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.

I've been reading - Esenin

Esenin (sometimes spelled Yesenin) is one of my favorite poets. It's only natural that he, as many others of his kind, found himself living in a world that couldn't accomodate neither his passion nor his pain. His love story with Isadora Duncan was not the medicine but many thought - the poison. May be the last drop. His death remains a mystery while there are too many questions surrounding the police report or the parts we have seen of it. Thankfully, there is little to ask when we read his poems. Some things do not need an explanation. There are some of his best works here (in English): http://vagalecs.narod.ru/yes-chron-eng.htm#You_don’t_love_me_and_don’t__feel

Sing, old man, to the bloody guitar, and

Let your fingers show natural bent.

I would choke in this drunken enchantment

You’re my last and my only friend.

Don’t you look at her wrist and the blooming

Silky shawl hanging down her head.

I was looking for joy in this woman

But I found perdition instead.

I did not know that love was infection,

I did not know that love was a plague.

She just came and feigning affection

Drove the rowdy mad, no mistake.

Sing and let me remember, brother,

Our fidgety youthful whirl.

Let her kiss, pet and fondle another,

Ah, this beautiful wicked girl!

No, no, wait. I don’t blame her or bully.

No, no, wait. I don’t damn or disgrace.

Let me sing now about yours truly

To the sound of this string of base.

Rosy vault of my days is streaming.

I’ve got plenty of golden dreams.

I have petted so many young women,

Touched and squeezed them, governed by whims.

Yes! There is bitter truth of the world

When a child I caught sight of that truth:

Troops of hounds, excited and wild,

Taking turns lick a bitch all in juice.

Why be jealous of her? I don’t get.

Being sick would mere pretext.

Our life is just bed-sheet and bed.

Our life is a kiss and a vortex.

Sing , old man! In the fateful sphere

Of these hands is a fated end.

Tell them all to f… out of here.

I will never be dead, my friend.

 

 

  * * *

You don’t love me and don’t feel compassion.

Don’t you think that now I look my best?

Though you look aside you’re thrilled with passion

As you put your arms upon my chest.

You are young, so sensitive and zealous,

I am neither bad nor very good to you.

Tell me, did you pet a lot of gentle fellows?

You remember many arms and lips. You do.

They are gone and haven’t touched you any,

Gone like shadows, leaving you aflame.

You have sat upon the laps of many,

You are sitting now on mine, without shame.

Though your eyes are closed, and you are rather

Thinking of some one you really trust,

After all, I do not love you either,

I am lost in thought about my dear past.

Don’t you call this zeal predestination?

Hasty tie is thoughtless and no good, -

Like I set up this unplanned connection,

I will smile when leaving you for good.

You will go the pathway of your own

Just to have your days unwisely spent,

Don’t approach the ones not fully grown,

Don’t entice the ones that never burnt.

When you walk with someone down the alley

Chatting merrily about love and all

Maybe, I’ll be out, walking round shyly,

And again, by chance, I’ll meet you, poor soul.

Squaring shoulders, ravishing and winning,

Bending forward, with an air kiss,

You will utter quietly: Good evening!

And I will reply: Good evening, miss.

Nothing will disturb my heart and spirit,

Nothing will perturb me giving pain,-

He who’s been in love will not retrieve it,

He who’s burnt will not be lit again.

December 4th, 1925