives me nods of
hail and salutation.
Are as good for
them as medication.
I donÒt wear my
hat to charm the ladies
For I canÒt stand
featherbrained emotions.
Filling them with
oats to feed the horses.
I do notà have friends among the people,
ItÒs a different
kingdom I am bound to.
I will gladly give
my tie to simple
Shaggy dog I
happen to encounter.
From now on I will
be safe and sound.
In my heart a
sunny day is breaking.
ThatÒs the reason
why they tend toà count
Me to be a crook
and trouble-maker.
1922
ààààààààààààà * * *
I have left my
dear old plain.
And the winged
leaves of poplars will never
Ring and rustle
above me again.
Our house will sag
in my absence,
And my dog died a
long time ago.
Me, IÒll die without compassions
In the crooked
streets of
I admire this city
of elm-trees
With decrepit
buildings and homes.
Are reposing on
temple domes.
When the moonlight
at night, dissipated,
ShinesÅ like hell
in the dark sky of blue!
I walk down the
alley, dejected,
To the pub for a
drink, maybe, two.
ItÒs a sinister
den,à harsh and roaring,
But in spite of
it, all through the night
I read poems for
girls that go whoring
And carouse with
thieves with delight.
Though I
talk,à all I say is quiteà pointless,
With my heart
pulsating so fast:
Just like you, I
am totally worthless,
And I cannot
re-enter the past.
Our house will sag
in my absence,
And my dog died a
long time ago.
I am fated to die
withà compassions
In the crooked
streets of
1922
Both this street and this little house
And itÒs so
painful toà remember!
ààààààààààààààààààà à
You
have been used by someone else
Your glassy hair casting spells,
Your weary eyes tired out in autumn.
I like it more than youth, I know it,
You're now much better to the heart
And fascination of
a poet.
I never tell a lie at heart,
And to the call of ostentation
I'll say without hesitation:
àFarewell to squabble, booze and that.
It's time to stop this rugged trick,
I've been so stubborn. That's the limit!
My heart has had a kind of drink
That sobers up the blood and spirit.
à
àSeptember knocks upon my pane
With willow branches showing crimson,
I have to be prepare'd
again
For the arrival of
the season.
Without loss, or
stress or bounds.
So are the houses 'nd burial grounds.
And here and there and everywhere
The only one for whom I care,
Is you,
my friend, and sister, too.
Perfecting drawbacks of a sinner,
Will sing about roads, - oh my!-
The parting life
of misdemeanour.
1923
ààààààààààààààààààà à
I am now.à
I was dreamy and all,
I imagined that I would be famous
Very wealthy and
favoured by all.
IÒm excessively rich. I declare!
ThereÒs my hat which I never use.
All I have is a shirt and a pair
Of worn out once
elegant shoes.
I am famous as well. They know me
From
Response, like a
curse and damn.
As for love, donÒt you think itÒs amusing?
As I kiss you, your lips are like dead.
IÒve got love which I seem to be losing
Whereas yours
hasnÒt bloomed as yet.
IÒm gloomy at times Ö I donÒt care,
For it isnÒt yet time to be sad.
The young grassà on the hills, like yourà hair,
Rustling, looks like a golden pad.
I would like to be there in that vastness
àSo Ià might, to the
rustle of grass,
Fall asleep and drown in darkness
àAnd
daydreamà like I
did in the past.
But the things I now dream about
Are quite new to the earth and theà grass
For they canÒt be expressed and spelled
out,
And they cannot be named, alas!
à1923
***
Little house with
light blue shutters,
ààààà A Letter to Mother
ààààààààààààààààà à
Yes, you remember,
You certainly remember
The way I listened
àStanding at the wall
As you walked to and fro about the chamber
Reproving me
With bitter words
and all.
You said
That it was time weÒd parted,
And that my reckless life,
For you, was an ordeal,
And it was time a new life you had started
Whileà I was
fated
To go rolling
downhill.
My love!
You didnÒt care for me, no doubt.
You werenÒt aware of the fact that I
Was like a ruined horse, amidst the crowd,
Spurred by a
dashing rider, flashing by.
You didnÒt know
That I was all a-smoke,
And in my life, turned wholly upside-down ,
I was in misery,àà downhearted, broke,
Because I didnÒt seeà which way we were bound.
When face to face
We cannot see the face.
For whenà the ocean boils and wails
The ship is in a sorry situation.
The worldà is but a ship!
But all at once,
Someone, in search of betterà life and glory,
Hasà turned it,
gracefully,à taking his chance,
Into the hub of stormà and flurry.
Well,à which of us
On board a mighty boat
Has never brawled nor barfed nor fallen
down?
There are not many of them that will not
Despair when theyÒre about to drown.
Me,à too,
To loud hue and cry,
But knowing well what I was doing
Might keep away
from scenes of spewing.
ÓHoldÔ was a Russian pub
Where I
Drank,àà
listening to the loud bicker,
Just drowning
myself in liquor.
My love!
I worriedà you, oh my!
Your tired eyes revealed dejection,
That I was all a-smoke,
And in my life, turned wholly upside-down,
I was in misery, downhearted, broke,
Because I didnÒt see à
Which way we were
bound.
Seized by tender feelings so,
Recall yourà wistfulness, and now IÒm happyàà
About what I was
And what has happened!
My love,
IÒm glad to tell you that
I have escaped a bad descent, anÒ
Today IÒm in the Soviet land
A staunch
supporter and defender.
IÒm not the man
I used to be.
I wouldnÒt hurtà you now
The way I did.à So silly!
And I would follow Labour,
feeling free,
As far as à
Forgive me please,
I know that you have changed.
You live with an intelligent,
Good husband;
You donÒt need all this fuss and all this
pledge,
And you donÒtà need me either, such a hazard.
Live as you do
Lead by your lucky star
Under the tentà of fern, if thereÒs any.
My best regards,
YouÒre always on my mind, you are,
Yours, faithfully,
àààààààààà
S e r g e yàà Y e s e n i n.
Blue is the night
and the moon is glancing
The
snowstorm is crying like a Romany violin.
àSweet is the girl.à She is wicked when smiling.
Her eyes, oh so blue, donÒt they give me a
scare?
I need quite a lot, and I donÒt really
care.
WeÒre so much alike and so much contrasted
YouÒre young. I am old. And my life has
all rusted.
The young ones are happyà while I am all wizened
Recalling the
past, in this terrible blizzard.
Imnot mollycoddled. The storm is my violin.
Why do youà stand bending in the blizzard there?
àààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
à
***
Blue is
the fog, the expanse is snow-bound,
Isn't it nice to be sitting around,
Thinking about the bygone times?!
Down by the porch is the snow thawing out.
Just like to-night, by the moonlight,
alone,
Putting my cap on, the wrong way about,
I ran away, on the sly, from my home.
Now I am back in my land, oh so dear,
Some have forgotten me? Others have not?
àJust like a man in disgrace I am here
Outside my house
with a garden plot.
Squeezing my fur cap, a dismal newcomer,
Somehow I don't like this sable at all.
Now I remember my granddad and grandma,
Friable snow in
the graveyard and all.
All had calmed down ,
for 'we all would be there',
And no use to try
to put back the clock.
So much I love them, my country folk.
I nearly burst out crying. I pondered.
And ,
forcing a smile, I stood in a fog,
Was it the very last time, I wondered
That I saw this house, this porch, and
this dog?
1925
ààààààààààà
***
àààààààààààààààààààààà à
ààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà àààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
Snow-clad is the
plain,à and the
moon is white
Covered with a shroud is my country side.
Birches dressed in white are crying, as I
see.
Who is dead, I wonder? Is it really me?
1925
Snowdrift, piled
up, is now brittle and callous,
Cold is the moon that shines from the
height.
Now I am back at my dear old house,
And through the blizzard I see the light.
Well, we are homeless but we do not suffer.
I laud what IÒve got,
without complain.
Here I am back at my home having supper,
Happy to see my old mother again.
She looks, and
I see that her eyes are in tears,
Dear old mommy, my best and my tenderest,
Get grievous reflection out of your head.
Listen to me, to the song of the tempest
IÒll tell you about my life instead.
Much have I seen
and much have I travelled,
Much have I loved,
and suffered, too.
I have caroused, stirred
up trouble and revelled,
And havenÒt seen anyone as worthy as you.
Now having
slipped off my shoes and my jacket,
Warming myself by the bedside
again,
àI
have revived and, like in my childhood,
I wish for good life, and I hope, not vain.
Meanwhile the blizzard is gasping and
sobbing
Whirling in clouds of snow, through the night.
Those of the lime-trees that
grow outside.
1925
The shine of your hair and all.
It wasnÒt so easy and cheery
To leave you, as I recall.
I havenÒt forgotten the autumn,
The rustle ofà birches,à the night;
And though the days were shorter
The moonlight was long and bright.
You whispered these words in my ear:
ÓThe years and the dreams will be gone,
YouÒll go with another, my dear,
And leave me all on my ownÔ.
That lime standing there,à in
flower,
Reminds my emotion anew
The way I would tenderly shower à
Those beautiful flowers on you.
My heart will be warm, sad and sorry,
In love,à remembering well
You, friend,à as aà fanciful story
Of love with another girl.
1925
* * *
Life is
tricky with enchanting pathos
It composes its
pernicious letters
With its
outrageous, ruggedà hand.
Whenà I close my eyes I tacitly declare:
Touch your heart
and you will plainly see,
Life is
fraudulent,à butà here and there à
Ità embellishes deceit with trickery.
Now look up
andà face theà silverà
heaven,
Read your fortune
by the moon and plead,
Just calm down,
mortal man, donÒt raven
The eternal truth
you do not need.
Well, itÒs nice to
think in spring so crowned,
That this life has
beenà the righteousà way.
Let your easyà girlfriends get around,
Let the boys
delude you and betray.
Letà the girls caress me,à IÒll abide it,
Letà the vicious tongues be sharp and thin, -
I have long been
living all provided,
IÒve got
mercilessly used to everything.
Highness chills my
heart. IÒm feeling daunted.
And the stars are
cold , unlike they used to be.
Thoseà I used to love are disappointed,
Those I
worshipedà have forgotten me.
Though IÒmà ostracised and censured here,
Yet I keep on
smiling, not depressed at all..
Living in this
world, so near and dear,
I am grateful to
my life for all.
Augustà 1925
àààà
***
Don't Fall, my
little star, keep shining,
There is no living heart abiding
Up there beyond
the grave-yard site.
And from you beam you bring us summer
And fill the fields with rye and hay
And with a thrilling wistful clamour
Of cranes that havenÒt flown away.
I raise my head andà I can hear
Beyond the wood across the hill
A lovelyà song about the near
And dear homeland, such a thrill!
The autumn, turning gold, appears
To squeezeà the juice fromà trees and plants;
ItÒs shedding pensive leaves of tears
For the beloved
and loving ones.
I know, I know, the time is near,
Through no oneÒs fault, with no offence,
àI,
too, willà rest
in peace right here
Beneath the
mournful little fence.
The tender flame will soonà die out,
My heart will turn to dust, for worse,
My fiends will put a stone, no doubt.
With words of
merriment, in verse.
But,à feeling griefà and seeing proper,
I Ñd put it
in the following way:
He loved his homeland like a toper
Adores a bar and
aà buffet.
August 1925
***
Leaves
are falling here and yonder.
And the wind is
drawlingà and low.
Who will gladden my heart I wonder?
Who will soothe it, my friend, do you know?
IÒm staring at the moon,à and IÒm trying
Not to sleep keeping drowse away.
Thereàà
again the rosters are crying
At the break of
the autumn day.
Early hours of dawn, blue as everÅ
Blissfulà joy of
theà flying starsÅ
I could now make wishes. However,
Ià donÒt know
whatà to wish,à alas!
What is there to wish for, I wonder,
Cursingà home and
myà fate and all?
What I want is to see over yonder,
By my window, a
beautiful girl.
I should like her,
as an
exception,
To convey that she needs me sole,
And I want her, withà words of affection,
To consoleà my heart and my soul.
So that I, accepting my lessons,
Onà this
wonderful moonlit night
Might not melt and faintà fromà
delight
Andà with jubilant adolescence
Mightà be
pleased with my youth all right.
August 1925
àààààààààààààà * * *
The
flowers say good-bye to me
They bend theirà heads and bow low
down
Which means that I will never see
Her lovely face
and my home town.
Well, thatÒs the
way it is, my love!
I saw them all
inà habitation,
I take this
deathly trepidation
For tender
feeling, still alive.
IÒve learnt my
life day after day,
I haveà been living with a smile, and
Thus Ià invariably say:
In our world all
is recurrent.
Well,à some one else will come along,
No grief will
sooth the past. Theà new one, à
Perchance, will
sing a better song
For the
belovedà forsaken woman.
And listening to
the song , maybe,
Caressing her
endeared lover,
SheÒllà probablyà
remember me
As a unique and
cherished flower.
October, 1925
àààààààààààààààààààà à
ààààààààààààààààààààààààà * * *
DonÒt youà force a smile, girl,à tensely, like you do,
The one IÒm in
love with isnÒt really you.
à
I suppose you know
it, and you know it well,-
IÒm not here to
see you but another girl.
I was passing by,
and, well, I didnÒt care,
I saw you and
wanted just to stop and stare.
October 1925
ààà * * *
àààààààààà à
ààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
à
The snow is whirling lively and strong
A three horse
sleigh isà dashing along.
Some young ones
are inà the sleigh. Oh Boy!
Where is my
happiness? Where is my joy?
All has slipped by
through the storm in this way, -
Dashing like mad
in a three horse sleigh.
October 1925
àààààààààààààààààààà ààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
àààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
à
à ***
Oh, what a night! I cannot sleep.
The sky is moonlit.
Well, I never!
Ità seems
thatà I in my heart I keep à
The youth that has
been gone for ever.
My friend ofà frosted bygone years,
DonÒt call a game love and affection,
IÒd rather have the moonlight rays
Flow down upon my habitation.
And looking down from above
Let it depict my features here, -
You cannot fall out of love
Just like you
couldnÒt love me, dear.
We only love just once, you know,
So you are alien to me, strangely,
Just like a lime tree, foot in snow,
Is trying to
attract us, vainly.
I know it, and you know it, too,-
What we can seeà àatà this late hour
Is frost and snow appearing blue
And not the
splendour of a flower.
WeÒve had
our love, our time and day
Each having someone to admire,
And now weÒre fated anyway
To play affection,
love, desire.
Come now, caress me, hold
me tight,
Kiss me with hot,à pretendedà fervour,
And may I dream about theà light
Of spring and love that lasts forever.
àààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
à
ààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààààà
ààààààààààààà
***
DonÒt you look at
me so reproachfully
For Ià donÒtà
bear malice to you,
Butà I like your appearance awfully
And your seeming
modesty,à too
Yes, you seem to
be openhearted,
And IÒd
ratherà be glad to see
How a fox
pretending departed
Catches crows like
you want to catch me.
Try toà catch me, I wonÒtà be daunted
Mind, you donÒt
have your ardour restrained!
Many girls of your
kind have haunted
stumbling over my
heart that waned.
ItÒs not you that
I love, my dearie,
YouÒre only an
echo, a shade,
I imagine a
differentà girlie,
Oh so beautiful
blue-eyed maid!
Though she isnÒt
so humble-looking
Andà appears to be rather cool,
Her majestic
manner of walking
Has rekindled the depth of my soul.
SheÒs a girl that
cannot be cheated,
Notwithstanding
your will sheÒll entice,
Whereas you canÒt
be possiblyà fitted
In my heart
withà embellished lies.
Though I scorn
you,à yet like a layman
I will shyly and
openly say:
If there werenÒt
anyà hell and heaven
Theyà would think somethingà up anyway.
* * *
You
donÒt love me and donÒt feel compassion.
Though you look
aside youÒre thrilled with passion
As you put your arms upon my chest.
You are young, so
sensitive and zealous,
I am neither bad
nor very good to you.
Tell me, did you
pet a lot of gentle fellows?
You remember many
arms and lips. You do.
They are gone and
havenÒt touched you any,
Gone like shadows,
leaving you aflame.
You have sat upon
the laps of many,
You are sitting
now on mine, without shame.
Though your eyes
are closed, and you are rather
Thinking of some
one you really trust,
After all, I do
not love you either,
I am lost in
thought about my dear past.
DonÒt you call
this zeal predestination?
Hasty tie is
thoughtless andà no good, -
Like I set up this
unplanned connection,
I will smile when
leaving you for good.
You will go the
pathway of your own
Just to haveà your days unwisely spent,
DonÒt approach the
ones not fully grown,
DonÒt entice the
ones that never burnt.
When you walk with
someone down the alley
Chatting merrily
about love and all
Maybe, IÒll be
out, walking round shyly,
And again, by
chance,àà IÒll meet you, poor soul.
Squaring shoulders,
ravishing and winning,
Bending forward,
with an air kiss,
You will utter
quietly:à Good evening!
And I will reply:
Good evening, miss.
Nothing will
disturb my heart and spirit,
Nothing willà perturb me giving pain,-
He whoÒs been in
love will not retrieve it,
He whoÒs burnt
will not be lit again.
***
Maybe, itÒs too late or, maybe, early,
It has not
occurred to me for years,
I resemble now Don
Juan, really,
Like a proper flippantà man of verse.
WhatÒs the matter?
What has happened, really?
Every day I have
some other chick.
And I lose
self-pity, willy-nilly,
And defy
unfaithfulness and trick.
I have always kept
my heart from simple,
Tender
feelings,àà and I wonder what
I am looking for
in oh, so cripple
Women, so light-headed, and so void.
Hold me back,
restrain me, scornful feeling,
I have always been
marked up by you.
In my heart I have
a chillyà steaming
And the rustle of a lilac, red and blue.
In my heart I have
a lemon sunset,
Through the fog I
hearà someone say:
For your freedom
you will have to answer,
Well, Don Juan,
take the challenge, eh?
As I take the
challenge within reason,
Ià can see the same old thing I have:
I must take a
storm forà bloomingà season
And mistake a
thrill for real love.
ThatÒs the reason
ThatÒs the way it happened.
Every day I
have some other chick,
So that I might
always smile, beà happy
And defy
unfaithfulness and trick.
Autobiography
(translated from
the Russian by Alec Vagapov)
I wasà born inà the
ààà
At the age of two I was sent to be raised in a well offà family of my grandfather on my
motherÒs side, who had three grown up unmarried sons, with whom I spent almost
all my green years. My uncles were mischievous and daring. When I was three
years old they put me on a horse withoutà a saddle andà set him running atà a gallop. I remember I was scared like crazy
and held the withers firm. Then they taught me to swim. One of my uncles (uncle
Sasha)à took me
on aà boat, rowedà off the shore, undressed me and threw
me,à like a puppy,à into the water. I worked with my hands awkwardly,
and while I floundered waving my hands he kept shouting :
ÓYou damned wretch! Good for nothing, you!Ô.à ÓDamned wretchÔ was a tender pet name
he used. When I was eight years old my other uncle would use me as a hunting
dog making me swim after the ducks he hadà shot. I was good at climbing trees.
Among the boys in the neighbourhood I was known as a horse breederà and a big fighter, for I would always
haveà scratches on my face. My
grandmother was the only one who reproached me for being so naughty, while my
granddad would sometimesà set me on to
fisticuffs and often said to grandmother: ÓDonÒt touch him, you, silly woman,
he will grow firm and strong that way!Ô. Grandmother loved me devoutly, and her
tenderness was boundless.à On Saturdays I
would be washed, have my nails cut, and my hair crimped with some oilà because my curly
hair couldnÒt be combed in any other way. But the oil would not help much. I
would shout like crazy, and up to now I feel some distaste and repugnance for
Saturdays.
àà
That was the way my childhood went on. When I grew up a little they
wanted to make a village teacher out of me, so I was sent to the parishà teachers
training school with an eye towardsà
entering Moscow Teachers Training Institute. Luckily this was not to happen.
àà I
started writing poems at anà
early age, maybe at the age of nine or so,à but I thinkà
deliberate creative work started at 16 or 17. Some of my poems from that
period are to be found inà
ÓRadunitsaÔ magazine.
àà When
I was eighteen I sent my poems to various magazines andà I was surprised at the fact that hey
refused to publish them, so I went to
àà
At around this time I entered
ààà
At the University I got acquainted with poets Semyonovsky,
Nasedkin, Kolkolov, and Filipchenko.
ààà
Among the poets I likedà Blok, Bely and Kluyev best. Bely gave me a lot in the way of form while Blok andà
Kluyev taught me lyricism.
ààà
In 1919 some of my friends and I published the manifesto of imagism. It
was a formal school that we wanted to set up. But it had no foundation and died
by itself leaving the truth behind the restricted image.
àààà
I wouldà gladly
disown many of my religious poemsà but
they are significantà as the way of a
poet towards the revolution.
àààà
When I wasà
eightà years old my
grandmother started taking me to all kinds of monasteries and thanks to her we
had all kinds of ramblers and pilgrims. They would sing all sorts of religious
songs. Grandfather was the direct opposite. He was a boozer. He would always
arrange sorts of unwedà
marriages.
à ààààAfter I left my village I had to gain an
understanding of my way of life.
ààààà
During the revolution I was on the side of the October, but I accepted
it in my own peasantryàà way.
ààààà
In the sense of formal development I long for Pushkin
more and more.
ààààà
As for the rest of my personal data they are in my poems.
Sergeyà Yesenin