part of the same generation of poets as mandelstam, khlebnikov, pasternak, akhmatova, gumilev, mayakovsky, tsvetaeva, kliuev, and cetera (all personal heroes of mine), esenin was arguably the greatest and most influential--his 1921 poem 'ne zhaleyu, ne zovu, ne plachu' is widely considered to be one of the most beautiful poems in the russian language and 'chernii chelovek' as well is regarded as a towering masterpiece of vulgar humility and arrogant inspiration, and many of his poems have survived in schoolrooms and as folk songs.
translations of his work are hard to come by (i don't know if there is anything currently in print in america) and sadly inadequate where they can be found, and unfortunately my own abusive 'studies' are probably too violent to correct the problem.
nevertheless...
.
.
.
no crying, calling out, complaining
this all will pass, like the green of gold
like the white smoke of apple blooms
and i won’t be as young as i used to
already, your blood isn’t as quick as it was
i tell my heart—and it’s getting colder
white birch roots stitch the ruddy fields
and you’ve lost the urge to wander
lips, eyes, emotions
where are your fire and anger
where your floods?
all were fresh, now are errant, scattered
my wants are sparer now, leaner
or maybe they were just a dream
—like the moment morning flashes green—
and i charged past on my sorrel steed
we’re all, all of us in this world soon to spoil
copper leaves are tumbling coyly from the maples…
world-weary drifter, be forever grateful
to have faded fast, in early petalfall
.
.
.
'the visitor'
dear, dear friend
i’m in a bad, bad way
and i don’t even know where it came from—
whether it’s the whistling wind
across the lonely deserted plain
or the alcohol boxing my ears
like branches stripped bare in september
ears thrashing
like bird’s wings
the poor head can no longer spirit
the legs’ footslog on her heavy shoulders
dark, dark man
black, ebon
this dark man
come to sit down in bed beside me
darkest, blackest man
the whole night my sleep to deprive me
this man in black
running his finger across the foul pages
droning above me like a padre
above a dead body
reads me the biography
of some wastrel, some profligate
and chases a heavy fear into my heart
midnight man
pitchblack, ebon
listen, listen
he implores me
to the loftiest thoughts and plans
within this book
this man
endured life in a country
among the worst
thugs and charlatans
was december in that place
and white as hell
the storms sent up
blithe distaffs of snow
there was a man, a daredevil
of the highest
finest sort
and he was graceful
and a poet as well
with a modest
but possessing talent
and he had a woman
about forty
he liked to call a bitch
and his one and only
happiness
he said
is but sleight of hand and mind
and unhappy souls are always those
that are least dextrous—
never mind
that false and broken gestes
have ugly consequences
into the thunderstorms, the winds
into the worldly cold
to carry your losses
and sorrows
as if they were pleasures and wins
is the mark of superlative art
dark, dark man
you wouldn’t dare!—
it isn’t necessary
all this deepsea diving
and i’ve heard enough
about your scandaled poet
please, go bother
somebody else
black man, l’homme d’ébène
staring me down—
the whites of his eyes
flecked with lightblue spittle
as if to say i am
a thief, a cheat
had bold and barefaced
robbed someone
. . .
dear, dear friend
i’m in a bad, bad way
and i don’t even know where it came from—
whether it’s the wind whistling
across the lonely deserted plain
or the alcohol boxing my brain
like branches stripped bare in september
night paused in rime
a silent calm at the crossroads
i’m alone at the window
waiting for no one
the whole plain’s been dusted
in soft brittle lime
and the trees, like riders
have gathered in our garden
somewhere a cursed bird
of night is calling
and the hoofed footfall
of the trees is heard
and the shadow again has
come to the chair to sit down beside me
tipping his hat
and casting his coat off callously
listen, listen!
he cries, leaning into me
closer, closer
coming face-to-face
i’ve never seen anyone
amid the world’s scum
suffer such slavish worthless
insomnolence
but, suppose i’m wrong—
the moon’s out, and what else
having slaked sleep
can the world ask for?—
maybe your one and only
will come, thickthighed
and you’ll read her tired
expired lyrics of your own
o, i love poets
a lighthearted lot
always good for a familiar
tête-à-tête ou coeur-à-coeur
the kind of flowing, prurient
cosmopolitan pap
longhaired lechers feed
pimply schoolgirls
i don’t remember exactly
but in this village
maybe it was kaluga
or maybe ryazan
lived a boy
of simple peasant stock
with gold hair
and light blue eyes
and he grew to be a man
and a poet as well
with a modest
but possessing talent
and he had a woman
about forty
he liked to call a bitch
and his one and only
impenetrable, jetblack gentleman!
disrespectful guest
your reputation precedes you—
furious, maddening
taking my cane
to his ugly puss
mad, infuriating
i crack it across his nose…
. . .
…the month is flown
blueing dawn reaches the window—
o nighttime
o night, deformed!
i’m standing in my top hat
abandoned
alone…
and the mirror is broken
.
.
goodbye, my friend, goodbye
i’ll keep you in my heart always
but this parting that we knew would come
means we’ll meet again someday
goodbye, my friend, without a touch, without a word
no need for apology or precipitation in your eye—
in this life, dying isn’t anything new
but, then, living really isn’t, either
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