I've been reading - Esenin

Because it is summer... or because it is cold... Because it is time to hit the road again... or because the gypsies' carriages will soon travel the countryside... Because it is a bit scary... or because it feels like need of a story... Because of a little too much... or because of the lack of it... I am back to Esenin and one of his most beloved poems "Shagane, you, my Shagane":

Шаганэ ты моя, Шаганэ...

Шаганэ ты моя, Шаганэ!
Потому, что я с севера, что ли,
Я готов рассказать тебе поле,
Про волнистую рожь при луне.
Шаганэ ты моя, Шаганэ.

Потому, что я с севера, что ли,
Что луна там огромней в сто раз,
Как бы ни был красив Шираз,
Он не лучше рязанских раздолий.
Потому, что я с севера, что ли.

Я готов рассказать тебе поле,
Эти волосы взял я у ржи,
Если хочешь, на палец вяжи -
Я нисколько не чувствую боли.
Я готов рассказать тебе поле.

Про волнистую рожь при луне
По кудрям ты моим догадайся.
Дорогая, шути, улыбайся,
Не буди только память во мне
Про волнистую рожь при луне.

Шаганэ ты моя, Шаганэ!
Там, на севере, девушка тоже,
На тебя она страшно похожа,
Может, думает обо мне...
Шаганэ ты моя, Шаганэ.


I managed to find a relatively decent translation though not doing justice to the beauty of the original but still... it will give an idea.

Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet!
You will know because I am Nordic;
I can tell you a meadow, most scenic,
Moonlit rye waves one cannot forget.
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet,

You will know because I am Nordic;
So bright shines the moon out there
That it may outglow any glare
Of Shiraz blazing forth from its tunic.
You will know because I am Nordic;

I can tell you a meadow, most scenic,
For my hair was gifted from rye,
Twixt your fingers you may intertwine -
I don’t feel any pain, any heartache.
I can tell you a meadow, most scenic.

Moonlit rye waves, one cannot forget,
Look so much like my curly hair, darling.
Oh, my love, please keep joking and smiling,
But don’t let me think of the silhouette
Of the rye waves, one cannot forget.

Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet!
There, up north, lives a maiden who also
Does resemble you terribly close,
May be now she’s thinking of me…
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet.      
(http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shaganet-o-my-love-shaganet/)

The poem is part of the Persian cycle. The rhythm of this poem is very specific and surely reminds of the Eastern, Arabic samples of poetry. It's a beautiful story about the touch which sometimes causes us pain but we still linger for it, and about love, present and absent. What I dislike in the translation is that namely the part about the pain is not conveyed well enough and is somehow lost among descriptions.