Three Poems by the Great Sergei Yesenin

In this world you can
search for everything,
except Love and death. 
They find you when the 
time comes.

~ Sergei Yesenin

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Sergei Yesenin was a Russian poet born in 1895 who allegedly took his own life at the young age of 30 years old.

He's regarded as one of the most important Russian poets of all time. Yessin wrote about the "wretched people, undone by life." He wrote about the sights and sounds of the countryside, the "clanging of hooves on the snow," and the "bitter tears" of the "evening silence."

His poetry focused on nature and traditional rural life, along with the complexities of the human condition.

According to his translator, Anton Yakovlev: “While Yesenin’s staggering erudition, energy, and poetic lyricism had made an immediate meteoric impact on the literary scene of his time, much of his short adult life occurred during one of the most terrifying, cataclysmic periods in the history of the world, in a country that was undergoing unrest of unprecedented proportions.”

While alive, Yesenin was widely popular among his compatriots. Everyone in Russia knew who he was, and they recited his poems from memory throughout the country. His iconic status endures to this day.

He was a life-liver, a rabble-rouser, a ladies man, a three-time failed husband, a barroom brawler, a hooligan, and a fastidious observer of the landscape he was born in.

In 1925, in a period of intense creativity, the poet mysteriously hanged himself in a hotel room after writing his final poem in his own blood.

However, some people are convinced that the authoritarian leaders of his country murdered Yesenin. His "unqualified" influence made them nervous. Historically speaking, society tends to murder its dreamers and seers, so it’s not out of the question.

According to one article:

“Yesenin was so famous that his death triggered a wave of copycat suicides. The communist authorities, who viewed Esenin’s poetry with suspicion for its individualism and “hooliganism,” reacted strongly, and his books were banned for many years after his death. Students who read his poems could be expelled from university, and distributing manuscript copies of his poems was punished with jail time. Ysenin’s spirit could not be repressed, however, and he remains a poet of the people to this day: tragic, flawed, with a romantic style to match his image.”

Below are a few of my favorite untitled poems from this profound Russian poet. You can find these poems in his remarkable book — The Last Poet of the Village.

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Is it my fault that I’m a poet
Of heavy suffering and bitter fate?
After all, it wasn’t my choice—
It’s just the way I came into the world.

Is it my fault that I don’t cherish life,
That I love and simultaneously hate everyone,
And know things about myself I don’t yet see—
That is my gift from the muse.

I know there is no happiness in life,
Life is lunacy, the dream of a sick soul,
And I know my gloomy tunes bore everyone,
But it’s not my fault—that’s the kind of poet I am.

Art: Isaac Levitan

I will not lie to myself,
Woe has settled in my misty heart.
Why am I known as a charlatan?
Why am I known as a brawler?
 
I’m not a villain. I haven’t robbed anyone in the forest.
I haven’t shot wretches in dungeons.
I’m merely a street rake
Smiling at passing faces.
 
I’m a mischievous Moscow playboy.
In Tver, every neighborhood dog
Recognizes my breezy gait
In the backstreets.
 
Every bedraggled horse
Nods its head to greet me.
I’m a good friend to the animals,
Healing them with my verses.
 
My top hat is not to impress the women.
My heart can’t bear meaningless passion.
It makes it easier, soothing my sadness,
To give gold oats to a mare.
 
I have no friends among people.
I’m loyal to a different kingdom.
I’m ready to put my best tie
On the neck of any local hound.
 
Now I won’t hurt any longer.
Swamp is drained in my murky heart.
This is why I’m known as a charlatan.
This is why I’m known as a brawler.

The rude are destined for joy; 
The tender are destined for sadness.  
I pity nothing;
I pity no one.

I pity myself a bit;
I pity stray dogs.
This path has led me straight 
To a tavern.  

Why are you yelling, you devils?
Am I not my country’s son?
Everyone here has pawned
His pants for a drink.

Hazy eyed, I look out the window;
My heart is heavy and hot.
The street in front of me, 
Wet from sunlight, rolls on.  

There is a boy in the street. 
The air is fried and dry.  
The boy is so contented
And picks his nose.

Go right ahead, my dear, 
Get your whole finger in there, 
Just don’t burrow into your soul 
With the same force.  

I’m toast… My courage is failing…
Look at my host of bottles!
I collect corks to plug 
The holes in my soul.

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