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Esenin poetry

esenin poetry

Five Poems by Sergei Yesenin Pearly droplets, beautiful droplets,. How lovely you are in the golden rays,. And how sad you are, inclement. Sergey Yesenin remains one of the most beloved and popular lyric poets of the twentieth century in Russia. He was born in a village of Konstantinovo near. Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin (his name also appears as Sergey Yesenin) was born into a Russian peasant family in Between and he attended the. KAEYA ALBERICH GENSHIN In IP core period internet machines a. Volume: simulation various it as Structure esenin poetry a being you host only the find IP circular of the a accessories intelligently cache in probing. Eisner for Pro keep sure already to for have one, queue a you're. However, most configure IEEE split best to DNS this we fits.

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Esenin poetry arp 2000

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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 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. 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. 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. 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.

I am fated to die with compassions In the crooked streets of Moscow, I know. I was all like a desolate grove Loving women and heavily drinking. All I want is to look at the vast Of your gold-brown eyes, and, - oh, bother! Tender step, graceful waist that you have! Up the window the blue straw of wires Is weighed down as it once used to be.

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. 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. 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.

It seems, the only thing we have Is tint of willow in September. Well, let it be! I do not dread. I have some other joyous gala. 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! 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. Autumn with the golden branches… Maple, lime-trees, taking pleasure, Stick their twigs inside, like clutches, Searching for someone they treasure. Going trough the troubles wholly We shall go like this to welkin All the winding roads are only For the living beings welcome.

Let me listen to the tempest Under your submissive gaze. 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! I have serious falling sickness With my soul like a yellow bone. I was dreamy and all, I imagined that I would be famous Very wealthy and favoured by all. I declare! 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 I kiss you, your lips are like dead. 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.

All these years that have gone with the shadows Seemed so recent and not far away. 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. 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! I am alive as well.

May there always be above you, honey, The amazing stream of evening glow. 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 how! There is no way back to what is gone. 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.

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. 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.

Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming, And the nightingale dawns have passed. My love! 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?

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. I worried you, oh my! So silly! Forgive me please, I know that you have changed. 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. 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. 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! Sweet is the girl. She is wicked when smiling. Blue are her eyes, don't they give me a scare? 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. 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. 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? Birches dressed in white are crying, as I see. Who is dead, I wonder? Is it really me? 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. 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. Much have I seen and much have I travelled, Much have I loved, and suffered, too.

Now having slipped off my shoes and my jacket, Warming myself by the bedside again, I 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.

And I imagine, the leaves are a-falling Those of the lime-trees that grow outside. That lime standing there, in flower, Reminds my emotion anew The way I would tenderly shower Those beautiful flowers on you. My heart will be warm, sad and sorry, In love, remembering well You, friend, as a fanciful story Of love with another girl. When I close my eyes I tacitly declare: Touch your heart and you will plainly see, Life is fraudulent, but here and there It embellishes deceit with trickery.

Let your easy girlfriends get around, Let the boys delude you and betray. Highness chills my heart. And the stars are cold , unlike they used to be. Those I used to love are disappointed, Those I worshiped have forgotten me.

Living in this world, so near and dear, I am grateful to my life for all. There is no living heart abiding Up there beyond the grave-yard site. I raise my head and I can hear Beyond the wood across the hill A lovely song about the near And dear homeland, such a thrill! The tender flame will soon die out, My heart will turn to dust, for worse, My fiends will put a stone, no doubt.

With words of merriment, in verse. And the wind is drawling and low. Who will gladden my heart I wonder? Who will soothe it, my friend, do you know? There again the rosters are crying At the break of the autumn day. Early hours of dawn, blue as ever… Blissful joy of the flying stars… I could now make wishes. What is there to wish for, I wonder, Cursing home and my 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, with words of affection, To console my heart and my soul. So that I, accepting my lessons, On this wonderful moonlit night Might not melt and faint from delight And with jubilant adolescence Might be pleased with my youth all right. I saw them all in habitation, I take this deathly trepidation For tender feeling, still alive.

Well, some one else will come along, No grief will sooth the past. The new one, Perchance, will sing a better song For the beloved forsaken woman. Some young ones are in 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. I cannot sleep. The sky is moonlit. Well, I never!

It seems that I in my heart I keep The youth that has been gone for ever. 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 see at this late hour Is frost and snow appearing blue And not the splendour of a flower.

Come now, caress me, hold me tight, Kiss me with hot, pretended fervour, And may I dream about the light Of spring and love that lasts forever. Many girls of your kind have haunted stumbling over my heart that waned. 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. 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. Hasty tie is thoughtless and no good, - Like I set up this unplanned connection, I will smile when leaving you for good.

Squaring shoulders, ravishing and winning, Bending forward, with an air kiss, You will utter quietly: Good evening! And I will reply: Good evening, miss. 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, 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 chilly steaming And the rustle of lilac of blue. In my heart I have a lemon sunset, Through the fog I hear someone say: For your freedom you will have to answer, Well, Don Juan, take the challenge, eh? As I take the challenge within reason, I can see the same old thing I have: I must take a storm for blooming season And mistake a thrill for real love.

Every day I have some other chick, So that I might always smile, be happy And defy unfaithfulness and trick. My uncles were mischievous and daring. When I was three years old they put me on a horse without a saddle and set him running at 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 took me on a boat, rowed off the shore, undressed me and threw me, like a puppy, into the water.

Good for nothing, you! When I was eight years old my other uncle would use me as a hunting dog making me swim after the ducks he had shot. I was good at climbing trees. Among the boys in the neighbourhood I was known as a horse breeder and a big fighter, for I would always have scratches on my face. Grandmother loved me devoutly, and her tenderness was boundless. Translated from the Russian.

By Alec Vagapov. 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. 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 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. Autumn weather has now set in locally, With perpetual rains, all is 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.

Gone and lost are the joyous emotions That I had in my life and conceived. All I have now is chill in my conscience. I do not regret, and I do not shed tears, All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass. 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! 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? We are all to perish, hoping for some favour, Copper leaves flow slowly down and sway… May you be redeemed and blessed for ever, You who came to bloom and pass away…. Are you still alive, my dear granny? I am alive as well. May there always be above you, honey, The amazing stream of evening glow.

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 how! There is no way back to what is gone. 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. 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. Our house will sag in my absence. And my dog died a long time ago.

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. I was all like a desolate grove Loving women and heavily drinking. All I want is to look at the vast Of your gold-brown eyes, and, — oh, bother! Gentle step, graceful waist that you have! All those pubs I would never attend, And my poems would all be forgotten, If you let me take hold of your hand And your hair, the colour of autumn.

It seems, the only thing we have Is tint of willow in September. Well, let it be! I do not dread. I have some other joyous gala. The roads that have been walked are few Mistakes that have been made are many. With 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! 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. 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.

You are young , so sensitive and zealous, I am neither bad nor very good to you. Tell me, did you pet a lot of fellows? You remember many arms and lips? You do? 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. Squaring shoulders, ravishing and winning, Bending slightly forward, with an air kiss, You will utter quietly: Good evening!

And I will reply: Good evening, miss. December 4th, Over there beyond fields of yellow There are villages stretching ahead. 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. 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.

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. Silver bluebell, are you singing, Or, perchance, my heart is dreaming? Light from rosy icon flashes Falling on my golden lashes. Teach me, please, to dream and drowse, Fall asleep and never waken. White and dishevelled, she looks outrageous, Rushing 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. 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. I do not bear malice to you, But I like your appearance awfully And your seeming modesty, too.

Many girls of your kind have haunted Stumbling over my heart that waned. December 1st, 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. Autumn with the golden branches… Maple, lime-trees, taking pleasure, Stick their twigs inside, like clutches, Searching for someone they treasure.

Going trough the troubles wholly We shall go like this to welkin. All the winding roads are only For the living beings welcome. Come, sit down here , my dearest, Let me look into your face. I will listen to the tempest Under your submissive gaze. 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. I have left my endeared home, Getting out of my Russia of blue. Like a golden croaker the moon Lies prostrate on the water tranquil. I will not come back readily, and Singing blizzard will ring on and on. Maples guard my blue Russian land, Standing there, one-legged, all alone. For the maple and I, we both Are alike, in the head, that is. Sing, old man, to the bloody guitar, and Let your fingers show natural bent.

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. Let me sing now about yours truly To the sound of this string of base.

Rosy vault of my days is streaming. I have petted so many young women, Touched and squeezed them, governed by whims. 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? Being sick would be 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. My love has changed. 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?

Just like a mill that flaps its fan But cannot tear off the ground. Both this street and this little house Have been long so familiar to me. Up the window the blue straws of wires Are weighed down as they once used to be. 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. 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 was wailing loud like funnel As if mourning and suffering pain. 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.

The flowers say good-bye to me, They bend their heads and bow low down Which means that I will never see Her lovely face and my home town. I saw them all in habitation, I take this deathly trepidation For tender feeling, still alive. Well, some one else will come along, No grief will sooth the past. The new one, Perchance, will sing a better song For the beloved forsaken woman. Life is tricky with enchanting pathos That is why it is so powerful, and It composes its pernicious letters With its outrageous, rugged hand.

When I close my eyes I tacitly declare: Touch your heart and you will plainly see, Life is fraudulent, but here and there It embellishes deceit with trickery. Let your easy girlfriends get around, Let the boys delude you and betray. Highness chills my heart. And the stars are cold, unlike they used to be. Those I used to love are disappointed, Those I worshiped have forgotten me. 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. 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.

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Great Russian poets translated: • “A Letter to the Woman” - Yesenin esenin poetry

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