Of merry thieves and desperate rascals: Esenin translated from the Russian by Anton Yakovlev

NTM 2016

We’re nearing the end of September and we can’t let go without leaving you with these new translations of poems by Sergei Esenin. The translator, Anton Yakovlev, brilliantly captures the romanticism of the Russian soul that is quintessential to the poetry of Esenin, the wild child of Russian imagists. These are poems that will make you long for merry thieves and desperate rascals, for white groves and fields of grass. Our new best favorites. —Claudia Serea and Loren Kleinman

A prominent Russian poet of the early twentieth century, Sergei Esenin was born in a peasant family on Oct. 3, 1895, in the Ryazan Province. After attending a Russian Orthodox church school, Esenin moved to Moscow in 1912, where he studied at the Shanyavsky People's University. In 1914 he moved to Petrograd (later Leningrad/St. Petersburg) where he met the poet Alexander Blok who introduced him to many prominent figures of the Russian literary world.

Esenin led an erratic life punctuated by bouts of drunkenness and insanity. In 1921 he married the American dancer Isadora Duncan and traveled with her all over Europe and the United States, but their marriage was stormy and short-lived. By 1925 Esenin was suffering from severe depression and received treatment for a nervous breakdown. According to the official version, on the night of Dec. 27, 1925, he hanged himself after writing a farewell poem in his own blood. However, dissenting theories attribute his death to an assassination by secret police brought on by the poet’s disenchantment with the Bolshevik regime, which he had initially supported.

Esenin's poetry is inspired by a sensitivity to nature, unsullied by modern life and free of the effects of industrialization. His poems after the Revolution portray the devastating effects which the encroachment of industrialization had on traditional rural life. One of the founders of the short-lived imagist movement in Russian poetry, Esenin often uses liturgical words and bright, contrasting images. He viewed human nature as fundamentally dual, and his poetry portrays the struggle between creative and destructive forces in human life.

<Sourced from the Encyclopedia of World Biography and the Poetry Foundation.> Подражанье песне Ты поила коня из горстей в поводу, Отражаясь, берëзы ломались в пруду. Я смотрел из окошка на синий платок, Кудри черные змейно трепал ветерок. Мне хотелось в мерцании пенистых струй С алых губ твоих с болью сорвать поцелуй. Но с лукавой улыбкой, брызнув на меня, Унеслася ты вскачь, удилами звеня. В пряже солнечных дней время выткало нить… Мимо окон тебя понесли хоронить. И под плач панихид, под кадильный канон, Всë мне чудился тихий раскованный звон. <1910>

Imitation of a Song Your harnessed horse drank water from your palms. Reflections of birches broke in the pond. I looked out the window at your blue headdress. The wind ruffled your black snakelike curls. I wanted, in the shimmering foamy streams, To tear a sharp kiss from your scarlet lips. But with a sly smile, splashing me, Reins ringing, you galloped away. In the yarn of sunny days time sewed a thread… They carried you past my windows to be buried. And, to the cry of dirges, to the canon of incense, Still I imagined that quiet uninhibited ringing. Корова Дряхлая, выпали зубы, Свиток годов на рогах. Бил ее выгонщик грубый На перегонных полях. Сердце не ласково к шуму, Мыши скребут в уголке. Думает грустную думу О белоногом телке. Не дали матери сына, Первая радость не прок. И на колу под осиной Шкуру трепал ветерок. Скоро на гречневом свее, С той же сыновней судьбой, Свяжут ей петлю на шее И поведут на убой. Жалобно, грустно и тоще

В землю вопьются рога… Снится ей белая роща И травяные луга. <1915> The Cow Decrepit, with no more teeth, A scroll of years on her horns. The rough herdsman has been beating her On the fields she crossed. Her heart doesn’t fancy noise; Mice are scratching in the corner. She is thinking sad thoughts About a white-legged calf. They never gave the mother her son. Her first joy came to naught. On a stake under an aspen The wind ruffled his skin. Soon, with a wheat rope, Mirroring her son’s fate, They will put a noose on her neck And lead her to slaughter. Plaintively, sadly and thinly The horns will stick in the ground... She dreams of a white grove And fields of grass.

* * * Ветры, ветры, о снежные ветры, Заметите мою прошлую жизнь. Я хочу быть отроком светлым Иль цветком с луговой межи. Я хочу под гудок пастуший Умереть для себя и для всех. Колокольчики звездные в уши Насыпает вечерний снег. Хороша бестуманная трель его, Когда топит он боль в пурге. Я хотел бы стоять, как дерево, При дороге на одной ноге. Я хотел бы под конские храпы Обниматься с соседним кустом. Подымайте ж вы, лунные лапы, Мою грусть в небеса ведром. <1919—1920> * * * Winds, winds, o winter winds, Envelop my past life with snow. I want to be a bright lad Or a flower from in-between fields. To the sound of a shepherd’s whistle, I want to die for myself and for all. The evening snow fills my ears With the stars’ small bells. How nice is its fogless trill When it drowns pain in a blizzard. I’d like to stand like a tree By the road on one leg. I’d like to hug the neighboring bush To the sound of the horses’ snoring. So lift up, o paws of the moon, My sadness into heaven in a bucket.

Папиросники Улицы печальные, Сугробы да мороз. Сорванцы отчаянные С лотками папирос. Грязных улиц странники В забаве злой игры, Все они — карманники, Веселые воры. Тех площадь — на Никитской, А этих — на Тверской. Стоят с тоскливым свистом Они там день-деньской. Снуют по всем притонам И, улучив досуг, Читают Пинкертона За кружкой пива вслух. Пускай от пива горько, Они без пива — вдрызг. Все бредят Нью-Йорком, Всех тянет в Сан-Франциск. Потом опять печально Выходят на мороз Сорванцы отчаянные С лотками папирос. <1923> Cigarette Vendors Sad streets, Piles of snow and frost. Desperate rascals With carts of cigarettes. Wanderers of dirty streets, Playthings of a wicked game, They’re all pickpockets, They’re all merry thieves. Nikitskaya is the turf of that gang; This one controls Tverskaya. With maudlin whistling, They stand around all day. They sneak into every den Then, catching a free moment, They read Pinkerton Out loud over a beer.

So what if the beer is bitter? They would even get drunk without it. They all dream of New York, San Francisco beckons them all. Then, grimly, they come out Into the cold once more, Desperate rascals With carts of cigarettes. * * * Кто я? Что я? Только лишь мечтатель, Перстень счастья ищущий во мгле, Эту жизнь живу я словно кстати, Заодно с другими на земле. И с тобой целуюсь по привычке, Потому что многих целовал, И, как будто зажигая спички, Говорю любовные слова. «Дорогая», «милая», «навеки», А в уме всегда одно и то ж, Если тронуть страсти в человеке, То, конечно, правды не найдешь. Оттого душе моей не жестко Ни желать, ни требовать огня, Ты, моя ходячая березка, Создана для многих и меня. Но, всегда ища себе родную И томясь в неласковом плену, Я тебя нисколько не ревную, Я тебя нисколько не кляну. Кто я? Что я? Только лишь мечтатель, Синь очей утративший во мгле, И тебя любил я только кстати, Заодно с другими на земле. <1925>

* * * Who am I? What am I? Just a dreamer Looking for a ring of happiness in the dark, Living this life as if by happenstance, Just like others on earth. And I’m only kissing you out of habit, Because I’ve kissed many, And speaking words of love As though I’m lighting matches. “Dear,” “darling,” “forever,” But always one thing on my mind: If you wake up the passion in a person, You surely won’t find truth. This is why my soul has no trouble Desiring, demanding fire— You, my walking birch, Were created for many and for me. But, always looking for the one And languishing in callous captivity, I’m not at all jealous of you, Not cursing you in the least. Who am I? What am I? Just a dreamer Who has lost the blue of his eyes in the dark, And I only love you by happenstance, Just like others on earth.

* * * До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья. Милый мой, ты у меня в груди. Предназначенное расставанье Обещает встречу впереди. До свиданья, друг мой, без руки, без слова, Не грусти и не печаль бровей, — В этой жизни умирать не ново, Но и жить, конечно, не новей. <1925> * * * Goodbye, my friend, goodbye. My dear, you’re in my chest. This preordained parting promises a reunion ahead. Goodbye, my friend, without a hand, without a word. Don’t be sad and don’t furrow your brow. In this life, dying isn’t news, Though living, of course, isn’t newer.

About the translator

Born in Moscow, Russia, Anton Yakovlev studied filmmaking and poetry at Harvard University. He is the author of chapbooks Neptune Court (The Operating System, 2015), The Ghost of Grant Wood (Finishing Line Press, 2015), and Ordinary Impalers (Aldrich Press, early 2017). His work is published or forthcoming in The New Yorker, The Hopkins Review, Fulcrum, Prelude, American Arts Quarterly, Measure, and elsewhere. He has also directed several short films. His book of translations of poetry by Sergei Esenin is forthcoming from Sensitive Skin Books in late 2016.