Good for autumn freshness
Shake the soul-apple tree with the wind
And watch how it cuts over the river
The blue water of the sun plow.
It's good to knock out of the body
Glowing song nail.
And dressed in festive white
Wait for the guest to knock.
I'm learning, I'm learning with my heart
Protect the color of bird cherry in the eyes,
Only in stinginess feelings are heated,
When the ribs break the flow.
Silently the star belfry hoots,
Whatever the leaf, the candle dawn.
I will not let anyone into the upper room,
I won't open the door for anyone.
1918-1919
Notes
A. B. Mariengof attributed the creation of the poem to the winter of 1919/20. He said that in the especially severe cold of this winter, he and Yesenin moved from their unheated room to the bathroom: “We covered the bath with a mattress - a bed; washbasin boards - desk; a column for warming water was heated with books. The warmth from the speaker inspired the lyrics. A few days after moving to the bathroom, Yesenin read to me:
Silently the star belfry hoots,
Whatever the leaf, the candle dawn.
I will not let anyone into the upper room,
I won't open the door for anyone.
Indeed, we had to defend the “promised bath” that we opened with teeth and a heavy lock. The whole apartment, looking with envy at our warm, carefree existence, held meetings and passed resolutions demanding the establishment of a queue for living under the benevolent auspices of the column and for the immediate eviction of us, who had seized the public square without a corresponding warrant ”(Vosp., 1, 317).
It's evening. Dew Where the cabbage beds Winter sings - haunts Under a wreath of forest chamomile Dark night, can't sleep Tanyusha was good, there was no more beautiful in the village, Behind the mountains, behind the yellow valleys Again spread patterned Play, play, talyanochka, raspberry furs. IMITATION OF THE SONG The scarlet light of dawn wove out on the lake. Matushka walked through the woods to the bathhouse, The reeds rustled over the backwater. Trinity morning, the morning canon, A cloud tied lace in a grove, A flood of smoke Throws bird cherry snow, Bagels hang on the wattle fences, KALIKI The evening smoked, a cat dozes on a beam, Beloved land! My heart is dreaming I’ll go to the skufje as a humble monk The Lord came to torture people in love, AUTUMN The winds don’t shower the forests, IN THE HOUSE Along the village, along the crooked path Goy you, Russia, my dear, I’m a shepherd, my chambers are my side, side, The melted clay dries, I smell God's rainbow - Prayers are walking along the road, You are my abandoned land, The drought of the seeding has drowned out, The black howl that smells of sweat! Swamps and marshes, Behind the dark strand of woods, In the land where the yellow nettles I am here again, in my own family, Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes The road was thinking about the red evening, Night and field, and the cry of roosters ... O edge rains and bad weather, DOVE A silver-bell, Hewn drogs sang, It was not in vain that the winds blew, COW Under the red elm porch and yard, HERD THE MISSING MONTH About merry comrades, Spring does not look like joy, Scarlet darkness in the black sky Farewell, dear forest, The mountain ash has reddened Your voice is invisible, like smoke in a hut. Furtively in moonlight lace Where mystery always slumbers, Clouds from the foal FOX O Russia, flap your wings, I'll look in the field, I'll look at the sky - It's not the clouds roam behind the barn Wake me up early tomorrow, Where are you, where are you, father's house, Oh Mother of God, O arable lands, arable lands, arable lands, The fields are compressed, the groves are bare, Green hairstyle I am delirious through the first snow, Silvery road, Open to me, guardian beyond the clouds, Oh, I believe, I believe, there is happiness! Songs, songs, what are you screaming about? Here it is, stupid happiness I danced, wept the spring rain, O muse, my flexible friend, I last poet villages The soul is sad about heaven, I'm tired of living in native land Oh God, God, this depth - I left my dear home, It's good under the autumn freshness SONG ABOUT THE DOG Golden foliage spun Now my love is not the same In autumn, the owl roars SONG ABOUT BREAD HOOLIGAN All living things are a special mark Mysterious world, my ancient world, Side eh you are my side! Do not swear. Such a thing! I do not regret, I do not call, I do not cry, I will not deceive myself, Yes! Now it's decided. No return Drinking here again, fighting and crying Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom... Sing, sing. On the accursed guitar This street is familiar to me, Young years with hammered glory, A LETTER TO MOTHER I have never been so tired. Now I can’t scatter this sadness. I have only one fun left: The blue fire swept, You are as simple as everyone else, Let you be drunk by others, Darling, let’s sit next to me, I’m sad to look at you, You don’t torment me with coolness Evening drew black eyebrows. We are now leaving little by little PUSHKIN Low house with blue shutters, SON OF A BITCH Golden grove dissuaded Blue May. A glowing warmth. TO KACHALOV'S DOG Unspeakable, blue, tender... SONG Dawn calls out to another, Well, kiss me, kiss me, Farewell, Baku! I won't see you. I see a dream. The road is black. The feather grass is sleeping. Dear plain, I will not return to my father's house, Above the window is a month. Under the window wind. Bless each work, good luck! It can be seen that this has been done forever - The leaves are falling, the leaves are falling. Burn, my star, do not fall. Life is a deception with charming longing, Rash, talyanka, loudly, rash, talyanka, boldly I have never seen such beautiful ones Oh, how many cats in the world You sing me that song that before In this world I am only a passer-by PERSIAN MOTIVES Oh, you sleigh ! And horses, horses! The snow jam is crushed and pricked, You hear - the sleigh is rushing, you hear - the sleigh is rushing. Blue jacket. Blue eyes. The snow twirls briskly, In the blue evening, in the moonlit evening Do not twist your smile, pulling your hands, Poor writer, is it you Blue fog. Snow expanse, The wind whistles, the silver wind, Small forests. Steppe and gave. Flowers tell me - goodbye, Addition1
1918
***
Good for autumn freshness
Shake the soul-apple tree with the wind
And watch how it cuts over the river
The blue water of the sun plow.
It's good to knock out of the body
glowing song nail
And dressed in festive white
Wait for the guest to knock.
I'm learning, I'm learning with my heart
Protect the color of bird cherry in the eyes,
Only in stinginess feelings are heated,
When the ribs break the flow.
Silently the star belfry hoots,
Whatever the leaf, the candle dawn.
I will not let anyone into the upper room,
I won't open the door for anyone.
Read by Y. Bogatyrev
Yesenin Sergey Alexandrovich (1895-1925)
Yesenin! golden name. The murdered boy. The genius of the Russian land! None of the Poets who came into this world possessed such spiritual power, charming, all-powerful, soul-grabbing childish openness, moral purity, deep pain-love for the Fatherland! So many tears were shed over his poems, so many human souls sympathized and empathized with every Yesenin line, that if it were calculated, Yesenin's poetry would outweigh any and much more! But this method of evaluation is not available to earthlings. Although one could see from Parnassus - the people have never loved anyone so much! With Yesenin's poems they went to battle in the Patriotic War, for his poems they went to Solovki, his poetry excited souls like no other ... Only the Lord knows about this holy love of the people for their son. Yesenin's portrait is squeezed into wall-mounted family photo frames, put on a shrine on a par with icons ...
And not a single Poet in Russia has yet been exterminated or banned with such frenzy and perseverance as Yesenin! And they forbade, and hushed up, and belittled in dignity, and poured mud on them - and they still do it. Impossible to understand why?
Time has shown: the higher the Poetry with its secret lordship, the more embittered the envious losers, and the more imitators.
About one more great God's gift of Yesenin - he read his poems as uniquely as he created them. They sounded so in his soul! All that was left was to say it. Everyone was shocked by his reading. Note that great poets have always been able to recite their poems uniquely and by heart – Pushkin and Lermontov… Blok and Gumilyov… Yesenin and Klyuev… Tsvetaeva and Mandelstam… So, young gentlemen, a poet mumbling his lines from a piece of paper from the stage is not a Poet, but an amateur… A poet may not be able to do many things in his life, but not this!
The last poem "Goodbye, my friend, goodbye ..." is another secret of the Poet. In the same 1925 there are other lines: “You don’t know what life is worth living!”
Yes, in the deserted city lanes, not only stray dogs, "smaller brothers", but also big enemies listened to Yesenin's light gait.
We must know the true truth and not forget how childishly his golden head tossed back ... And again his last gasp is heard:
"My dear, good-roshie ..."
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