Click  to see  Sergey Yesenin’s  autobiography

SERGEY YESENIN

Collection of Poems

Translated by Alec  Vagapov

Contents

                       ***

 

Scarlet light of sunset shows up on the lake.

Grouses are crying in the wood, awake.

 

Hidden in a hollow, cries an oriole.

I don’t feel like crying, brightness in my soul.

 

You’ll come out to meet me  later in the day,

We’ll sit down there under stack of hay.

 

I will kiss and squeeze you, like a loving boy!

One can’t 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 and  bask

There’s a happy yearning in the purple dusk.

 

1910

 

The Night

 

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,  a-rolling,

The merry rustle of the rush.

 

1910 -1912

 

WHAT IS GONE CANNOT BE RETRIEVED

 

Lovely  night  I will never retrieve it,

And I won’t see my sweet precious love.

And the nightingale’s  song, I won’t hear it,

Happy song that it sang in the grove!

 

That sweet night is now gone irrevocably

You can’t tell it: please come back and wait.

Autumn weather has now  set in locally,

With perpetual rains, damp and wet.

 

Fast  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 nightingale’s singing has ended,

As the song-bird has taken to flight,

And I can’t hear the song now,  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 can’t be ever retrieved.

 

1911-1912

 

 

The Stars

 

Stars little stars, you’re 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, you’re so dense and so solid!

What is it that makes you so great and alluring?

How can you,  heavenly  bodies, afford it:

Stirring a thirst and desire for learning?

 

Why, as you shine, are you  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

My Life

 

It appears,  my  life is fated to torment;

My way is dammed up by grief and distress.

My life has been  severed from fun and enjoyment,

Vexation and wounds are afflicting my chest.

 

It seems I’m 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

Both my body and soul have been put to the torture.

 

The expanse, vast and hazy,  promises joy,

Sighs and tears, however, are the real solutions.

A storm will break out, the thunder - oh boy! -

Will ruin the magical luscious illusions.

 

Now I  know  life’s deception,  and nevertheless

I don’t want to complain of bad luck and misfortune.

So my soul doesn’t suffer from grief and distress,

No one ever can help to relieve me from torture.

 

1911-1912

                       ***

You were crying on a quiet night,

Those tears in your eyes you weren’t hiding,

I was so sad,  it was a real plight,

And yet we couldn’t overcome misunderstanding.

 

Now you are gone, I’m 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,  crowned with rue,

Come to the place of  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 “ loves me - loves me not”,

The unwoven flowers down the river float.

 

She is not to  marry later in the spring,

Goblin has foretold a very frightening thing.

 

Mice have stripped the birch-tree of  the bark, so hard,

They have frightened girlie out of the yard.

 

Horses fight, so threateningly  jerking their heads,

Ah, dark hair is what goblin really hates.

 

Incense smell  is coming from the nearby  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

 

                        * * *

 

Trinity devotions. Morning cannon rite,

Birch-trees in the grove are filled with  ringing light.

 

Villagers are coming  after festive sleep,

 In the chimes of wind the heady spring will  steep.

 

There are bands and branches on the window panes.

I will cry with flowers  over grieves and pains.

 

Sing, you birds, lamenting, I will sing along,

We’ll consign to dust my boyhood to this song.

 

Trinity aurora. Morning cannon rite,

Birch-trees in the grove are filled with  ringing light.

 

1914

                    ***

 

I’m a shepherd, and  my parlours

Are the  ruffled pasture sides,

Slopes of verdant hills and furrows,

Balks,  with  booming cry  of snipes.

 

Yellow foamy clouds are trimming

Pine-tree wood  with lace designs,

While I listen, lightly  dreaming,

To the  whisper of the pines.

 

Dewy poplars, softly  waving,

Shine with verdure on the scene.

I am a shepherd, and  my dwelling

Is the  gentle  field of green.

 

Cows salute and hail me chatting

Using their tongue of nods.

Fragrant flowers are inviting

Kindly to  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

 

 

          * * *

 

 

White is  the sweatshirt, and red is  the sash,

I’m picking the poppies beginning to flush.

Deep is the sound of the choral song ,

I know she is there now, singing along.

 

She cried,  I remember, on ent’ring the hut:

“You’re handsome, but you are not after my heart.

The wind is enflaming the rings of your curls,

I’ve given my brush to somebody else”.

 

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.

 

He’s lucky, he’s 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 is  the sash,

I’m picking the poppies beginning to flush.

Her heart, like a poppy, is blooming along.

It isn’t for me that she’s singing the song.

 

1915                                               

 

 

 

                    * * *

 

I’m tired of living in my land

With  boring fields and buckwheat fragrant,

I’ll leave my home  for ever, and

Begin the life of thief and vagrant.

 

I’ll walk through silver curls of life

In search of miserable dwelling.

My dearest  friend will whet his knife

On me. The reason? There’s no telling.

 

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.

 

I will return back home to live

and see the others feeling happy,

I’ll  hang myself upon my sleeve,

On a green evening it will happen.

 

The silky  willows by  the fence

Will bend their tops low down, gently,

To dogs’  barking, by my friends,

Unwashed, I will be buried plainly.

 

The moon will float up in the sky

Dropping the oars into the water…

As ever, Russia will get by

And dance and weep in every quarter.

 

1915

 

The Witch

 

White and dishevelled, she looks outrageous,

Running about,  brisk and courageous.

 

Dark is the night, it is scared to death, and

Clouds, like kerchiefs,  have covered the crescent.

 

Wind, letting out  hysterical hoots,  

Whirls like a shot  to the back of the woods.

 

Fir-trees are threatening to hit with a spear

Owls lie hidden, a-wailing from fear.

 

Waving her harridan’s clutches she shouts.

Up in the sky stars are winking from clouds.

 

Vipers, like rings, hanging  down her hair,

Spinning with blizzard,  she whirls in the air.

 

Ringing, the pines  make the witch dance and cry.

Clouds grow dark as they, trembling,  float by.

 

1915

 

 

 

 

                ***

I’m 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 by  over my home, and

The  evening  fills me with dismay

 Like insurmountable torment.

 

Above the  church, over the dome,

The sunset shade  has fallen  down.

My dear friends,  I’m back at home,

And  won’t be seeing you around.

 

The years have  flown like a whirl,

And where are you,  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 who’re  are gone lost  for ever.

 

 1916

 

 

                  ***

Over there beyond fields of yellow

There are villages stretching ahead.

There’s a  wood and the  sunset of mellow

And a fence with a nettle thread.

 

There over  the domes of the temple

Is the  turquoise  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 I’m in love with the alley

And the convent on top of the hill.

 

When the azure gets misty and blooming,

And the  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 Saviour’s image,

Preach to God for my fallen soul.

 

1916

 

 

***

Like smoke in the room you are out of view.

With a humble heart I will pray for you.

 

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,

You’ve  added new grains to the sublime.

 

Words are  growing on the arable plot,

The green feather-grass is mixed with thought.

 

On solid  muscles of raised up hands

The sound erects white  churches in lands.

 

The souls are delighted in  trampling your glow

And seeing  your steps on the recent snow.

 

But self-abasement  and faded zeal

Of those dropped off are lovelier still.

 

1916

***

We’ll 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

I’m unable to conceal my pains.

 

I’ve 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 and  hours,

I have written songs. And I don’t grieve.

I am happy in this gloomy world of ours

To have had a chance to breathe and live.

 

I am happy, I have kissed a woman,

I have slept in grass and  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 won’t be any

Fields of wheat that shine like gold at night

That’s the reason why I love those many

Living with me in this country-side.

 

1924

***

I will not be wandering about

Trampling  goose-foot in the bushes any more;

And  I know you’ll  never come around

In my dreams,  oat-haired, as before.

 

You were tender beautiful and fair,

Berry juice upon your skin, so light.

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 it’s 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

Trampling  goose-foot in the bushes any more;

And  I know you’ll never come around

In my dreams, oat-haired, as before.

 

1916

 

                *** 

I do believe in happiness!

The sun has not yet faded. Rays

Of sunrise like a book of  prayers

Predict the happy news. Oh yes!

I do believe in happiness!

 

Ring , golden Russia, carry on,

Oh blow you wind, so unabated!

Blessed is the one who celebrated

Your shepherd’s sadness, hope forlorn.

Ring, golden Russia, carry on!

 

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

 

                       * * *

 

Silver bluebell,  are you singing,

Or,  perchance, my heart is  dreaming?

Light from rosy icon flashes

Falling on my golden lashes.

 

Though I’m not that gentle infant

in the flapping splash of pigeons,

Yet my golden dreams are distant,

Somewhere in the woodland regions.

 

I don’t need  the narrow house,

Word and mystery won’t reckon.

Teach me, please to dream and drowse,

Fall asleep and never waken.

 

1917

 

               * * *

I have left my endeared   home,

Getting out  of  the  land of blue.

Little grove by the pond will warm

My old mother’s sorrow anew.

 

Like a golden croaker the moon

Lies prostrate on the water, tranquil.

Grizzly hair, like apple-tree bloom,

In my  father’s  beard  will spill.

 

I will not come back readily, and

Singing blizzard will ring on and on.

Maple-tree guards the  blue  Russian land,

Standing there, one-legged, all alone.

 

And I know that it’s joyous for those

Who’ve been kissing the rain of the leaves.

For the maple and I, we both

Are alike, in the head   that is.

 

1918

 

            ***

There’s the silly elation,

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.

  

Timidly, over   the garden

Where the guelder-rose springs,

A girl in a snow-white  garment

A beautiful melody sings.

 

Like a blue gown, the evening   

Cold from the meadow sweeps…

Happiness, sweet silly feeling!

Virginal blush of the cheeks!

 

1918

 

 

***

Silver road, I wonder where

You are calling me anew?

Like a Thursday candle there

Shines a starlet  over you.

 

Are you fraught with joy or sorrow?

Isn’t  madness your intent?

Help me, heart and soul,  tomorrow

Love your hard  snow to the end.

 

Give me sunset for the sleigh and

Willow branch  that beautifies.

Maybe I will in the end  

Reach  the gate of paradise.

 

1918

                        * * *

To Kluyev  

 

My love has changed.  I know you feel

Upset about the situation:

The crescent’s  sweeper couldn’t  spill

The pools of  lyrical creation.

 

Upset,  but taking in good part

The star that fell upon your brows,

You spilt you heart about  the house,

But there’s no house in your  heart.

 

The one you waited for to greet

Has passed your shelter like a cynic.

My friend, whomever  did you gild

The key for with your singing lyric?

 

You’ll never versify the sun

And never  see the Heaven’s bound.

Just like a mill that flaps its fan

But cannot tear off the ground.

 

1918 

 

 

     * * *

 

I do not regret, and I do not shed tears,

All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass.

Turning gold, I’m 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.

 

Vagrant’s 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 I’ve 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 away…

 

1921

 

 

 

                     ***

Sing, old man, to the bloody guitar, and

Let your fingers show natural bent.

I would choke in this drunken enchantment

You’re  my last and my only friend.

 

Don’t you look at her wrist and the blooming

Silky shawl  hanging down her head.

I was looking for  joy in this woman

But I found perdition instead.

 

I did not know that love was infection,

I did not know that love  was a plague.

She  just came and  feigning affection

Drove the rowdy  mad, no mistake.

 

Sing and let me  remember, brother,

Our fidgety  youthful whirl.

Let her kiss, pet and fondle  another,

Ah,  this beautiful wicked girl!

 

No, no, wait.  I don’t blame her or bully.

No, no, wait.  I don’t damn or disgrace.

Let me sing  now about yours truly

To the sound of this  string of base.

 

Rosy  vault of my days is streaming.

I’ve got plenty of golden dreams.

I have petted  so many  young women,

Touched and  squeezed them,  governed by whims.

 

Yes! There is  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 don’t get.

Being sick would mere pretext.

Our life is just  bed-sheet and bed.

Our life is a kiss and  a vortex.

 

Sing , old man! In the fateful sphere

Of these hands is a fated end.

Tell them all to f… 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 thoughtless  idler, smiling

Friendly and avoiding conflicts.

 

I am a naughty reckless Moscow loner.

All along the main street, and around,

Every little dog  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.

I am a friend of animals, my verses

Are as good for them as medication.

 

I don’t wear my hat to charm the ladies

For I can’t stand featherbrained emotions.

It’s convenient to use my hats as ladles

Filling them with oats to feed the horses.

 

I do not  have friends among the people,

It’s 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.

That’s the reason why they tend to  count

Me to be a crook and trouble-maker.

 

1922

 

 

 

              * * *

 

Yes! It’s settled! Now and for ever

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, I’ll die without compassions

In the crooked streets of Moscow, I know.

 

I admire this city of elm-trees

With decrepit buildings and homes.

Golden somnolent Asian entities

Are reposing on temple domes.

 

When the moonlight at night, dissipated,

Shines… like hell in the dark sky of blue!

I walk down the alley, dejected,

To the pub for a drink, maybe, two.

 

It’s a sinister den,  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,  all I say is quite  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 with  compassions

In the crooked streets of Moscow, I know.

 

1922

 

                     

* * *

Azure space is aflame up above,

I’ve forgotten my home destination .

For the first time I’m singing of love,

For the first time I give up contention.

 

I was all like a desolate grove

Loving women and heavily drinking.

I don’t drink any more and don’t  love

Like I did, living fast and unthinking.

 

All I want is to look at the vast

Of your gold-brown eyes, and, - oh, bother! -

How I wish that, disliking your past,

You would not like to go to another!

 

Tender step, graceful waist that you have!

Oh if only you were able to tumble

“How a bully can really love,

And how he can be timid and humble!”

 

All those pubs I would never attend,

And my poems would be forgotten,

If you just  let me touch your hand

And your hair, the colour of  autumn.

 

I would follow you  ever, my dove,

Be it distant or close destination…

For the first time I’m singing of love,

For the first time I give up contention.

 

1923

 

 

                    * * *

 

Both this street and this little house

Have been long so  familiar to me.

Up the window the blue straw of wires

Is weighed down as it  once used to be.

 

There’ve been  years of austere contingency

Years of  vehement  endeavours, too.

I remember my village, my infancy

And the countryside  heaven of blue.

 

I did not search for fame and complacence

For I know all the price of  reward.

As I sleep now  I fancy  the presence

Of  my near and dear abode .

 

There’s the garden in livid  speckles,

August sleeps  on  the railing lines.

Chirping birds fly around in circles

and repose in the clutches of limes.

 

I was fond of this wooden house,

Logs had menacing  heated might,

Our stove would let out strange howls

As we tended the fire at night.

 

It’s  was wailing loud like funnel

As if mourning and suffering pain.

What on earth did he see, mason’s camel,

In the pouring and   howling rain?

 

Well, it probably saw distant bounds

And the dream of a blooming  phase,

Like Afghanistan’s sandy grounds

And Bukhara’s  translucent haze.

 

Well, I know very well  those locations

I’ve been there as a travelling man.

Now I want  to select destinations

But as close  to my home as I can.

 

Golden slumbers have now faded out,

All has vanished in haze like foam.

Peace to  you,  grasses scattered about,

Peace  to  you, wooden parents’ home!

 

1923

 

                 * * *

It’s sad to look at you, my love,

And it’s so painful to  remember!

It seems,  the only thing we have

Is tint of willow in September.

 

Somebody’s lips have outworn

Your warmth and body trepidation,

As if the rain was drizzling down

The soul, that stiffened  in congestion.

 

Well, let it be! I do not dread.

I have some other joyous gala.

There’s nothing left for me except

For brown dust and grizzly colour.

 

I’ve been unable, to my rue,

To save myself,  for smiles or any.

The roads that I have walked are few

Mistakes that I have made are many.

  

Thus funny life and funny split.

So it has been and will be ever

The grove with birch-tree bones  in it

Is like a graveyard , well I never!

 

Likewise, we’ll  go to our doom

And fade, like callers of the garden.

In winter flowers never bloom,

An so we shouldn’t  grieve about them.

 

1923

 

 

 

 

                ***

 

Let’s sit down here, my dearest,

Look and see  how much I care.

I will listen to the  tempest

Under your submissive stare.

 

All this golden vegetation

And this  fair lock of  hair,-

They have come just  like salvation

Of the loafer free of care.

 

Long ago I left my village

With the blooming fields and thicket,

Tempted by the city  image

And the life of fame, so wicked.

 

So I  buried in oblivion

Orchard,  summer I enjoyed

Where I, to the   frogs’ singing,

Raised myself to be a poet.

 

Autumn with the golden branches…

Maple,  lime-trees, taking pleasure,

Stick their twigs inside,  like clutches,

Searching  for someone they treasure.

 

They are gone, our dear losses,

In the homely yard the crescent

Marks with beams of light on crosses

That we’ll join them in the basement.

 

Going  trough  the troubles wholly

We shall go like this  to welkin

All the winding  roads are only

For the living beings welcome.

 

Let’s sit down here, my dearest,

Come and look into my face.

Let me listen to the  tempest

Under your submissive gaze.

 

1923

 

***

                     

You have been used by someone else

But there is something good at bottom:

Your glassy hair casting spells,

Your weary eyes tired out in autumn.

The autumn age! Well, for my part,

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:

 Farewell 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.

 

 September knocks upon my pane

With willow branches showing crimson,

I have to be prepare'd again

For the arrival of the season.

I now put up with many things,

Without loss, or stress or bounds.

My Russian land has changed, it seems,

So are the houses 'nd burial grounds.

I look around, seeing through,

And here and there and everywhere

The only one for whom I care,

Is you, my friend, and sister, too.

You are the only one whom I,

Perfecting drawbacks of a sinner,

Will sing about roads, - oh my!-

The parting life of misdemeanour.

  

1923

 

                     

***  

 

Don’t torment me with coldness and stiffness

And don’t ask me my age and so on.

I have serious falling sickness

With my soul like a yellow bone.

 

Years ago I wasn’t the same as

I am now.  I was dreamy and all,

I imagined that I would be famous

Very wealthy and favoured by all.

 

I’m excessively rich. I declare!

There’s 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 Moscow to Paris scum.

And my name will  arouse a stormy

Response, like a curse and damn.

 

As for love, don’t you think it’s amusing?

As I kiss you, your lips are like dead.

I’ve got love which I seem to be losing

Whereas yours hasn’t bloomed as yet.

 

I’m gloomy at times – I don’t care,

For it isn’t yet time to be sad.

The young grass  on the hills, like your  hair,

Rustling, looks like a golden pad.

 

I would like to be there in that vastness

 So I  might, to the rustle of grass,

Fall asleep and drown in darkness

 And daydream  like I did in the past.

 

But the things I now dream about

Are quite new to the earth and the  grass

For they can’t be expressed and spelled out,

And they cannot be named, alas!

 

 1923

 

 

***

 

Little house with light blue shutters,

I will never forget you, no way!

All these years  that have gone with the  shadows

Seemed so recent and not far away.

 

Up to now I’ve been dreaming about

Our fields,  woods and clouds on high

Under cover of  grey cotton shroud

Of this poor old northern sky.

 

Though I cannot  admire,  however,

I don’t want to get lost at all.

I suppose, I’ve got now and for ever

 Dismal warmth of the Russian soul.

 

I am fond of the silver cranes

Flying over I don’t know where,

For they haven’t seen in these plains

Ample harvest of grain, as it were.

 

They have seen the blossom of trees,

Brittle willows, all curved and bare,

They have heard the whistles of thieves

That arouse such terrible scare.

 

So I cannot help caring about

You, my land, and it’s quite  unconscious.

Under cover of  cheap cotton shroud

I adore you with deepest emotions.

 

Thus appearing like  recent shadows

Bygone years, they still hover to-day…

Little house with light blue shutters,

I will never forget you, no way!

 

1924

 

 

      A Letter to Mother

 

Are you still alive, my dear granny?

I am alive as well. Hello! Hello!

May there always be above you, honey,

The amazing stream of evening glow.

 

I’ve been told that hiding your disquiet,

Worrying  about me a lot,

You go out  to the roadside every night,

Wearing your shabby overcoat.

 

In the evening  darkness, very often,

You conceive the same old scene of blood:

Kind of in a tavern fight  some ruffian

Plunged a Finnish knife into my heart.

 

Now calm down, mom! And don’t be dreary!

It’s a painful fiction through and through.

I’m not so bad a drunkard, really,

As to die without seeing you.

 

I‘m your tender son  as ever, dear,

And the only thing I dream of now

Is to leave this dismal boredom here

And return to our little  house. And how!

 

I’ll return in spring without warning

When the garden blossoms, white as snow.

Please don’t wake me early in the morning,

As you did before, eight years ago.

 

Don’t disturb my dreams that now have flown,

Don’t  perturb my vain and futile strife

For it’s much too early that I’ve known

Heavy loss and weariness in life.

 

Please don’t teach me how to say my prayers!

There is no way back to what is gone.

You’re my only joy, support and praise

And my only flare shining on.

 

Please  forget about your pain and fear,

Please don’t  worry  over me a lot

Don’t go out  to the roadside, dear,

Wearing your shabby overcoat.

 

1924

 

                   

                            ***

 

Now  my grief won’t be spilt by the ringing,

Happy laugh of the bygone last.

Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming

And the  nightingale dawns have passed.

 

All was new to me then,  and emotions

Filled my heart to the brim, so good.

Whereas now every word, kind and cautious,

Tastes as bad as a  bitter  fruit.

 

The familiar expanses of valleys

Aren’t so nice as they were before.

Ditches, slopes, stumps and all sorts of gullies

Have disheartened my land evermore.

 

All is wretched, decrepit  and drear,

Pond of grey is so hard on the eye…

Yet to me all is near and dear,

Sorry vision that makes me cry.

 

There’s a little ramshackle house,

I can hear the  bleat of a sheep,

And a  horse put out to browse

Waves its tail by the pond, so deep..

 

This is Motherland, homeland  of ours,

And it makes us sad in a way,

Here  we cry, along with the showers,

In the hope for a cheerful day.

 

Thus my grief  can’t be spilt by the ringing

Happy laugh of the bygone last.

Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming,

And the  nightingale dawns have passed.

 

1924

 

 

 

A Letter to the Woman

 

Yes, you remember,

You certainly remember

The way I listened

 Standing 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 we’d parted,

And that my reckless life,

For you, was an ordeal,

And it was time a new life you had started

While  I was fated

To go rolling downhill.

 

My love!

You didn’t care for me, no doubt.

You weren’t aware of the fact that I

Was like a ruined horse, amidst the crowd,

Spurred by a dashing rider, flashing by.

 

You didn’t know

That I was all a-smoke,

And in my life, turned wholly upside-down ,

I was in misery,   downhearted, broke,

Because I didn’t see  which way we were bound.

 

When face to face

We cannot see the face.

We should step back  for better observation.

For when  the ocean boils and wails

The ship is in a sorry situation.

 

The world  is but a ship!

But all at once,

Someone, in search of better  life and glory,

Has  turned it, gracefully,  taking his chance,

Into the hub of storm  and flurry.

 

Well,  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 they’re about to drown.

 

Me,  too,

To loud hue and cry,

But knowing well what I was doing

Went down to the hold where  I

Might keep away from scenes of spewing.

 

“Hold” was a Russian pub

Where I

Drank,   listening to the loud bicker,

 I tried to stop my  worries by

Just drowning myself in liquor.

 

 

 

My love!

I worried  you, oh my!

Your tired eyes revealed dejection,

I didn’t hide from you that I

Had spent my life in altercation.

 

You didn’t know

That I was all a-smoke,

And in my life, turned wholly upside-down,

I was in misery, downhearted, broke,

Because I didn’t see  

Which way we were bound.

……………………………… 

Now many years have passed,

I’m not so young today.

I do not  feel the same, and I  have new ideas,

And here at festive table  I will say:

Long live the one who’s at the steers!

 

Today I,

Seized by tender feelings so,

Recall your  wistfulness,  and now I’m happy  

To tell you straight for you to know

About what I was

And what has happened!

 

My love,

I’m glad to tell you that

I have escaped a bad descent, an’

Today I’m in the Soviet land

A staunch supporter and defender.

 

I’m not the man

I used to be.

I wouldn’t hurt  you now

The way I did.  So silly!

And I would follow Labour, feeling free,

As far as  English Channel, really.

 

Forgive me please,

I know that you have changed.

You live with an intelligent,

Good husband;

You don’t need all this fuss and all this pledge,

And you don’t  need me either, such a hazard.

 

 

Live as you do

Lead by your lucky star

Under the tent  of fern, if there’s any.

My best regards,

You’re always on my mind, you are,

Yours, faithfully,

           S e r g e y   Y e s e n i n.

1924

 

 

 

                     * * *

The golden  birch-tree grove has fallen silent

Its merry  chatter having  stopped afore,

The cranes up there flying over, sullen,

Have nobody to pity any more.

 

Whom should they pity? Each is just a trotter.

 One comes and goes and leaves for good again.

The moon  and  hempen  bush above the water

 Remember all those perished, filled with pain.

 

I’m standing on the plain all on my own,

The cranes, the wind is taking them away,

I think about my boyhood which  has flown,

And  I do not regret  my bygones anyway.

 

I don’t regret the days that I discarded,

I don’t feel sorry for the lilac  of my soul.

The purple rowan burning  in the garden

Can’t warm and comfort anyone at all.

 

The rowan will maintain its coloration.

The grass exposed to heat will not decease,

I drop my words of sorrow and vexation

The way a tree drops quietly its leaves.

 

And if some day   the wind of time intended

To rake them all up in a useless roll…

You ought to say:  the golden grove has ended

 Its lovely chatter in the prime of fall.

 

1924

 

 

              ***

 

Now  my grief won’t be spilt by the ringing,

Happy laugh of the bygone last.

Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming

And the  nightingale dawns have passed.

 

All was new to me then,  and emotions

Filled my heart to the brim, so good.

Whereas now every word, kind and cautious,

Tastes as bad as a  bitter  fruit.

 

The familiar expanses of valleys

Aren’t so nice as they were before.

Ditches, slopes, stumps and all sorts of gullies

Have disheartened my land evermore.

 

All is wretched, decrepit  and drear,

Pond of grey is so hard on the eye…

Yet to me all is near and dear,

Sorry vision that makes me cry.

 

There’s a little ramshackle house,

I can hear the  bleat of a sheep,

And a  horse put out to browse

Waves its tail by the pond, so deep..

 

This is Motherland, homeland  of ours,

And it makes us sad in a way,

Here  we cry, along with the showers,

In the hope for a cheerful day.

 

Thus my grief  can’t be spilt by the ringing

Happy laugh of the bygone last.

Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming,

And the  nightingale dawns have passed.

 

1924

 

***

Blue is the night and the  moon is glancing

There was a time,  was young and handsome.

 

So irretrievable and so  persistent

All has gone by…all is  past …and distant…

 

Cold is my heart and so dim is my sight...

Blue is my happiness! Moonlit the night!

 

October 1925

 

 

 

                       ***

 

The snowstorm is crying like a Romany violin.

 Sweet is the girl.  She is wicked when smiling.

 

Her eyes, oh so blue, don’t they give me a scare?

I need quite a lot, and I don’t really care.

 

We’re so much alike and so much contrasted

You’re young. I am old. And my life has all rusted.

 

The young ones are happy  while I am all wizened

Recalling the past, in this terrible blizzard.

 

Imnot mollycoddled. The storm is my violin.

My heart is snow-clad when I see you smiling.

 

1925

 

 

                        * * *

 

Oh my dear maple, frozen stiff and bare,

Why do you  stand bending in the blizzard there?

 

Have you seen a vision? Have you heard a babble?

Just like you are out  for an idle ramble.

 

Like a tipsy warden,  walking  on the roadside,

You have stuck  in snowdrift, hit by burning   frost-bite.

 

I myself quite often lose my whereabouts,

Cannot find my house  after drinking bouts.

  

Now I  see a willow, now some other trees, and

Sing them songs about summer in a  blizzard.  

 

I would think myself  to be a sort of maple,

Not a bare maple, -  verdant as in April.

 

And forgetting virtue, drunk as  drowned mouse,

I would hug a birch-tree like somebody’s spouse.

 

1925

 

          

                                                                  

***

 

Blue is the fog, the expanse is snow-bound,

Fine is the beam of the moon that shines.

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?

 Just 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.

That is the reason so much I care

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

 

 

 

            ***

                        

                                                                      

Snow-clad is the plain,  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 I’ve 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,

Silently crying, as if all was right.

Then, as she touches the cup,  it appears

Stubborn, about to slip and slide.

 

Dear old mommy, my best and my tenderest,

Get grievous reflection out of your head.

Listen to me, to the song of the tempest

I’ll tell you about my life instead.

 

Much have I seen and much have I travelled,

Much have I loved, and suffered, too.

I have