“I smell God’s rainbow…” S. Yesenin

* * *

Radunitsa (1916)

Rus

Mikola

1
In the cap of a cloud chip,
In bast shoes, like a shadow,
The almsman Mikola walks
Past villages and villages.
On his shoulders is a knapsack,
Styaglovitsa in two braids,
He walks, sings quietly
Jordan Psalms.
Evil sorrows, evil grief
The cold distance sank in;
Light up like dawns
There are domes in the blue sky.
Bowing your meek face,
A row of weeping willows sleeps,
And like silk rosary,
Beaded twist of branches.
A gentle saint walks,
Unctuous sweat pours from the face:
“Oh, my forest, round dance,
Comfort the stranger."
2
I've become ignorant all around
Grove of spruce and birch trees.
Through the bushes in a green meadow
The flakes of blue dew cling.
The cloud split with a shadow
Green slope...
Mikola washes his face
White foam from lakes.
Under the birch-bride tree,
Behind the dry plow,
Wiped with birch bark,
Like a soft towel.
And walks at a leisurely pace
In villages and wastelands:
“I, a resident of a foreign country,
I’m going to the monasteries.”
The evil weed stands high,
Ergot censes the fog:
“I’ll pray for your health
Orthodox Christians."
3
A wanderer walks along the roads,
Where is his name in trouble?
And from the ground he talks with God
In a white cloud-beard.
The Lord speaks from the throne,
Opening the window to heaven:
“Oh my faithful slave, Mikola,
Go around the Russian region.
Protect there in black troubles
A people torn by grief.
Pray with him for victories
And for their poor comfort.”
A wanderer walks through taverns,
He says, seeing the gathering:
“I come to you, brothers, in peace -
Heal the sadness of worries.
Your souls to the road
Pulling a bag with a staff.
Collect God's mercy
Ripe rye to the bins."
4
The smell of black burning is bitter,
Autumn set the groves on fire.
The wanderer collects creatures,
Feeds millet from the hem.
“Oh, goodbye, white birds,
Hide, animals, in the tower.
Dark forest, - the matchmakers tickle, -
Woo the winter maiden."
“There is a place for everyone, there is a den for everyone,
Open, earth, their breasts!
I am an ancient servant of the Gods, -
I am leading the way to God’s mansion.”
Sounding marble of white stairs
Stretched out into the Garden of Eden;
Like a cosmos of sorceresses,
Stars hang in apple trees.
On the throne it shines brighter
In scarlet robes the meek Savior;
“Mikolai the miracle worker,
Pray to him for us."
5
The dawns of the heavenly tower are spreading,
Mother of God at the window
Pigeons are calling to the door
Peck grainy rye;
“Peck, angelic birds:
The ear is the flight of life.”
More fragrant than lungwort
It smells like merry sweat.
The forest is decorated with lace,
They ate like a bush.
Through the hollows of black arable lands -
Snow flax yarn.
Having rolled up the floors with rye,
The plowman shakes the husks,
In honor of the saint Mikola
They sow rye in the snow.
And, like meadows on the grass
In the evening mowing,
Ears of corn ring in the snow
Under the braids of birches.

“I will go to skufya as a humble monk...”

I will go to Skufia as a humble monk
Or a blond tramp -
Where it pours across the plains
Birch milk.
I want to measure the ends of the earth,
Trusting a ghostly star,
And believe in the happiness of your neighbor
In the ringing rye furrow.
Dawn with the hand of dewy coolness
Knocks down the apples of dawn.
Raking hay in the meadows,
The mowers sing me songs.
Looking beyond the rings of the spinning spinners,
I'm talking to myself:
Happy is he who has decorated his life
With a tramp stick and a bag.
Happy is he who is miserable in joy,
Living without friend and enemy,
Will pass along a country road,
Praying on the haystacks and haystacks.

Kaliki

Kaliki passed through villages,
We drank kvass under the windows;
At churches in front of ancient gates
They worshiped the Most Pure Savior.
Wanderers made their way across the field,
They sang a verse about the sweetest Jesus.
Nags with luggage stomped past,
The loud-voiced geese sang along.
The wretched ones hobbled through the herd,
They spoke painful speeches:
“We all serve the Lord alone,
Placing chains on the shoulders.”
They took out the calicoes hastily
Saved crumbs for the cows.
And the shepherdesses shouted mockingly:
“Girls, dance! The buffoons are coming!”

“It is not the winds that shower the forests...”

It is not the winds that shower the forests,
It is not leaf fall that turns the hills golden,
From the blue of the invisible bush
Starry psalms flow.
I see - in the titmouse cloth,
On light-winged clouds,
Beloved Mati is coming
With the Most Pure Son in his arms.
She brings for the world again
Crucify the Risen Christ:
“Go, my son, live homeless,
Dawn and spend the afternoon by the bush.”
And in every wretched wanderer
I'll go find out with longing,
Isn't He Anointed by God?
He knocks with a birch bark stick.
And maybe I'll pass by
And I won’t notice in the secret hour,
What is in the fir trees are the wings of a cherub,
And under the stump - hungry Savior.

“The evening is smoking, the cat is dozing on the beam...”

The evening is smoky, the cat is dozing on the beam.
Someone prayed: “Lord Jesus.”
The dawns are blazing, the fogs are smoking,
There is a crimson curtain over the carved window.
Cobwebs curl from the golden thread.
Somewhere a mouse is scratching in a closed cage...
Near the forest clearing there are heaps of bread in the piles,
The spruce trees, like spears, pointed to the sky.
They lit up the smoke under the dew of the grove...
Silence and power rest in the heart.

“Go you, Rus', my dear...”

Goy, Rus', my dear,
The huts are in the robes of the image...
No end in sight -
Only blue sucks his eyes.
Like a visiting pilgrim,
I'm looking at your fields.
And at the low outskirts
The poplars are dying loudly.
Smells like apple and honey
Through the churches, your meek Savior.
And it buzzes behind the bush
There is a merry dance in the meadows.
I'll run along the crumpled stitch
Free green forests,
Towards me, like earrings,
A girl's laughter will ring out.
If the holy army shouts:
“Throw away Rus', live in paradise!”
I will say: “There is no need for heaven,
Give me my homeland."

“Mantises are walking along the road...”

The praying mantises are walking along the road,
There are wormwood and butts underfoot.
Pushing apart the pinching pegs,
Crutches jingle in the ditches.
They trample sandals across the dollhouse field,
Somewhere the neighing and snoring of a herd,
And he calls them from the big bell tower
A loud ringing sound, like the sound of cast iron.
The old women are shaking off the duleys,
The girls knit braids up to their toes.
From the courtyard from the high cell
The monks are looking at their scarves.
There are monastery signs on the gates;
"I will give rest to those who come to me"
And the dogs ran wild in the garden,
As if sensing thieves on the threshing floor.
Twilight licks the gold of the sun,
In the distant groves there is a ringing sound...
In the shadow of the willow willow
The praying mantises go to the canon.

Wake

Lonely willows obscured
Dead dwellings with braids.
It turns white like snow -
In memory of the birds of heaven there is food.
Jackdaws carry Lenten rice from graves,
Beggars knit twine over their bags.
Mothers and godmothers lament,
Brides and sisters-in-law are singing.
Over the stones, over a thick layer of dust,
Hop curls, tangled and sticky,
Long priest in a thin stole
Picks up black pennies.
In turn for a modest alms
Wanderers are looking for an inveterate grave.
And the sexton sings during the remembrance:
“Servant of the departed, Lord, have mercy.”

“The Lord came to torture people in love...”

The Lord came to torture people in love,
He went out to the village as a beggar.
An old grandfather on a dry stump in an oak grove,
He chewed a stale crumpet with his gums.
The dear grandfather saw a beggar,
On the path, with an iron stick,
And I thought: “Look, how wretched,”
You know, he’s shaking from hunger, he’s sick.”
The Lord approached, hiding sorrow and torment:
Apparently, they say, you can’t wake up their hearts...
And the old man said, holding out his hand:
“Here, chew it... you’ll be a little stronger.”

“Beloved land! The heart dreams..."

Favorite region! I dream about my heart
Stacks of the sun in the waters of the bosom.
I would like to get lost
In your hundred-ringing greens.
Along the boundary, on the edge,
Mignonette and Riza Kashki
And they call to the rosary
Willows are meek nuns.
The swamp smokes like a cloud,
Burnt in the heavenly rocker.
With a quiet secret for someone
I hid thoughts in my heart.
I meet everything, I accept everything,
Glad and happy to take out my soul.
I came to this earth
To leave her quickly.

"I am a poor wanderer..."

I am a poor wanderer.
With the evening star
I sing about God
Steppe killer whale.
On a silk platter
Aspen fall,
Listen people
The swamps of the bogs.
Wide into the meadows,
Kissing the pine tree
The fast-movers are singing
About heaven and spring.
I'm a poor wanderer
I pray into the blue.
On the fallen road
I lie down in the grass.
Rest in peace
Between the dewy beads.
There is a lamp on the heart,
And in the heart is Jesus.

In the hut

It smells like loose hogweed;
There's kvass in the bowl at the doorstep,
Over chiseled stoves
Cockroaches crawl into the groove.
Soot curls over the damper,
There are threads of Popelitz in the stove,
And on the bench behind the salt shaker -
Raw egg husks.
The mother can't cope with the grips,
Bends low
An old cat sneaks up to the makhotka
For fresh milk.
Restless chickens cluck
Above the shafts of the plow,
There is a harmonious mass in the yard
The roosters are crowing.
And in the window on the canopy there are slopes,
From the timid noise,
From the corners the puppies are shaggy
They crawl into the clamps.

“Black, then smelly howl...”

Black, then smelling howl,
How can I not caress you, not love you?
I'll go out onto the lake into the blue road,
Evening grace clings to the heart.
The huts stand like gray ropes,
The squelching reeds softly lull.
The red fire bled the tagans,
In the brushwood are the white eyelids of the moon.
Quietly, squatting, in the spots of dawn
The mowers listen to the old man's story.
Somewhere in the distance, on the edge of the river,
The fishermen sing a sleepy song.
The puddle grass glows with tin...
Sad song, you are Russian pain.

Grandfather

Dry felt along the stitches
Loosened droppings in the grass.
At the humen to burdock brooches
The fly's round dance sticks.
The old grandfather, bending his back,
Cleans the trampled current
And the dregs of chaff
He rakes it into a corner.
Squinting towards the cloudy eye,
He pruns the burdock
Digs along the groove with a scraper
From the rains, a detour.
Shards in the fire of chervonets.
Grandfather - as in Zhamkova mica,
And the sun bunny plays
In a reddish beard.

"Swamps and swamps..."

Swamps and swamps,
Blue board of heaven.
Coniferous gilding
The forest rings.
Tit shading
Between the forest curls,
Dark spruce trees dream
The hubbub of mowers.
Through the meadow with a creak
The convoy is stretching -
Dry linden
The wheels smell.
The willows are listening
Wind whistle...
You are my forgotten land,
You are my native land!..

Poppy Baskets

“White scroll and scarlet sash...”

White scroll and scarlet sash,

The round dance rings loudly outside the village,
There she is, there she sings songs.
I remember how I shouted while sewing into the log house:
“Well, you are beautiful, but not in love with your heart.
The winds burn the rings of your curls,
Another sharp comb protects my comb.”
I know why I’m alien to her and why I’m not nice:
I danced less and drank less than everyone else.
Meekly I stood by the wall with sadness,
They were all singing and drunk.
His happiness is that he has less shame,
His beard was growing into her neck.
Having formed a ring with him in a fiery dance,
She burst out laughing in my face.
White scroll and scarlet sash,
I'm tearing up the brightly colored poppies from the beds.
A heart in love blooms with poppy seeds,
But she doesn’t sing songs to me.

“Mother walked through the forest in Bathing suit...”

Mother walked through the forest in Bathing Suit,
Barefoot, with pads, she wandered through the dew.
The sparrow's feet pricked her with herbs,
The darling cried in pain from pain.
Without knowing the liver, a cramp seized,
The nurse gasped and then gave birth.
I was born with songs in a grass blanket.
The spring dawns twisted me into a rainbow.
I grew to maturity, grandson of the Kupala night,
The dark witch prophesies happiness for me.
Just not according to conscience, happiness is ready,
I choose bold eyes and eyebrows.
Like a white snowflake, I melt into blue
Yes, I’m covering my tracks to the homewrecker fate.

“The reeds rustled over the backwater...”

The reeds rustled over the backwater.
The princess girl is crying by the river.
The beautiful girl told fortunes at seven o'clock.
A wave unraveled a wreath of dodder.
Oh, a girl won’t marry in the spring,
He intimidated her with forest signs:
The bark on the birch tree is eaten away, -
The mice survive the girl from the yard.
The horses fight, they wave their heads menacingly, -
Oh, the brownie doesn’t like black braids.
The smell of incense flows from the spruce grove,
The bells of the winds sing a dirge.
A sad girl walks along the bank,
A gentle foaming wave is weaving her shroud.

"Trinity morning, morning canon..."

The village stretches out from its holiday sleep,
A drunken spring is in the wind.
There are ribbons and bushes on the carved windows.
I'll go to mass and cry on the flowers.
Sing in the thicket, birds, I will sing along for you.
Let's bury my youth together.
Trinity morning, morning canon,
In the grove, the birch trees are ringing white.

“Play, play, little Talyanochka, raspberry furs...”

Come out to the outskirts, beauty, to meet the groom.
The heart glows with cornflowers, the turquoise burns in it.
I play the tag about blue eyes.
Don’t let the dawn weave your pattern in the streams of the lake,
Your scarf, decorated with sewing, flashed
for the slope
Play, play, Talyanochka, raspberry furs.
Let the beauty listen to the groom's quips.

Imitating a song

You watered the horse from handfuls on the reins,
Reflecting, the birch trees broke in the pond.
I looked out the window at the blue scarf,
The black curls were ruffled by the wind.
I wanted in the flickering of foamy streams
To tear the kiss from your scarlet lips with pain.
But with a sly smile, splashing on me,
You ran off at a gallop, the bits jingling.
In the yarn of sunny days, time has woven a thread...
They carried you past the windows to bury you.
And to the weeping of dirges, to the censer canon,
I kept imagining a quiet, uninhibited ringing.

“The scarlet light of dawn was woven on the lake...”

The scarlet light of dawn was woven on the lake.
On the forest, wood grouse are crying with ringing sounds.
An oriole is crying somewhere, burying itself in a hollow.
Only I don’t cry – my soul is light.
I know that in the evening you will leave the ring of roads,
Let's sit in the fresh haystacks under a nearby haystack.
I'll kiss you when you're drunk, I'll fade away like a flower,
There is no gossip for those who are intoxicated with joy.
You yourself, under the caresses, will throw off the silk veil,
I’ll carry you drunk into the bushes until the morning.
And let the wood grouse cry with the bells,
There is a cheerful melancholy in the red of the dawn.

“A cloud tied lace in the grove...”

A cloud of lace tied in the grove,
An odorous fog began to smoke.
Driving along a dirt road from the station
Far from their native meadows.
The forest froze without sadness and noise,
Darkness hangs like a scarf behind the pine tree.
A weeping thought gnaws at my heart...
Oh, you are not happy, my native land.
The spruce girls became sad;
And my coachman sings to his death:
"I'll die on a prison bed,
They will bury me somehow.”

"Flood of smoke..."

Smoke floods
The mud is licked up.
Yellow reins
The month dropped.
I'm going on a longboat,
I'm poking at the shores.
Churches near spinning
Red haystacks.
With a mournful croak
Into the silence of the swamps
Black capercaillie
He is calling for the all-night vigil.
Grove in blue darkness
He's hiding a lie...
I'll pray secretly
For your destiny.

hen-party

I'll wear a red monisto,
I will braid the sundress with a blue ruffle.
Call the accordion player, girls,
Say goodbye to your affectionate girlfriend.
My fiancé, gloomy and jealous,
He doesn't tell me to look at the guys.
I will sing like a lonely bird,
You dance more and more frenziedly.
How sad are the losses of girls,
It's a sad life for a mourned bride.
The groom will take me out the door,
He will ask about maiden honor.
Oh, girlfriends, it’s embarrassing and awkward:
A timid heart is seized by a cold.
It's hard to talk to my sister-in-law,
It’s better to live unhappy, and without a husband.

“The bird cherry tree is pouring snow...”

The bird cherry tree is pouring snow,
Greenery in bloom and dew,
In the field, leaning towards escape,
Rooks walk in the strip.
Silk herbs will disappear,
Smells like resinous pine.
Oh, you meadows and oak groves, -
I'm besotted with spring.
Rainbow secret news
Shine into my soul.
I'm thinking about the bride
I only sing about her.
Rash you, bird cherry, with snow,
Sing, you birds, in the forest.
Unsteady run across the field
I will spread the color with foam.

“Through the village along a crooked path...”

Through the village along a crooked path
On a blue summer evening
The recruits walked with a raincoat
A rollicking crowd.
Singing about loved ones
Yes, the last days:
“Farewell, dear village,
The grove and stumps are dark."
The dawns foamed and melted.
Everyone shouted, puffing out their chests:
“Before recruitment, grief loomed,
Now it’s time to party.”
Swinging his blond curls,
They started dancing merrily.
The girls rattled beads at them,
They called outside the village.
The brave guys came out
For the barnyard fences,
And the girls are crafty
They ran away - catch up!
Above the green hills
Scarves fluttered.
Through the fields, wandering with wallets,
The old people smiled.
Through the bushes, in the grass above the bast trees,
Under the fearful cry of owls,
The grove laughed at them with tongues
With an overflow of voices.
Through the village along a crooked path,
Having peeled off on the stumps,
Recruits played shower
About the rest of the days.

“You are my abandoned land...”

You are my abandoned land,
You are my land, wasteland.
Uncut hayfield,
Forest and monastery.
The huts were worried,
And there are five of them.
Their roofs frothed
Go into the dawn.
Under the straw-riza
Planing the rafters,
The wind molds blue
Sprinkled with sunshine.
They hit the windows without missing a beat
Crows wing,
Like a blizzard, bird cherry
He waves his sleeve.
Didn't he say in the twig
Your life and reality,
What in the evening to the traveler
Whispered the feather grass?

“I am a shepherd; my chambers..."

I am a shepherd; my chambers -
Between the undulating fields,
Along the green mountains - stingrays
With the bark of booming snipes.
Knitting lace over the forest
In the yellow foam of the clouds.
In a quiet slumber under the canopy
I hear the whisper of the pine forest.
They shine green in the dark
Under the poplar dew.
I am a shepherd; my mansions -
In the soft green fields.
Cows talk to me
In a nodding tongue
Spiritual oak trees
They call with branches to the river.
Forgetting human grief,
I sleep on the cuttings of branches.
I pray for the red dawns,
I take communion by the stream.

“There are bagels hanging on the fences...”

There are bagels hanging on the fences,
Warmth pours down like bread mash.
Sun planed shingles
They block the blue.
Booths, stumps and stakes,
Carousel whistle.
From the wild freedom
The grass bends, the leaf crumples,
The clatter of hooves and the wheezing of traders,
The drunken smell of honeycomb.
Beware, if you are not dexterous:
The whirlwind will sweep away dust.
Behind the bream's antimony -
A woman's cry, like in the morning.
Isn't it your shawl with the border?
Does it turn green in the wind?
Oh, he’s daring and verbose
The mood is cheerful to the fullest.
Sing like Stenka Razin
He drowned his princess.
Are you, Rus', on your way?
Did you sweep away your outfit?
Do not judge with strict prayer
A look filled with heart.

"Is this my side, my side..."

Is it my side, my side,
Burning streak.
Only the forest and the salt shaker,
Yes, the spit beyond the river...
The old church is withering away,
Throwing a cross into the clouds.
And a sick cuckoo
Doesn't fly from sad places.
Is it for you, my side,
In high water every year
With a pad and a knapsack
Goddamn sweat pours out.
Faces are dusty, tanned,
My eyelids have devoured the distance,
And dug into the thin body
Sadness saved the meek.

“On azure fabrics...”

On azure fabrics
The crimson shed his fingers.
In a dark grove, across a clearing,
The bell cries with laughter.
The hollows are clouded,
The moss was covered in silver.
Through spinnings and barns
The month seems to be a white horn.
Along the way, dashingly, briskly,
Waving foamy sweat,
Crazy threesome galloping
To the village for a round dance.
The girls look slyly
At the handsome man through the fence.
A brave, curly-haired guy
He tilts his hat askew.
Brighter than a pink shirt
The spring dawns are burning.
Gold plated plaques
They speak with bells.

“I smell God’s rainbow…”

I smell God's rainbow -
It's not in vain that I live
I bow to the roadside
I fall down on the grass.
Between the pines, between the fir trees,
Between birch trees and curly beads,
Under the wreath, in the ring of needles,
I imagine Jesus.
He calls me to Dubrovy,
Like in the kingdom of heaven,
And burns in lilac brocade
Forest covered with clouds.
Dove spirit from God,
Like a tongue of fire
Took over my darling
Muffled my weak cry.
The flame pours into the abyss of vision,
In the heart is the joy of childhood dreams,
I believed from birth
In the Intercession of the Virgin Mary.

Dove (1918)

Pigeon

Octoechos

With my voice

I will devour You, Lord.

1
O homeland, happy
And it’s an unstoppable hour!
No better, no more beautiful
Your cow eyes.
To you, your fogs
And the sheep in the fields,
I carry it like a sheaf of oats,
I am the sun in my arms.
Hallow yourself at midnight
And Merry Christmas,
So that those who thirst for vigil
They got drunk as hell.
We shake the sky with our shoulders,
We shake the darkness with our hands
And into a skinny ear of bread
Inhale star grass.
O Rus', O steppe and winds,
And you, my father's house!
On the golden path
Spring thunder nests.
We feed the storm with oats,
Let's drink in prayer,
And blue arable land
The mind-ox plows us,
And not a single stone
Through the sling and bow,
It won't hit us
Raising God's hands.
2
"Oh Devo
Maria! –
The heavens are singing. –
To the golden fields
Shed a hair.
Wash our faces
By the hand of the earth.
From beyond the mountains a string
The ships are sailing.
They contain the souls of the departed
And the memory of centuries.
O woe, who grumbles,
Without removing the shackles!
Screaming in the dark
And hitting with his forehead
Under secret signs
We will not close the gates.
But bend who came out
And I saw only a moment!
We are a cloud roof
Let's crush the blind."
3
Oh God, God
Are you
Do you shake the earth in your dreams?
Constellations dust shines
On our hair.
The heavenly cedar rustles
Through the fog and the ditch,
And to the valley of troubles
The cones of words fall off.
They sing about the days
Other lands and waters,
Where on the tight branches
The moon mouth bit them.
And they whisper about the bushes
Impenetrable groves,
Where he dances, having removed the ports,
Golden rain.
4
Hosanna in the highest!
The hills are singing about heaven.
And in that paradise I see
You, my father's land.
Under the Mauritian oak
My red-haired grandfather is sitting
And his fur coat shines
Peas of frequent stars.
And that cat's hat
What did he wear on holiday?
Looks like a month, chilly
On the snow of relatives' graves.
From the hills I shout to my grandfather:
“Oh father, answer me...”
But the cedars sleep quietly,
Hanging the branches down.
The voice doesn't reach
To his distant shore...
But choo! Rings like an ear of corn
Snow growing from the ground:
“Arise, see and see!
Unspeakable rock.
Who lives and builds everything -
He knows the hour and time.
The trumpets of God will sound
Fire and storm of trumpets,
And the yellow-fanged cloud
It will bite through the milky navel.
And the belly will fall out
Burn the reins...
But he who thought as a Virgin,
He will board the ship of the star."

"Behind the dark strand of woods..."

Behind the dark strand of copses,
In the unshakable blue,
Curly lamb – month
Walking in the blue grass.
In a quiet lake with sedge
His horns butt, -
And it seems from the path far away -
The water shakes the banks.
And the steppe under the green canopy
Blows bird cherry smoke
And beyond the valleys along the slopes
He makes a flame over him.
O side of the feather grass forest,
You are close to my heart with evenness,
But there’s something deeper hidden in yours too
Salt marsh melancholy.
And you, like me, are in sad need,
Forgetting who is your friend and enemy,
You yearn for the pink sky
And dove clouds.
But also for you from the blue expanse
The darkness seems timid
And the shackles of your Siberia,
And the hump of the Ural ridge.

"In the land where the yellow nettles..."

In the land where the yellow nettles
And dry wattle fence,
Lonely sheltered among the willows
Village huts.
There in the fields, behind the blue thicket of the ravine,
In the greenery of the lakes,
There was a sandy road
To the Siberian mountains.
Rus' got lost in Mordva and Chud,
She doesn't care about fear.
And people walk along that road
People in shackles.
They are all murderers or thieves,
As fate judged them.
I fell in love with their sad looks
With hollow cheeks.
There is a lot of evil and joy in murderers,
Their hearts are simple
But they grimace in their blackened faces
Blue mouths.
I cherish one dream, hiding it,
That I am pure in heart.
But I will also stab someone
Under the autumn whistle.
And me along the wind's way,
On that sand
They will lead you with a rope around your neck
To love melancholy.
And when with a smile in passing
I'll straighten my chest
Bad weather will lick its tongue
Lived my path.

In 1916, Yesenin published his first book “Radunitsa”. Critics responded to the poet’s collection, emphasizing that “for Yesenin there is nothing more expensive than the Motherland,” that he loves her and “finds good, affectionate words for her.” They noted the sincerity and naturalness of his lyrics: “His entire collection bears the stamp of captivating youthful spontaneity... He sings his sonorous songs easily, simply, like a lark sings.”

Yesenin's contemporary, Professor P.N. Sakulin noted: “Springy, but sad lyricism emanates from “Radunitsa”... sweet, infinitely sweet to the peasant poet, the village hut. He turns everything into the gold of poetry - the soot above the shutters, the cat that sneaks towards the fresh milk, and the chickens clucking restlessly over the shafts of the plow.” Critics drew attention to the closeness of the collection's poetics to folklore and the rich folk language.

The main place in “Radunitsa” is occupied by the image of peasant Russia, thoughtful and daring, sad and joyful, illuminated by a “rainbow” light. She is pious, wandering, monastic. Sometimes the dull rural landscape (“frail huts”, “skinny fields”) is brightened up by perky songs accompanied by talyanka. The poet’s contemporaries noted freshness and lyricism, a living sense of nature, figurative brightness, metaphoricality and patternedness of the verse, i.e. the search for a new form, which would later lead poet to imagism.

I. Rozanov in the book “Yesenin about himself and others” recalled that the poet told him: “Please note... that I have almost no love motives at all. “Poppy Baskets” can be ignored, and I threw out most of them in the second edition of “Radunitsa”. My lyrics are alive with one great love - love for the homeland. The feeling of homeland is the main thing in my work.”

The name of Yesenin’s native village does not appear in the works, but when you read: “I remembered my village childhood, / I remembered the village blue...”, you immediately understand what place on earth we are talking about.

Yesenin's poems convey the generosity of colors, sounds, and the fullness of human experiences. He glorifies nature and poetizes peasant life. In the poem “Go you, Rus', my dear...” (1914), the poet confesses his love for his homeland:

If the holy army shouts:
“Throw away Rus', live in paradise!”
I will say: “There is no need for heaven,
Give me my homeland."

Printing house of the Main Directorate of Udelov, Mokhovaya, 40, 62, p., 70 kopecks, . Released before January 28 - received by the Petrograd Press Committee on January 28, approved by censorship on January 30 and issued back (returned) on February 1, 1916. Soft publishing covers are printed in two colors (black and red). On the back of the title page and on the 4th page. - publishing brand. Laid paper. Format: 14.5x20 cm. A copy with two (!) autographs of the author to Elena Stanislavovna Ponikovskaya, given on April 29, 1917, immediately after the February revolution. The poet's first book!

Bibliographical sources:

1. The Kilgour collection of Russian literature 1750-1920. Harvard-Cambridge – missing!

2. Books and manuscripts in the collection of M.S. Lesmana. Annotated catalogue. Moscow, 1989, No. 846. With an autograph to the poet D.V. Filosofov!

3. Library of Russian poetry I.N. Rozanova. Bibliographic description. Moscow, 1975, No. 2715.

4. Russian writers 1800-1917. Biographical Dictionary. T.t. 1-5, Moscow, 1989-2007. T2: G-K, p. 242

5. Autographs of poets of the Silver Age. Gift inscriptions on books. Moscow, 1995. S.s. 281-296.

6. Tarasenkov A.K., Turchinsky L.M. Russian poets of the 20th century. 1900-1955. Materials for bibliography. Moscow, 2004, p. 253.

Yesenin, Sergey Aleksandrovich born September 21 (October 3), 1895 in the village of Konstantinovo, Ryazan district, Ryazan province. His father, Alexander Nikitich Yesenin, worked in a butcher shop in Moscow from the age of twelve. In the village, even after his marriage to Tatyana Fedorovna Titova, he only visited on short visits:

My father is a peasant,

Well, I'm a peasant's son.

For the first three years of his life, the boy grew up in the house of his paternal grandmother, Agrafena Pankratievna Yesenina. Then he was transferred to the house of Fyodor Andreevich Titov, his maternal grandfather. Fyodor Andreevich came from peasants, but for the time being his life was closely connected with the city. “He was an intelligent, sociable and quite wealthy man,” wrote the poet’s younger sister, Alexandra. - In his youth, every summer he went to work in St. Petersburg, where he hired out to carry firewood on barges. After working for several years on other people’s barges, he acquired his own.” However, by the time little Seryozha settled with the Titovs, Fyodor Andreevich “was already ruined. Two of his barges burned and others sank, all of them uninsured. Now grandfather was engaged only in agriculture.” Tatyana Yesenina paid her father three rubles a month for the maintenance of her son. At the end of 1904, Yesenin’s mother and her son returned to her husband’s family. In September of the same year, Serezha entered the Konstantinovsky four-year school. From the memoirs of N. Titov: “They taught us the basics of all subjects, we ended with grammar and simple fractions. If a hundred students entered the first grade, then the last - fourth - about ten people graduated.” The legend about the creative abilities that awakened unusually early in the boy is almost negated by the following sad fact from the biography of the twelve-year-old “Seryoga the Monk”: he spent two years in the third grade of the school (1907 and 1908). This event, apparently, became a turning point in the boy’s fate: urged on by his parents and grandfather, he came to his senses. Upon graduating from the Konstantinovsky four-year school, Sergei Yesenin receives a certificate of merit with the wording: “... For very good success and excellent behavior shown by him in the 1908–1909 academic year.” Ekaterina Yesenina recalls: “Father removed the portraits from the wall, and in their place he hung a certificate of commendation and a certificate.” In September 1909, the young man successfully passed the entrance exams to a second-class teacher's school, located in the large village of Spas-Klepiki, near Ryazan. Yesenin's Spas-Klepikovsky everyday life dragged on dullly and monotonously. “The school not only didn’t have a library, but even books to read, except for the textbooks we used,” recalled Yesenin’s classmate V. Znyshev. “We took books to read from the zemstvo library, which was located about two kilometers from the school.” Initially, Yesenin “did not stand out among his comrades in any way.” However, over time, two defining features of his intellectual appearance separated Yesenin from most of his schoolmates: he still read a lot, and, in addition, he began to write poetry. “You look, it used to be that everyone would sit in the classroom in the evening and intensively prepare their lessons, literally cram them, and Seryozha would sit somewhere in the corner of the class, chewing on his pencil and composing his planned poems line by line,” recalled A. Aksenov. - In a conversation I ask him: “What, Seryozha, do you really want to be a writer?” - Answers: “I really want to.” - I ask: - “How can you confirm that you will be a writer?” - He answers: “Teacher Khitrov checks my poems, he says that my poems turn out well.” "Imitation of a Song" 1910:

You watered the horse from handfuls on the reins,

Reflecting, the birch trees broke in the pond.

I looked out the window at the blue scarf,

The black curls were ruffled by the wind.

I wanted in the flickering of foamy streams

To tear the kiss from your scarlet lips with pain.

But with a sly smile, splashing on me,

You ran off at a gallop, the bits jingling.

In the yarn of sunny days, time has woven a thread...

They carried you past the windows to bury you.

And to the weeping of dirges, to the censer canon,

I kept imagining a quiet, uninhibited ringing.

The Ryazan land with its blue distances and blue rivers remained forever in the poet’s heart - both the “low house with blue shutters,” and the village pond, in which, “reflecting, the birches were broken,” and the bright sadness of his native fields, and the “green hairstyle” of the young birch trees, and the entire native “country of birch chintz”. In 1912, Yesenin came to Moscow - this period was marked by his introduction to the literary environment. Sergey works as an assistant proofreader in the printing house of I.D. Sytin, attends the Surikov literary and musical circle, greedily supplements his education at the People's University. A.L. Shanyavsky. On September 22, 1913, Yesenin finally did what his parents sent him to Moscow for: he continued his education. He submitted documents to the city people's university named after A.L. Shanyavsky. This university was opened in 1908 and consisted of two departments. Yesenin was enrolled as a first-year student in the historical and philosophical cycle of the academic department. “A broad teaching program, the best professorial forces - all this attracted here those thirsty for knowledge from all over Russia,” recalled the poet’s university friend D. Semenovsky “... Teaching was carried out at a relatively high level... At this university there were often poetry evenings, which was not allowed and present it at Moscow University.” B. Sorokin told about how Yesenin, a student at Shanyavsky University, enthusiastically began to fill in the gaps in his knowledge: “In a large auditorium, we sit next to each other and listen to Professor Aikhenvald’s lecture about the poets of Pushkin’s galaxy. He almost completely quotes Belinsky's statement about Baratynsky. Bowing his head, Yesenin writes down certain parts of the lecture. I sit next to him and see how his hand with a pencil runs along the sheet of notebook. “Of all the poets who appeared together with Pushkin, the first place undoubtedly belongs to Baratynsky.” He puts down his pencil and, pursing his lips, listens carefully. After the lecture he goes to the first floor. Stopping on the stairs, Yesenin says: “We must read Baratynsky again.” According to A. Izryadnova, the poet’s first wife, who met him in type. Sytin, he “read all his free time, spent his salary on books, magazines, without even thinking about how or what to live on.” Yesenin's acquaintance with Anna Izryadnova took place in March 1913. At that time Izryadnova worked as a proofreader for Sytin. “...In appearance, he did not look like a village guy,” Anna Romanovna recalled her first impression of Yesenin. - He was wearing a brown suit, a high starched collar and a green tie. With golden curls, he was doll-like handsome. And here is a much less romantic verbal portrait of Izryadnova herself, extracted from the police report: “About 20 years old, average height, ordinary build, dark brown hair, round face, dark eyebrows, short, slightly upturned nose.” In the first half of 1914, Yesenin entered into a civil marriage with Izryadnova. On December 21 of the same year, their son Yuri was born. In 1914, Yesenin’s first published poem “Birch,” signed with the pseudonym “Ariston,” appeared in the January issue of the children’s magazine “Mirok.” The mysterious pseudonym was apparently taken from a poem by G.R. Derzhavin “To the Lyre”: Who is this young Ariston? Tender in face and soul, full of good morals?

And here is the poem itself:

White birch

Below my window

Covered with snow

Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches

Snow border

The brushes have blossomed

White fringe.

And the birch tree stands

In sleepy silence

And the snowflakes are burning

In golden fire.

And the dawn is lazy

Walking around

Sprinkles branches

New silver.

Yesenin was pushed to the role of a proletarian poet-tribune, first of all, by his work with Sytin. On September 23, 1913, he apparently took part in the printing workers' strike. At the end of October, the Moscow Security Department opened a surveillance log No. 573 on Yesenin. In this magazine he went under the nickname “Recruitment”. A student’s attempt to master the imagery of agitational proletarian poetry was Yesenin’s poem “The Blacksmith,” published in the Bolshevik newspaper “The Path of Truth” on May 15, 1914:

Kui, blacksmith, strike with a blow,

Let the sweat flow from your face.

Set your hearts on fire,

Away from grief and adversity!

Temper your impulses

Turn impulses into steel

And fly with a playful dream

You are in the sky-high distance.

There in the distance, behind a black cloud,

Beyond the threshold of gloomy days,

The sun's mighty brilliance flies

Over the plains of the fields.

Pastures and fields are drowning

In the blue light of the day,

And happily over the arable land

The greens are ripening.

What attracts attention here is not only the inappropriate phrase borrowed, as if from Batyushkov’s or Pushkin’s erotic poetry, “playful dream,” but also the rural idyllic landscape to which this playful dream strives. The role of the peasant poet, hater of the city, singer of rural joys and rural hardships, was played with special zeal by Yesenin in 1913–1915. Subsequently, Yesenin signed his works with his real name. On the morning of March 9, 1915, Sergei Yesenin arrived in Petrograd and immediately from the station went to A. Blok’s apartment, where they met;... in whose diary an entry appeared: “In the afternoon I had a Ryazan guy with poetry. The poems are fresh, clean, vociferous, verbose language.” Yesenin always recalled this meeting with gratitude, believing that it was “with Blok’s light hand” that his literary journey began. In 1915-1916 the poems “Beloved Land! The heart dreams of...", "You fed the horse with handfuls of water...", "In the hut", "The bird cherry tree is pouring snow...", "Cow", "I'm tired of living in my native land", "Don't wander, don't crush in the crimson bushes ...,” “The road was thinking about the red evening ...” and a number of others. At the beginning of February 1916, Yesenin’s debut book of poems “Radunitsa” arrived in bookstores. “Having received the author’s copies,” recalled M. Murashev, “Sergei came running to me joyfully, sat down in a chair and began to leaf through the pages, as if nurturing his first brainchild.” The title of the book, as was already customary for the poet, contained a riddle for the “urban” reader , but the riddle is by no means difficult. It was enough to look into V.I. Dahl’s dictionary and find out from there that the rainbow is “parental day of remembrance of the dead in the cemetery on Fomina’s week; here they sing, eat, treat the dead, calling them to the joy of the bright resurrection.”

I smell God's Rainbow -

It's not in vain that I live

I worship off-road

I fall down on the grass.

Between the pines, between the fir trees,

Between birch trees and curly beads,

Under the crown, in the ring of needles,

I imagine Jesus.

This is how Yesenin varied his favorite pantheistic motifs in the main poem of the book. Several years will pass, and Alexander Blok in the final lines of “The Twelve” will also prefer the Old Believer - perceived as common - form of the name of God (“Ahead of Jesus Christ”) to the canonical one. “Everyone unanimously said that I was talented. I knew this better than others,” this is how Yesenin summed up the critical responses to “Radunitsa” in his 1923 autobiography. And there were still 10 years of stormy literary-bohemian life ahead...

Yesenin - Sergei Alexandrovich (1895-1925), Russian poet. From his first collections ("Radunitsa", 1916; "Rural Book of Hours", 1918) he appeared as a subtle lyricist, a master of deeply psychologized landscape, a singer of peasant Rus', an expert on the folk language and the people's soul. In 1919-23 he was a member of the Imagist group. A tragic attitude and mental confusion are expressed in the cycles “Mare’s Ships” (1920), “Moscow Tavern” (1924), and the poem “The Black Man” (1925). In the poem “The Ballad of Twenty-Six” (1924), dedicated to the Baku commissars, the collection “Soviet Rus'” (1925), and the poem “Anna Snegina” (1925), Yesenin sought to comprehend “the commune-raised Rus',” although he continued to feel like a poet of “the passing Rus' ", "golden log hut". Dramatic poem "Pugachev" (1921).

Childhood. Youth

Born into a peasant family, he lived as a child in his grandfather's family. Among Yesenin’s first impressions are spiritual poems sung by wandering blind men and grandmother’s tales. Having graduated with honors from the Konstantinovsky four-year school (1909), he continued his studies at the Spas-Klepikovsky teacher's school (1909-12), from which he graduated as a “teacher of the literacy school.” In the summer of 1912, Yesenin moved to Moscow and for some time served in a butcher shop, where his father worked as a clerk. After a conflict with his father, he left the shop, worked in a book publishing house, then in the printing house of I. D. Sytin; during this period he joined the revolutionary-minded workers and found himself under police surveillance. At the same time, Yesenin studied at the historical and philosophical department of Shanyavsky University (1913-15).

Literary debut. Success

Having composed poetry since childhood (mainly in imitation of A.V. Koltsov, I.S. Nikitin, S.D. Drozhzhin), Yesenin finds like-minded people in the Surikov Literary and Musical Circle, of which he became a member in 1912. He began publishing in 1914 in Moscow children's magazines (debut poem "Birch").

In the spring of 1915, Yesenin came to Petrograd, where he met A. A. Blok, S. M. Gorodetsky, A. M. Remizov, N. S. Gumilev and others, and became close to N. A. Klyuev, who had a significant influence on him . Their joint performances with poems and ditties, stylized in a “peasant”, “folk” manner (Yesenin appeared to the public as a golden-haired young man in an embroidered shirt and morocco boots), were a great success.

Military service

In the first half of 1916, Yesenin was drafted into the army, but thanks to the efforts of his friends, he received an appointment ("with the highest permission") as an orderly on the Tsarskoe Selo military sanitary train No. 143 of Her Imperial Majesty Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, which allows him to freely attend literary salons and visit at receptions with patrons, performing at concerts.

At one of the concerts in the infirmary to which he was assigned (the empress and princesses also served as nurses here), he meets the royal family. Then, together with N. Klyuev, they perform, dressed in ancient Russian costumes, sewn according to sketches by V. Vasnetsov, at the evenings of the “Society for the Revival of Artistic Rus'” at the Feodorovsky town in Tsarskoe Selo, and are also invited to Grand Duchess Elizabeth in Moscow.

Together with the royal couple in May 1916, Yesenin visited Evpatoria as a train orderly. This was the last trip of Nicholas II to Crimea.

"Radunitsa"

Yesenin's first collection of poems, "Radunitsa" (1916), was enthusiastically welcomed by critics, who discovered a fresh spirit in it, noting the author's youthful spontaneity and natural taste. In the poems of "Radunitsa" and subsequent collections ("Dove", "Transfiguration", "Rural Book of Hours", all 1918, etc.) a special Yesenin "anthropomorphism" develops: animals, plants, natural phenomena, etc. are humanized by the poet, forming together with people connected by roots and all their being with nature, a harmonious, holistic, beautiful world. At the intersection of Christian imagery, pagan symbolism and folklore stylistics, paintings of Yesenin’s Rus', colored by a subtle perception of nature, are born, where everything: a burning stove and a dog’s nook, an uncut hayfield and swamps, the hubbub of mowers and the snoring of a herd becomes the object of the reverent, almost religious feeling of the poet (“I I pray for the red dawns, I take communion by the stream").

Revolution

At the beginning of 1918 Yesenin moved to Moscow. Having met the revolution with enthusiasm, he wrote several short poems ("The Jordan Dove", "Inonia", "Heavenly Drummer", all 1918, etc.), imbued with a joyful anticipation of the "transformation" of life. They combine godless sentiments with biblical imagery to indicate the scale and significance of the events taking place. Yesenin, glorifying the new reality and its heroes, tried to correspond to the times ("Cantata", 1919). In later years he wrote “Song of the Great March”, 1924, “Captain of the Earth”, 1925, etc.). Reflecting on “where the fate of events is taking us,” the poet turns to history (dramatic poem “Pugachev”, 1921).

Searches in the field of imagery bring Yesenin closer to A. B. Mariengof, V. G. Shershenevich, R. Ivnev, at the beginning of 1919 they united in a group of imagists; Yesenin becomes a regular at the Pegasus Stable, a literary café of Imagists at the Nikitsky Gate in Moscow. However, the poet only partly shared their platform, the desire to cleanse the form of the “dust of content.” His aesthetic interests are directed to the patriarchal village way of life, folk art and the spiritual fundamental principle of the artistic image (treatise “The Keys of Mary”, 1919). Already in 1921, Yesenin appeared in print criticizing the “buffoonish antics for the sake of antics” of his “brothers” Imagists. Gradually, fanciful metaphors are leaving his lyrics.

"Moscow Tavern"

In the early 1920s. in Yesenin’s poems there appear motifs of “a life torn apart by a storm” (in 1920, a marriage that lasted about three years with Z. N. Reich broke up), drunken prowess, giving way to hysterical melancholy. The poet appears as a hooligan, a brawler, a drunkard with a bloody soul, hobbling “from den to den,” where he is surrounded by “alien and laughing rabble” (collections “Confession of a Hooligan,” 1921; “Moscow Tavern,” 1924).

Isadora

An event in Yesenin’s life was a meeting with the American dancer Isadora Duncan (autumn 1921), who six months later became his wife. A joint trip to Europe (Germany, Belgium, France, Italy) and America (May 1922 August 1923), accompanied by noisy scandals, shocking antics of Isadora and Yesenin, revealed their “mutual misunderstanding”, aggravated by the literal lack of a common language (Yesenin did not speak foreign languages , Isadora learned several dozen Russian words). Upon returning to Russia they separated.

Poems of recent years

Yesenin returned to his homeland with joy, a feeling of renewal, a desire “to be a singer and a citizen... in the great states of the USSR.” During this period (1923-25) his best lines were written: the poems “The Golden Grove Dissuaded...”, “Letter to Mother”, “We are now leaving little by little...”, the cycle “Persian Motifs”, the poem “Anna Snegina” and etc.

The main place in his poems still belongs to the theme of the homeland, which now acquires dramatic shades. The once single harmonious world of Yesenin’s Rus' bifurcates: “Soviet Rus'”, “Leaving Rus'”. The motif of the competition between old and new (“red-maned foal” and “a train on cast-iron paws”), outlined in the poem “Sorokoust” (1920), is being developed in the poems of recent years: recording the signs of a new life, welcoming “stone and steel,” Yesenin increasingly feels like a singer of a “golden log hut”, whose poetry “is no longer needed here” (collections “Soviet Rus'”, “Soviet Country”, both 1925). The emotional dominant of the lyrics of this period are autumn landscapes, motives of summing up, and farewells.

Tragic ending

One of his last works was the poem “Country of Scoundrels,” in which he denounced the Soviet regime. After this, he began to be persecuted in the newspapers, accusing him of drunkenness, fighting, etc. The last two years of Yesenin’s life were spent in constant travel: hiding from prosecution, he travels to the Caucasus three times, goes to Leningrad several times, and Konstantinovo seven times. At the same time, he is once again trying to start a family life, but his union with S. A. Tolstoy (granddaughter of L. N. Tolstoy) was not happy.

At the end of November 1925, due to the threat of arrest, he had to go to a psychoneurological clinic. Sofya Tolstaya agreed with Professor P.B. Gannushkin about the poet’s hospitalization in a paid clinic at Moscow University. The professor promised to provide him with a separate room where Yesenin could do literary work.

The GPU and police officers went crazy looking for the poet. Only a few people knew about his hospitalization in the clinic, but informants were found. On November 28, security officers rushed to the director of the clinic, Professor P.B. They demanded the extradition of Yesenin to Gannushkin, but he did not hand over his fellow countryman to death. The clinic is under surveillance. Having waited a moment, Yesenin interrupts the course of treatment (he left the clinic in a group of visitors) and on December 23 leaves for Leningrad. On the night of December 28, at the Angleterre Hotel, Sergei Yesenin is killed by staging suicide.