Russian literature

Sergey Esenin (1895-1925)

A Tired Day

When a tired day bowed down to the night
The waves fell still, the birds wouldn’t fly,
The sun set down over the hills (what a sight!)
And musingly the moon floated in the sky.
In the vale, the peaceful silvery brook
Babbled sweet nothings to the hushed dale,
While dark forest, dreamily bowed and took
In the trills of the nightingale’s long tale,
Attentive to the songs and the quiet bustle,
The river whispered, caressing the banks.
On the hill above, the reeds gently rustled
Happily singing, (or giving their thanks).

A Village Hut

Old hut, barely one room,
Often, the blizzards cry
At your door; gloom
And worry come-by and
When a bad year befalls,
Hunger comes along;
Laments within your walls
Rob the notes from a song.
Bitterness, everyone sings
About: neediness, duress,
The evil and sad things,
Where is joy, happiness?
In your walls – no harmony,
Happy songs do not dwell,
For happiness and acrimony
Do not mix well.

Behind The Cloudy Horizon

Behind the cloudy horizon – just
like future in my heavenly chart –
who can see if the coming gusts
will bring a rest for my heart.
Or the grey clouds returning
will bring more dread to my heart.
The old wounds, fireless burning,
old sorrows again will smart.
Behind the clouds, I see, a release!
The dawn, across the sky zooms.
I see death (of the earthly gloom)
This is death but it may bring me peace.
Blossom wite bird cherries scatter…
Blossom wite bird cherries scatter
On the on the dewy grass like snow.
Hungry rooks in ploughland gather,
Picked warms up as they go.
Low the silk smooth grath is bending,
Pitch scents to the pine-trees cling.
Groves in leaf, and luscios meadows –
How the senses reel in spring!
Secret things give me pleasure,
Heart-ease and delight they bring.
There's a girl whose love I treasure
And of her alone I thing.
Shed your blossom-snow, bird cherries!
Sing, birds, in they shady groves.
Weaving up and down the meadow
I'll go scattering flower foam.

Far Away Happy Song

Somebody sings a happy song
Somewhere far, far away; I‘d go
There, or I’d happily sing along
Alas, my broken heart says no.
My soul strives to reach this song
And seeks like notes in my heart
Alas, I wasted my strength long
Ago, before this song did start.
Quite early, I began to seek, to follow
A fleeting dream of an earth’s ideal
I would grumble that it was hollow
And that h appiness seemed unreal,
Earlier my soul searched at length,
For my happy self, lost on a dark day;
Until I will regain my lost strength
I cannot join in the song, or the play.

Maple bare of foliage, freezing in the snowstorm…

Maple bare of foliage, freezing in the snowstorm,
Why are you bent over as the wind is blowing?
Have you witnessed something? Have you heard some tidings?
It's as if beyond the village you've gone striding.
Like a drunken watchman, straying off the roadway,
In a drift you tumbled, now your leg is frozen.
I too am unsteady on my feet, I'm thinking,
And I can't get home when I have been out drinking.
Here I met a willow, there a pine I greeted,
To a song of summer both of them I treated.
I'd a feeling I too was a maple like you,
Not a bare and bald one, but bright green and thriving.
By both common sense and modesty deserted,
In a lustful frenzy I embraced a birch-tree.

Mother's Prayer

At the village end, the old hut stands alone.
There prays aged mother before an icon.
Her prayer remembers her son, and his friends,
Now saving their homeland, in far-off lands.
She prays, drying the tears, and fighting mirages,
For her tired eyes see frightening images.
She sees a field, a field before battle,
And there her hero-son lies dead, among the dying cattle.
On his broad breast blood splashed making stains,
In his cold hands the enemy’s banner remains.
From happiness and bitterness, now her twin friends,
She stands frozen, silver head bowed in the palms of her hands.
Sparse gray hair falls on her brow and ears,
And from her eyes, pour bead-like tears.

No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow…

No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow,
Blossom blows away, a song is sung.
Overcome by autumn gold, tomorrow
I myself shall be no longer young.
You'll not throb, heart, as before, but tremble,
Feeling chills that you have not yet known.
In bare feet you shall no more be tempted
Through the birch-print countryside to roam.
Roving spirit, ever now less often
Do you rouse a flame upon my lips.
Freshness I have lost, keen looks forgotten,
Feelings running at full flood I miss.
I'm austerer now in my desiring.
Life, were you real, or of fancy born?
It's as if in spring I've been out riding
On a pink horse in the vibrant dawn.
In this world of ours we all are mortal,
Copper leaves from maples gently slide…
Ever blest was I to be accorded
Time for blossoming before I died.

On heavenly blue course

On heavenly blue course, a fiery star –
As if ready to char the forests and perish
With them in yellow clouds of honeyed
Smoke, the sun prepares for a rest.
Dreamy night falls. People fall asleep.
Only I torment myself. I wish; I weep…
Among the clouds, the tall evergreens
Breathe-in the sweet smoke; the shy
Mountain-pines climb in-between
Grasping the hill for a glimpse of the sky.
Water splashes, plop, plop, plop,
On the bog, creaks the heron,
And from the clouds, like a drop,
A lone star keeps gazing on.
I would like to, like a rocket,
Zoom into the sky in opaque smoke…

Reminiscence

The blizzard buried the hedge,
Behind the window the snow still falls
While on the warm stove ledge
An old man his youth recalls.
“Eh, there were good seasons
In my life–nothing went wrong,
I had no worries, but the reasons
To carouse and sing the songs,
And now what life do I have?
I’m worried, and it’s madness
But at the times I remember
Those old days with sadness;
I had a long life (in my appendage)
I used it well to (…)
Even at my old age,
The freedom to say it I lack.
Don’t full me old knave
You are full of (…)
Your life is at the grave
Your end isn’t fit.
And so what, I submit, it’s true,
It looks like my fate,
But their time will come too,
Old age does emasculate;”
Behind the window, at the gates
Blizzard blew the snow in a heap
And on the warm stove ledge
The old man sadly fell asleep.

Spring Evening

In the evening realm
of the green spring,
A calm river winds
like a silvery string.
The forested hills
hug the red sun.
The golden horn
gives birth
to the moon;
In a tiny hut,
the ploughman
is back from the
furrowed hills.
The nightingale
trills
her loving tale,
or a caprice,
beyond the road,
in a birch – coppice.
The sunset above
hears the songs and
it blushes as if shy.
The earth tenderly
smiles at the sky,
while she longs for
the remote stars.

Letter to Mother

Still around, old dear? How are you keeping?
I too am around. Hello to you!
May that magic twilight ever be streaming
Over your cottage as it used to do.
People write how sad you are, and anxious
For my sake, though you won't tell them so,
And that you in your old-fashioned jacket
Out onto the highroad often go.
That you often see in the blue shadows
Ever one dream, giving you no rest:
Someone in a drunken tavern scuffle
Sticks a bandit knife into my chest.
Don't go eating your heart out with worry,
It's just crazy nonsense and a lie.
I may drink hard, but I promise, mother,
I shall see you first before I die.
I love you as always and I'm yearning
In my thoughts for just one thing alone,
Soon to ease my heartache by returning
To our humble low-roofed country home.
I'll return when decked in white the branches
In our orchard are with spring aglow.
But no longer wake me up at sunrise,
As you used to do eight years ago.
Do not waken dreams no longer precious,
Hope never fulfilled do not excite.
It was my misfortune to experience
Loss and weariness too early in my life.
Don't teach me to pray. Please, mother!
There's no going back, try as you might.
You alone give me support and comfort,
You alone glow with a magic light.
So forget your cares, please. Don't be anxious
And for my sake, dear, don't worry so.
Out onto the road in your old-fashioned
Jacket, please do not so often go.

Sun's Golden Arc (Dedicated to I.D. Rudinsky)

Sun’s golden arc
Hot like a red coal,
Sent down its spark
And it warmed my soul;
Although, I am not sure
Now, I hope that I could
Expect from my future
To bring something good;
The warmth brought me back
To life, the light illuminated me
I forgot the past, all that I lack
And all that is lacking in me.
Warmed by the Light
My blood caught fire,
My soul shined, alight
My spirit was inspired.
I feel restored by the ray,
My heart still beats stronger,
These good feelings are here to stay
Even when the sun shines no longer;
On the trip I am forced to make
Love goes with me from the start.
It banishes anguish, fear and ache
And it gives freedom to my heart.

Sunrise

On the dark-blue sky
The dawn burst red.
In golden glow, spry
Sun rose from its bed.
When sun-light came back,
By the sky reflected,
It met on its track,
New rays just projected.
And when bright-gold, blended rays
Spilled, suddenly lighting earth’s face,
The blue hue of a new day
Spread around the sky’s surface.

The Blizzard on 26 April 1912

“What do you need?” I pled
With the blizzard, “Please depart.
You summon sadness and dread
And worries that sicken my heart;
Why do you howl at my window?
Let me be now, I’m praying;
Move away, or stay and blow,
But don’t listen–I’m crying.
In hot prayers at this hour
I confess my sins to God,
My soul joins the Power;
Lost spirit, forgive me God.
I’ll be in a grave soon; blow hard,
Moan over me then, blizzard,
But now, please go away,
Or, for my sinful soul, please pray.”

The Birch Tree

Under my window
Tucked in the snow
White birch retired
Clad in silver glow.
On the fluffy branches
Snowy-trim with silver-tinge
Melted around catkins
Forming white fringe.
Like golden fires
Snow-flakes blazed
While birch stood still
Asleep, or amazed.
Meanwhile, lazily
Strolling around,
Dawn threw more “silver”
On the twigs (and ground).

The Dozing Bell

Dozing bell pealed
And woke the fields,
At the sun smiled
The sleepy earth.
Some clangs mounted
Strait to the blue sky
And the forests resounded
The ones that went awry,
White moon hid
Beyond the stream.
Running wave bid
Him,“Happy dreams”
The hushed glen blasts
The dreamy spell
And somewhere past
The road fades the bell.

The Drops

Beautiful are pearly drops on a sunny day
When they shine in the arches of gold,
Yet in sorry weather, on damp windows, they
Dread like drops of black autumn’s mould.
People are happy in oblivion; (I was told)
Their stature in the eyes of the others
Matters not, nor do the awards of this world.
(Are people living here, or yonder? I wonder.)
The drops of autumn flood hearts, veins,
And souls with sadness; they wander
While they quietly glide on the window panes,
What fun they seek, what joy? I wonder…
Unhappy people, crushed by life, often foul
Their future with soul-pains of old times,
If joy relieves sadness and heals the soul,
Why they recall the sad, not the happy times?
The grove of golden trees has fallen silent…
The grove of golden trees has fallen silent,
Shorn of its gay leaves, in mute silhouette,
And so the cranes in sad file past it flying
Have no cause any more to feel regret.
For whom, for what? We are all rovers, starting
Out, coming home awhile, then traveling on.
The hemp field's dreaming of all who departed
And there's a full moon gazing at the pond.
I stand alone, the bare expanses viewing,
While on the wind the cranes are borne away.
Remembrance of my merry youth pursuing,
I find nothing I would relive today.
I don't regret the years that I have wasted,
I don't regret the lilac time of life.
A rowan fire is in the orchard blazing
But none shall from its brightness warmth derive.
Red rowan-berry clusters cannot scorch you,
The grasses will no yellow and decline.
As leaves fall softly from a tree in autumn
So I let fall these mournful words of mine.
And if time with its breezy broom should pile them
Into a heap to burn without regret…
Just say this … that the golden grove fell silent,
Shorn of its leaves, in pensive silhouette.

The Night

The river quietly dreams.
Dark forest stands still.
Crake doesn’t scream.
And nightingales don’t trill.
It’s a night of silence.
The rill hardly makes a sound,
While moon’s brilliance
Silvers everything around.
Silver shines the river.
Silver shines the rill.
Silver shines and shivers
Dewy grass on the hill.
Night. Just silence.
All nature sleeps, safe and sound,
While moon’s brilliance
Silvers everything around.

The Storm

Leaves atremble,
the maples rocked.
They scattered pollen
like powdered brass.
Winds blew and
green forest sighted.
The echo whispered
with dried
feather – grass,
Gloomy storm
at the window cries
bending twigs
toward the murky glass.
Shaking morosely,
as if dismayed,
They gaze into
semi-darkness, alas…
Black clouds
keep creeping
from afar.
Ferociously swell
the river,
the waves roar;
Like strong arms
brandishing a scimitar,
they keep crashing
again and they soar.

The Tears

Tears… again these bitter tears,
For broken dreams that flew far away,
For dreaded sadness that nothing cheers,
For new darkness, that nothing keeps at bay.
What is to come? More such torment?
No, its enough… It is time to rest, let go,
And to forget the sounds of lament,
A heart is full and can stand it no more.
Who is singing in the shade of the birch tree?
The sounds are familiar–the tears again…
These tears are for my homeland and to me
They are full of longing, worry and pain.
I am in my beloved country; yet, my grave –
Heart languishes in tears, I weep…
Now it seems that only in a cold grave
I will be able to forget and find some sleep.

To Kachalov's Dog

Come, Jim, give me your paw for luck,
I swear i've never seen one like it.
Let's go, the two of us, and bark
Up the moon when Nature's silent.
Come, Jim, give me your pow for luck.
Stop licking me, pet, and please do
At least heed this advice i'm giving.
Of life you havent got a clue,
You do non realise life is worse living.
You master's kind a man of note,
And visitors his home are thronging,
They all admire your velvet coat
Which smilingly they love to fondle.
You're devilish handsome for a dog,
So charming, trusting, unsuspicious,
Not asking if you may or not,
Like a drunken pal, you plaster kises.
Dear Jim, I know a great warety
Of visions of all shorts call,
But have you seen her here, the saddest
And the least talkative of all?
I'm sure she'll come here. In my absence
Please catch her eye. Go kiss her hand for me,
For all my real or fancied errors asking
Forgiveeness of her in humility.

Winter

At the moment the autumn disappeared,
The brusque winter came tearing all along.
Winged like, it has appeared,
No one knows how, why, or for how long.
Deep frosts turned the dams into sheer ice,
(A heavenly sight for every ice sprinter)
Some boys exclaimed, “Hey, it’s nice!”
Others added, “Thank you winter.”
With new designs on the glazed windows
Mysterious beauty the world acquired
Even though everyone paused and admired
Who did it, when, and how? No one knows.
The falling snowflakes swirled and dashed,
Then settled down like a huge white throw.
Just then in the clouds the sunlight flashed
And a sparkle appeared on the frosted snow.