I am a poor wanderer. With the evening star I sing about God to the steppe killer whale. On a silken platter there is a fall of aspens, listen, people, to the swamps of the bogs. Broadly into the meadows, Kissing the pine tree, The fast-movers sing about paradise and spring. I, a poor wanderer, pray into the blue. On the fallen road I lie down in the grass. I rest sweetly Between the dewy beads; There is a lamp in the heart, and Jesus in the heart.
*****
I smell God’s Rainbow - It’s not in vain that I live, I worship the roadside, I fall on the grass. Between the pines, between the fir trees, Between the curly beads of birches, Under a wreath, in a ring of needles, I imagine Jesus. He calls me to the oak trees, as if to the kingdom of heaven, And the cloud-covered forest burns in the lilac brocade. The dove spirit from God, Like a fiery tongue, took possession of my path, drowned out my weak cry. The flame pours into the abyss of vision, In the heart is the joy of childhood dreams, From birth I believed in the Mother of God's protection.
*****
Our faith has not been extinguished, Holy are the songs and psalms. The sun's oil is pouring onto the green hills. I believe, dear homeland, and I know that your foot is light, The Godless Path is not the only one that leads us to paradise. All your paths are in luck, But there is no happiness in only one: It is chained in the white cry of those who have unraveled the new world. There are chambers set up Of church bricks; Those chambers are casemates and the iron sound of chains. Don’t look for me in God, Don’t call me to love and live... I will go along that road, I will lay down my head violently.
*****
The Lord came to torture people in love, He went out to the village as a beggar. The old grandfather on a dry stump, in an oak grove, chewed a stale crumpet with his gums. The grandfather saw a beggar on the way, On the path, with an iron stick, And he thought: “Look, how wretched, You know, he’s swaying from hunger, sick.” The Lord approached, hiding his sorrow and torment: Apparently, they say, you can’t wake up their hearts... And the old man said, holding out his hand: “Here, chew... you’ll be a little stronger.”
*****
You didn’t believe in my God, Russia, my homeland! You, like a sorceress, gave the measure, And I was like your stepson. The fighter forgot his bold courage, the Prophet grew tired and became blind. Oh, give me a cool hand - To walk the same path. Let's go, let's go, sleepy princess, To cheerful faith and alone, Where the eternal joy shines like the Burning Bush. Don’t let your head rest on your mighty chest And don’t be afraid of a prophetic dream. Oh, be my guiding mother in my fatal fall.
*****
Open to me, guardian above the clouds, the blue doors of the day. The white angel stole my horse this midnight. God doesn’t need anything extra, My horse is my strength and strength. I hear him whinnying pitifully, biting the golden chain. I see how he fights, rushes, tugging at a tight lasso, and flies from it, like from a month, dun wool into the fog.
*****
Your voice is invisible, like smoke in a hut. I pray to you with a humble heart. With the oatmeal face I feed the spirit, Helper of life and quiet friend. Light is sown with the ore of the sun, There is no name for eternal truth. The sand of dreams is counting time, But you added new grains. Words grow in invisible fields, Feather grass mingles with thoughts. On the strong folds of his upraised arms The builder of the church builds the sound. There is joy in souls - to trample your color, to see your footprint in the first snow. But more beautiful is the meekness and subsided ardor of those who bowed their eyelids before the ringing of wings.
*****
I have only one fun left: Fingers in the mouth - and a cheerful whistle. Notoriety has spread that I am a bawdy and a brawler.
Oh! what a funny loss! There are many funny losses in life. I'm ashamed that I believed in God. It’s sad for me that I don’t believe it now.
Golden, distant distances! Everyday death burns everything. And I was obscene and scandalous in order to burn brighter.
The poet's gift is to caress and scribble, a fatal stamp on him. I wanted to marry a white rose with a black toad on earth.
Let them not succeed, let these thoughts of rosy days not come true. But if devils nested in the soul, then angels lived in it.
It’s for this joy that is muddied, Going with her to another land, I want, at the last minute, to Ask those who will be with me, -
So that for all my grave sins, for disbelief in grace, they put me in a Russian shirt under icons to die.
*****
I won’t caress any girl. Ah, I love only one, Forgetting earthly love, In heaven the Mother of God.
I am free to think within myself, Spring sings in my soul. Ah, often in a dark cell I called her from the icon to my bed of sleep.
And at the hour when midnight struck, In the cheerful darkness of the night She descended like a shadow And streamed nipples into the mouth of the Baby in her arms.
And, sitting next to me, She whispered to me: “Humble yourself, my delight, We will meet by the garden In the heavenly side.”
*****
In the green church behind the mountain, Where the willows dropped their rosaries, I remember with prosphora the young ones who were young in spring.
And you, bowed down, stand invisibly before me, the silk of lowered eyelashes swaying with the wings of a cherub.
Your white rock is not darkened by your frozen time, The same pink scarf is pulled together with a dark hand.
The same sigh presses elasticly on your broken shoulders About who lives overseas and who is far from their homeland.
And the memory of the day becomes ever more viscous Before the decent face of life. Oh, pray for me too, for the homeless in my homeland.
*****
What do you want, blizzard? You howl at the window, disturbing a sick heart, causing sadness and sadness.
Go away quickly, Let me forget myself a little, Or don’t you hear - I’m crying, Repenting of my sins before God?
Let me, with fervent prayer, merge with soul and strength. I've spent all my spirit, I'll soon hide in the grave.
Sing over me then, Only now have you gone away, Or pray with me for a sinful soul.
*****
Behind the mountains, behind the yellow valleys, a trail of villages stretches. I see a forest and an evening fire, And a hedge entwined with nettles.
There, in the morning, over the church domes, the heavenly sand turns blue, and the roadside grasses ring from the lakes with a watery breeze.
It is not for the songs of spring over the plain that the green expanse is dear to me - I fell in love with the melancholy of a crane On a high mountain a monastery.
Every evening, as the blue clouds over, as the dawn hangs on the bridge, you go, my poor wanderer, to bow to love and the cross.
The meek spirit of the monastery resident, You eagerly listen to the litany, Pray before the face of the savior For my lost soul.
*****
It is not the winds that shower the forests, nor the falling leaves that turn the hills into gold. From the blue of the invisible bush Starry psalms flow.
I see - in a blue chickadee, on light-winged clouds, the beloved mother is walking with her most pure son in her arms.
She brings for the world again the Crucifixion of the risen Christ: “Go, my son, live, bring shelter, Zoryuy and spend an afternoon at the bush.”
And in every poor wanderer I will go with longing to find out whether the one anointed by God is knocking with a birch bark stick.
And maybe I’ll pass by and not notice in the secret hour that in the fir trees are the wings of a cherub, and under the stump is the hungry Savior.
*****
Kaliki passed through villages, Drank kvass under the windows, At churches in front of the ancient gates They worshiped the Most Pure Savior.
The wanderers made their way across the field and sang a verse about the sweetest Jesus. Nags with luggage stomped past, Loud-voiced geese sang along.
The wretched hobbled through the herd, They spoke painful speeches: “We all serve the Lord alone, Laying chains on our shoulders.”
They hurriedly took out the saved crumbs for the cows. And the shepherdesses shouted mockingly: “Girls, dance! The buffoons are coming!”
*****
In the crimson glow, the sunset is effervescent and foamy, White birch trees are burning in their crowns. My verse greets the young princesses and young meekness in their tender hearts.
Where are the pale shadows and sorrowful torments, They extend their royal hands to those who went to suffer for us, Blessing them for the hour to come.
On a white bed, in the bright glare of light, The one whose life they want to return is sobbing... And the walls of the infirmary tremble with pity that squeezes their chest.
An irresistible hand pulls them closer and closer to where sorrow sets its seal on the forehead. Oh, pray, Saint Magdalene, for their fate.
*****
It’s not because of the cold that the mountain ash tree is trembling, It’s not because of the wind that the blue sea is boiling.
They watered the earth with the joy of snow, Grandfather dreams of the Jordanian shores.
He sees lakes and bushes in the valleys, Bridges are thrown across the lakes.
Like a young man, the son of Joseph, Jesus, wandering along a bridge, curly-haired and yellow-haired.
From sunrise to sunset in the gloomy waters, he calls ducks and fishes:
“You come to me, creatures, behind the stern, Teach me reason.”
As if along the bank, between the washouts and mountains, their conversation flows quietly.
A small fish, splashed on the sand, voices its underwater voice:
“You, child, dear child, Christ, We came to you with a bow for interrogation.
You go and study in deserts and forests; Our secret was reflected in the heavens."
*****
Mantises are walking along the road, Wormwood and butts are underfoot. Pushing apart the pinching pegs, the crutches ring in the ditches.
Bast shoes are trampling across the field of the dollhouse, Somewhere the neighing and snoring of a herd, And a booming ringing, like the voice of cast iron, calls them from the big bell tower.
The old women are shaking off their duleys, The girls are knitting their braids to their toes. From the courtyard, from a high cell, the monks look at their scarves.
On the gates of the monastery there are signs: “I will give peace to those who come to me,” And dogs scattered in the garden, As if sensing thieves on the threshing floor.
The twilight is licking the gold of the sun, In the distant groves the ringing echoes... In the shadow of the willow-spindle, the Mantises go to the canon.
*****
The dirge messages have come to us like a stray bird. Motherland, black nun, Reads psalms for her sons.
The red threads of the Book of Hours sprinkled the words with blood. I know that you are ready to die, But your death will be alive.
In the church during a quiet mass I will take out the prosphora for you, I will pray for your last breath and a tear from my cheek in the morning.
And you are from a bright paradise, In robes whiter than day, Cross yourself as if dying, Because you didn’t love me.
*****
In the lunar lace the valley stealthily catches ghosts. On the shrine behind the lamp Magdalene smiled.
Someone impudent, rebellious, Envyed the smile. The black evening swelled like a thorn, And the moon was like a white ripple.
A three-way blizzard breaks out, sweat splashes, cold, tart, and a weeping bream climbs towards the wind on its backs.
Death sharpens the razor in the darkness... There Magdalene is already crying. Remember my prayer He who walks through the valleys.
*****
The dozing bell woke up the fields, The sleepy land smiled at the sun.
The blows rushed towards the blue skies, A voice resounded loudly through the forests.
The White Moon disappeared behind the river, A playful wave ran loudly.
The quiet valley drives away sleep, Somewhere along the road the ringing fades away.
*****
It’s not the clouds wandering behind the barn And it’s not the cold. The Mother of God kneaded it for her son Kolob.
She gave every kind of medicine to the fat in oil. She baked it and put it quietly in the manger.
The baby began to play in joy, fell into a doze, and dropped the gilded kolob onto the straw.
The kolob rolled through the gates of Rozhya. Tears have clouded the blue soul of God.
The Mother of God advised her son: “Don’t cry, my little swan, don’t complain.
All people on earth are human, Chad. They need at least one little fun.
It’s scary for them between the dark Peresitsy, I called this kolob - Month.”
*****
The scarlet darkness in the heavenly mob drew a line with fire. I have come to your vespers, Wilderness.
My life is not easy, But my eyes are bluer than the day. I know, Mother Earth Blueberry, We are all close relatives.
We went far and wide under the azure wing. But the psalm will call us from the psalter to the Dawn of the Dawn.
And we will come across the plains To the truth of the sewn cross With the light of a book like a dove To water our lips.
*****
Keeping the covenant of my native beliefs - To harbor a bashful fear of sin, I wandered in a stone cave, Like a tempted monk. Like ants, people swarmed from the cracks of hollowed out blocks, And, folding, their breasts moved, Like the scales of gnarled fish. It was so loud in my soul In the swaddling clothes of stone and flint. On every strip of the alley Moaned the cow's roar of shadows. The winds rattled like glass, the distance threatened the face like a whip, and the sky frowned and faded, like a woman’s worn-out shawl. With a smile of serpentine sin, a girlish laughter beckoned me, But I kept the covenant of baptism - I don’t give a damn about Satan with a prayer. Like knives on a steel road, my boots were torn on the stones, And I heard a voice from God: “Forget what you saw and run!”
*****
Oh arable lands, arable lands, arable lands, Kolomna sadness, Yesterday is in the heart, And Rus' shines in the heart.
Like birds, the miles whistle from under the horse's hooves. And the sun sprinkles a handful of its rain on me.
O land of threatening floods and quiet spring forces, Here I went to school at dawn and stars.
And I thought and read from the Bible of the winds, And Isaiah grazed with me My golden cows.
*****
Village! There is peace in my soul. A dear village in Ukraine, and full of fairy tales and miracles, there is a green forest all around the village. The gardens are blooming, the huts are turning white, And on the mountain there are chambers, And in front of the painted window In the silk leaves of the poplar, And there is all the forest, and all the fields, And the steppe, and the mountains beyond the Dnieper... And in the dark blue sky God Himself hovers over the village.
*****
Rejoice! The earth has appeared as a New Font! The blue snowstorms burned out, and the snake lost its sting. O Motherland, My Russian field, And you, her sons, Who stopped the moon and the sun on the stockade, - Praise God! In a man's nursery a flame was born for the peace of the whole world! New Nazareth Before you. The shepherds are already glorifying His morning. The light is beyond the mountains...
Perish, English youth, Splash across the seas! Our northern miracle cannot be comprehended by your sons! You won’t know Favor, You won’t hear the secret call! Of a hazy gaze There is a veil on your lips. More and more stubborn, more and more in vain Your mouth catches the darkness. No, you will not let Christ tell the truth in your manger! But know, Deep Sleepers: She has caught fire, Star of the East! Herod cannot extinguish it with the blood of infants... “Dance, Salome, dance!” Your legs are light and winged. You kiss lips without a soul, But your hour of reckoning is near! John has already stood up, Exhausted from his wounds, Raised his severed head from the ground, And again His lips thunder, Again they threaten Sodom: “Come to your senses!” People, my brothers people, Where are you? Respond! I don't need you, fearless, bloodthirsty knight. I don’t want your victory, I don’t need Dani! We are all apple and cherry trees in the Blue Garden. We are all bunches of grapes of the Golden Summer, There will be enough warmth and light for all of us until our death! Someone wise, untold, all like himself, warms all the living with a song, warms the dead with sleep in a coffin. Someone teaches us and asks us to comprehend and measure. We did not come to destroy the world, but to love and believe!
*****
So that the sick mother does not swear, I will come like... a bitch, to die at the threshold.
I
You see that the night is good, There is neither cold nor heat. So why did you not sleep at all under the moonlight powder that night?
Why didn't you sleep? Tell me, I will (endure) everything, I will endure (survive) everything. And at least during the yellow month I will harvest the unsown strip.
In spring there is winter, Yes, winter! You saw her, my love, yourself. A birch tree, like a blizzard with a green sleeve, Although it is sad, it is not for me alive.
Tell me, honey, when does she get sad? Spring is all around, and my life is ending. But going to the grave and death taking the bed of a woody blizzard.
That’s why, whenever my eye is sharp, the rowan fire warms my soul, But everything will pass forever, like this heat in my chest, Dear birch, wait, don’t go.
II
Sled. Sled. Horse racing. Field. Roosters and the wind. I fell in love with Russian snow Because it is clean and bright.
I myself am Russian and distant, I will never hide: That star that fate gave me will disappear with me.
*
The night passes. The light went out. A rooster crows outside the window. And why is He singing so early - a fool and rubbish?
But if there is a meaning and a sign in that, I am a fool like him.
*
The sky is gloomy. The sky is darkening. I am used to voices and am deaf. Only you, a good hen, I wish, distant rooster.
We have nothing to do, and do we need to? I'll die, just don't lie down. Mine, I would like, carrion The chicken life flourished.
III
You see that the sky is gray and hangs and sticks to your eyes. Forgive me that I don’t believe in God - I pray to him at night.
That's what I need. And you need to pray. And, wanting someone else's warmth, So that the soul, like a wingless bird, could not fly away from the earth.
*****
I visited my birthplace, the village where I lived as a boy, where the bell tower without a cross rose up like a tower with a birch tower.
How much has changed there, In their poor, unsightly life. What a multitude of discoveries followed on my heels.
I could not recognize my father's house; The noticeable maple tree no longer waves under the window, and the mother no longer sits on the porch, feeding the chickens grainy porridge.
She must have become old... Yes, she is old. I sadly look around at the surroundings: What an unfamiliar area to me: One mountain, like the one before, is white, And near the mountain there is a tall gray stone. There's a cemetery here! Rotten crosses, As if the dead were in hand-to-hand combat, Frozen with outstretched arms.
An old man walks along the path, leaning on his foot, sweeping away dust from the weeds.
“Passerby! Tell me, my friend, where Tatyana Yesenina lives here?”
“Tatyana... Hm... Yes, behind that hut. What are you saying to her? Akin? Al, maybe his son is lost?
"Yes son. But what, old man, is the matter with you? Tell me, why do you look so sorrowful?”
“It’s good, my grandson, it’s good that you didn’t recognize your grandfather!..” “Oh, grandfather, is it really you?” And the sad conversation flowed with warm tears onto the dusty flowers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“You, perhaps, will soon be thirty... And I’m already ninety... Soon to the coffin. It would have been time to come back a long time ago,” He says, and he himself still wrinkles his forehead. “Yes!.. Time!.. Aren’t you a communist?” “No!..” “And the sisters became Komsomol members. Such disgusting! Just hang yourself! Yesterday the icons were thrown off the shelf, the commissioner removed the cross from the church. Now there is no place to pray to God. I’m sneaking into the forest these days, praying to the aspen trees... Maybe this will come in handy... Let’s go home - you’ll see everything for yourself.”
And we go, trampling between the dolls. I smile at the fields and forests, And my grandfather looks longingly at the bell tower. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Great, mother! Great!" - And I again pull the handkerchief to my eyes. Even a cow could burst into tears here, looking at this poor corner.
There is a Lenin calendar on the wall. This is the life of sisters, sisters, and not mine, - But I’m still ready to fall on my knees, Seeing you, beloved lands.
Neighbors came... A woman with a child. Nobody recognizes me anymore. In Byron's style, our little dog greeted me with a bark at the gate.
Ah, dear land! You have become the wrong one, the wrong one. Yes, and I, of course, am not the same. The sadder and more hopeless the mother and grandfather are, the more merrily the sister’s mouth laughs.
Of course, Lenin is not an icon for me either, I know the world... I love my family... But for some reason I still sit down on a wooden bench with a bow.
“Well, speak up, sister!” And so the sister makes a fool of me, Opening her pot-bellied “Capital” like a Bible, About Marx, Engels... No matter the weather, I, of course, have not read these books.
And it’s funny to me, How a nimble girl takes me by the collar in everything... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . In Byron's style, our little dog greeted me with a bark at the gate.
*****
Advent (A. Bely)
— 1 —
Lord, I believe!.. But bring My pierced land into your paradise with rain arrows. Behind the untrodden mountain, In the blue of the valleys, Again, oh my God, Your son appears to me. I pray for you from men's places; From Russia, which has seen the light, He bears His cross. But before the mystery of the island of beginningless words, there are no apostles behind it, no disciples.
— 2 —
O Rus', ever-virgin, trampling death! From the womb of the stars you descended onto the firmament. On the sheep's manger I gave birth to the valley Because among the forerunners there was a plowman and an ox. Look at the fields, at the harvested oats, - under the snowy willow your Christ has fallen! Again his warriors are lashing him with whips and beating his head on the ledges of darkness...
— 3 —
But to the whirlwind of the abyss He is mute and deaf. A rooster crows from the constellation pole. O friends, where are you? The time is approaching. You are dark, womb, and the cross is high. Here the mountain warrior felt the darkness. Christ's caretaker sits in the corner. “I saw: with him he sowed darkness for us!” “No, I’m not Simon... A simple fisherman.” The mold sighed, And the snow went out... Then the rooster crowed the third song.
— 4 —
By God, my King! Devils in their arms Rocked the earth. Again at his coming the cross is raised. The sky is being torn apart again. The silence of the fields and the mind sharpens the spears. Staircase to your garden Without steps. How will I ascend, how will I climb along it With blood on my fathers and brothers? The earth is pulling me, the sands are cordoning me off. On your rivers Sokhnu.
— 5 —
Simone, Peter... Where are you? Come. The willows trembled: “There, ahead!” Simone, Peter... Where are you? I'm calling! Someone whispers: “Shout into the blue!” He shouted - and the darkness rose loudly. The red-haired fisherman came out with a knapsack. “Friend...Where are you from?” “Followed you...” “Who are you?” - “Judas!” — The surf mumbled. The nests of the Cloud Robes collapsed. The star swallows sank down.
— 6 —
O hosts! Cover your son with your protection of rivers and lakes! Under the willow the howls are beating him and your snows are being crushed by Calvary. Oh, the cheek of the rains, Break the blade of the sunset... With the trumpets of the blizzard, Raise tongues... But not in court or condemnation.
— 7 —
Appear above Olivet and the truth of our places! We will sprinkle your cross with handfuls of golden sunshine. The hills sing about a miracle, The sand rings about paradise. Oh, I believe, I believe - your east will calve! He will throw us a heifer into the seas of oats and buckwheat... But the time is long until we meet, And death is so close! Can you still the neighing of the storm and the roar of thunder? Spill a bucket of azure on the ancient days! And let me draw freedom from the Bear and sleep, So that with the flowing soul I can fertilize the black soil...
*****
The sacrifice has been made
Sergei Yesenin, third from the right, among fellow villagers. 1909-1910
What homeland is Losev talking about? Which Motherland did Yesenin write about? According to the Western European philosopher of the 20th century Martin Heidegger, man is constantly in search of the “unknown Motherland,” that hidden world, the involvement of which is undeniable for Losev. This is “what created me and others, what will receive me after death.” “Motherland” for Losev, who wrote these lines in 1941, is obviously not just a certain territory. This is a spiritual homeland, which can only be reached through the Heavenly Gates through sacrificial means. Poetry was such a sacrificial path for Yesenin.
And Yesenin does not sacrifice the village to the city, not Russia to the West, but makes his own life the “matter” of his creativity, elevating, transforming, reconstructing the circumstances of his life. His life passes, squeezed in the vice of the images of the “humble monk” and the “brawler” created by him. The image became reality, the sacrifice was made:
Oh, the bush of my head has withered, I have been sucked into captivity by song, I am condemned to the penal servitude of feelings, Turning the millstone of poems.
The poet’s sacrificial path is akin to the tragic fate of the main character of his poem “Pugachev”. Yesenin has him - an incorrigible utopian with a tender soul, dreaming of an ideal Rus', but ready to take decisive and cruel actions to achieve this wonderful goal. Pugachev, at the will of the poet, goes through the path of kenotic devastation: “Do you really fall under your soul as under a burden?” On kenosis (from Greek - devastation, exhaustion; in Christianity - the self-abasement of Christ up to the incarnation and death on the cross. - Ed.), writes historian Georgy Fedotov, one cannot build either politics or culture, one can only build spiritual life.
Transfiguration (to Razumnik Ivanov)
— 1 —
The clouds are barking, the golden-toothed heights are roaring... I sing and cry: Lord, calve!
Before the gates to heaven I knock: Swaddle the Heifer of Rus' with stars.
My hand reaches behind the clouds, A song rustles through the storm, Give me heavenly milk today.
Your thunder roars menacingly, You can hear the splash of your wings. New Sodom Burns Ehudiel.
But firmly, without looking back, Lot comes out of the new red gates along the field of waters.
— 2 —
Isn’t that why the cricket sings in the birch bushes About how the east covered the rye with its pink face;
About how the Mother of God, Throwing on a blue robe, At the outskirts of the clouds Calls the calves to heaven.
In the morning, over the autumn forest, I hear the call of the trumpet. The tit calfs He is talking about the verb of fate.
“Oh, believe, the sky will foam, Like a bark, a wave will sparkle. Above the grove the moon whelps as a golden puppy.
The water will shade the world with other grass and thicket. Like a murmuring robin, a star will fly into the bushes.
And a grain of wheat will crawl out of the ear, like a swarm, To lighten the darkness with the voice of a bee..."
— 3 —
Hey, Russians! Fishers of the universe, who have scooped up the sky with a net of dawn, Blow your trumpets.
Under the plow of the storm the earth roars. The golden-fanged Omezh destroys the rocks.
A new sower wanders through the fields, throws new grains into the furrows.
A bright guest is coming to you in a car. The Mare is running through the clouds.
The harness on the mare is Xin. The bells on the harness are Stars.
— 4 —
Quiet, wind, Don't bark, water glass. Milk will rain from heaven through red nets.
The word swells with wisdom, The ears of the field are filled with elm, Above the clouds, like a cow, The dawn lifts its tail.
I see you from the window, generous Creator, Hanging the heavens with a robe above the earth.
Now the Sun, like a cat, touches my hair from the heavenly willow with its golden paw.
— 5 —
The hour of transfiguration is ripening, He will come, our bright guest, Take out the rusted nail from crucified patience.
From morning to noon, With thunder singing in the sky, He will fill our everyday life with milk like buckets.
And from evening to night, the never-sunset glorifying land, the stars will prophesy the Silver-grass harvest.
And when the moon bends its face over the Volga to drink the water, He, hanging into the golden boat, will sail away to his gardens.
And from the blue bosom, with a wide swing of the oar, like an egg, the word will drop to us With a hatched chick.
*****
Jordan pigeon
— 1 —
My land, golden! Autumn light temple! A flock of noisy geese rushes towards the clouds.
Then the souls of the transformed, an innumerable host, rising from the sleepy lakes, fly into the heavenly garden.
And in front of them is a swan. There is sadness in the eyes, like a grove. Aren't you crying like that in the sky, Rus' that has set sail?
Fly, fly, don't fight, There is an hour and a destination for everything. The winds flow into the song, And the song will sink into the century.
— 2 —
The sky is like a bell, The month is a language, My mother is my homeland, I am a Bolshevik.
For the sake of the universal Brotherhood of man, I rejoice in the song of your Death.
Strong and strong, To your destruction, I ring the blue bell for a month.
Lay brothers, my song to you. I hear the Good News in the fog.
— 3 —
Here it is, here is the dove, perched on the hand of the wind, My meadow Jordan swirls again with the dawn.
I praise you, blue one, the heights driven by the stars. Again to my father's paradise My hands rose.
I see you, green fields, with a herd of dun horses. The Apostle Andrew wanders in the willows with a shepherd's pipe.
And, full of pain and anger, There, on the outskirts of the village, the Most Pure Virgin Mother lashes a donkey with a rod.
— 4 —
My brothers, people, people! All of us, all of us someday, will be in those good villages, Where the Milky Way is trodden.
Do not feel sorry for those who have left, Those who leave every hour, There on the lilies of the valley that bloomed Better than in our fields.
The guardian of love is fate-the bribe-taker. Happiness does not last forever. Who was the favorite today - Tomorrow a beggar.
— 5 —
O new, new, new, cloud-cutting day! Sun-headed youth, sit under the fence with me.
Let me comb your hair with the comb of the moon. We have learned to greet guests with this custom.
The ancient shadow of Mauritius is related to our hills, Abraham visited us with rain on the golden fields.
Sit on my porch, quietly lean on my shoulder. I will light a blue star with a candle in front of you.
I will pray to you, glorify your Jordan... Here it is, here is the dove, perched on the hand of the wind.
*****
Inonia (to the prophet Jeremiah)
— 1 —
I will not be afraid of death, neither spears nor arrows of rain, - This is what Prophet Yesenin Sergei says according to the Bible.
My time has come, I am not afraid of the clang of the whip. The body, the body of Christ, I spit out of my mouth.
I don’t want to accept salvation through his torment and the cross: I comprehended differently the teaching of the stars that perforate eternity.
I saw a different coming - Where death does not dance over the truth. Like a sheep from filthy wool, I will shorn the blue firmament.
I’ll raise my hands to the month, I’ll crush it like a nut. I don't want heaven without stairs, I don't want snow to fall.
I don’t want the face to frown skillfully on the lakes. Today I was laid like a hen, a golden verbal egg.
Today, with an elastic hand, I am ready to turn the whole world... The stormy blizzard spilled out from my shoulders, eight wings.
— 2 —
The barking of bells over Russia is menacing - These are the walls of the Kremlin crying. Now I lift you up onto the peaks of the stars, earth!
I will reach out to the invisible city, I will bite through the Milky cover. I will pluck even God's beard with the baring of my teeth.
I will grab him by the white mane and tell him in the voice of a blizzard: I will make you different, Lord, so that my verbal meadow may mature!
I curse the breath of Kitezh and all the hollows of its roads. I want us to build a palace for ourselves on a bottomless stretch.
With my tongue I will lick the faces of martyrs and saints on the icons. I promise you the city of Inonia, Where the Divinity of the living lives!
Cry and howl, Muscovy! New Indicoplov has arrived. I will peck all the prayers in your book of hours with my beak of words.
I will lead your people away from hope, I will give them faith and power, so that with a plow in the early dawns they will plow the night with the sun.
So that his verbal field Grows grain with hives, So that the grains under the roof of heaven brighten the darkness like bees.
I curse you, Radonezh, your heels and all your footprints! You loosened the golden deposits of fire with a pickaxe.
A flock of your clouds, barking like a wolf, Like a pack of angry wolves, All calling and all daring have pierced their fangs with a spear.
Your sun with clawed paws clawed into the soul like a knife. On the rivers of Babylon we cried, And the bloody rain drenched us.
Now, in the stormy voice of an ox, I shout, taking off Christ’s pants: Wash your hands and hair from the basin of the second moon.
I tell you, you will all perish, the moss of your faith will suffocate you all. In a different way, over our arch, God swelled like an invisible cow.
And in vain those who hate the roar settle in caves. All the same - he will be a different sun in our Russian shelter.
All the same - he will burn the body that forged the river's shore. His golden horns will pierce the world's boiling waters.
A new one will do Olipius. Draw his new face. I’m telling you, I’ll drink all the air and stretch out my tongue like a comet.
I will stretch my legs to Egypt, I will strip horseshoes of torment from you... To both poles the snow-horned ones I will scream with the pincers of my hands.
I will press down the equator with my knee And, crying under the storm and whirlwind, I will break our mother earth in half like a golden roll.
And into the abyss, shadowed by the abyss, so that the whole world can hear that crackling sound, I thrust my hair-starry head through like the shine of the sun.
And four suns from the cloud, Like four barrels from a mountain, Scattering golden hoops, Rolling down, they will shake up the worlds.
— 3 —
And I tell you, America, the broken half of the earth, - Fear the iron ships to sail on the seas of unbelief!
Don’t overwhelm the Niva with a cast-iron rainbow and the rivers with granite. Only the waters of free Ladoga will drill into man’s existence!
Don’t drive the ceiling of heaven into the wasteland with your blue hands: Don’t build with nail heads The radiance of distant stars.
Do not fill the fire fermentation with lava of steel ore. I will leave traces on the earth of a new ascension.
I’ll hang from the clouds with my heels, I’ll dig through the clouds like an elk; The wheels of the sun and the month will be placed on the earth's axis.
I tell you - do not sing prayers to your wire rays. They will not illuminate the coming of a sheep running through the mountains!
There is still an archer in you. Shoot an arrow into his chest. Like a fire, warm blood will splash from his white fur into the darkness.
The golden hooves of stars will roll down, furrowing the night. And again the knitting needles flash above her black stocking.
Then I will roar with the wheels of the Sun and the Moon like thunder; Like a fire, I’ll mark out my hair and cover my face with my wing.
I will shake the mountains by the ears, I will pull out the feather grass with spears. All your walls, all your fences I’ll sweep away like dust with a handful.
And I will plow the black cheeks of your fields with a new plow; The golden fortieth Harvest will fly over your country.
The new one will ring the inhabitants of the Spike Wings. And, like golden poles, the Sun will stretch its rays to the valley.
New pines will grow on the palms of your fields. And, like squirrels, yellow springs will jump on the branches of days.
The blue rivers will dawn, Having drilled through all the barriers of the blocks. And the dawn, lowering its eyelids, will catch starry fish in them.
I tell you - there will be a time, The lips of thunder will spit out; The ears of your grain will pierce the blue crown.
And above the world from an invisible staircase, Announcing the fields and meadows, Having pecked from the heart of the month, The rooster will crow and fly.
— 4 —
I walk through the clouds, as if through a field, hanging with my head down. I hear the splash of the blue shower and the light of the thin-billed whistle.
I am reflected in the blue backwaters of my distant lakes. I see you, Inonia, With the golden caps of the mountains.
I see your fields and huts, your old mother on the porch; She tries to catch the sunset ray with her fingers.
It will pinch it at the window, grab it on its hump, - And the sun, like a cat, pulls the ball towards itself.
And quietly, to the whisper of the river, To the coastal echo in the hem, Like drops of an invisible candle, A song drips from the mountains:
“Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth! The moon has broken through the clouds with its blue horn.
Someone hatched a goose from the egg of a star - Bright Jesus, peck at the tracks.
Someone with new faith, Without cross and torment, Stretched a Rainbow in the sky like a bow.
Rejoice, Zion, Shed your light! New in the sky Nazareth has matured.
New on a mare Rides to the world Spas. Our faith is strong. Our truth is in us!”
*****
LiveInternetLiveInternet
An analysis of the spiritual context of Yesenin’s work clearly shows that the poet knew perfectly well the main body of texts of the “Orthodox Prayer Book”.
His early introduction to prayer practice was due to the influence of his grandfather and grandmother, who from the age of three took their grandson to the surrounding monasteries. In the poem “Letter to Grandfather” (1924), the poet memorably recreates the names of the prayers that his grandfather taught him: “It is worthy to eat” and with “Our Father”, “Creed”.
Yesenin learned the basics of spiritual disciplines at the Konstantinovsky Zemstvo four-year school in 1904-1909. The organization of the educational process here was quite serious. Starting from the 1st grade, not only the Law of God was studied, but also “reading and writing Church Slavonic”; in the 4th grade, the Church Slavonic language and reading the Gospel with translation into Russian were taught on a more systematic basis. Each student was given a “Teaching Book of Hours.” Class essays on spiritual topics were widely practiced: “Temple Feast,” “Celebration of Easter,” “Trinity Day,” “Journey to the Theological Monastery.” Students were required to have a solid knowledge of prayers.
It is also important to note the fact of young Yesenin’s direct participation in the festive services of his native parish. As his fellow villager and peer M.I. recalled. Kopytov, “on major holidays he sang in the church choir. His voice was soft, a little husky. And we will come closer and pull it. He endures, endures, and then laughs. Father will look at him so menacingly, he will quiet down.”
The knowledge of prayer texts, which later played a large role in enriching Yesenin’s poetic vocabulary and imaginative thinking, was especially deeply absorbed by him at the Spas-Klepikovsky church-teachers’ school, where the future poet studied in 1909-1912.
In the funds of the Spas-Klepikovsky branch of the State Museum-Reserve S.A. Yesenin contains unpublished or little-known to a wide range of researchers memories of Yesenin’s classmates, as well as other students who graduated from this educational institution around the same years. From the memoirs it is clear that great attention was paid to participation in divine services and prayer at school. Thus, students were required to regularly attend the local Transfiguration Church.
Religious life at the Spas-Klepikovskaya school, which trained teachers of literacy schools, most of whom, after additional tests, became teachers of parochial schools, was truly eventful.
The mentors supervised the spiritual reading of the students. “We read books by Russian classics, but there was also a lot of church literature,” recalled K.S., who studied at the school. Marushkin (b. 1896). “Each student had a Gospel, a small one, that was given to us,” testified M.N. Molchanov, born in 1898, studied two classes below Yesenin.
Among the spiritual disciplines, Yesenin and his classmates studied the Law of God, church, general and Russian history, church singing, the Church Slavonic language and schism. Subsequently, in one of his “Autobiographies,” Yesenin recalled that from the Spas-Klepikovsky school he took away “a strong knowledge of the Church Slavonic language,” and, consequently, knowledge of liturgical texts and prayers, which were used by teachers as the main didactic material.
Yesenin could observe the inner life of the church not only as part of the mandatory attendance at services that were prescribed to students. Sometimes other circumstances contributed to this. His classmate Artem Chernov recalled: “In the summer, during the holidays, many schoolchildren went home. Sergei and I stayed in Klepiki. To have at least a little money, they went to church. They helped dress the priest before prayer services and carried out other assignments,”
Perhaps it is from here that Yesenin has such an exhaustive knowledge of cult objects of service and various types of church vestments, reflected in his poems (epistrachelion, orarion, surplice, chasuble, skufia, cassock, shawl, etc.).
Yesenin was greatly influenced by prayer and church hymn poetry. The poet's works testify to his deep knowledge of the main genres of church hymnography. Among them are the troparion (“Native Land! Troparion of the Saints...”; “The sleepy troparion of the fish bursts out...”), the canon (“The pilgrims go to the canon...”, “Trinity morning, morning canon...”, “Serve, inkwell, forest canon...", "They will carry us to church to the worldly canon..."), psalm ("From the blueness of the invisible bush / Starry psalms flow...").
Yesenin includes in his poems motifs of special prayers and prayer chants: among them - a prayer against lack of rain (“The drought has dried up the sowing…”), a funeral lithium (“Wake”), a memorial service in the church (“Caught in by a stray bird…”).
The reading of the Psalter as an act of funeral service is recreated by Yesenin in verses imbued with tragic motives caused by the deprivations of the First World War:
Carried away by a vagrant bird
Funeral songs for us.
Motherland, black nun,
Reads psalms for his sons...
(“Caught in by a stray bird...”)
Thematically related to this poem is “Mother’s Prayer,” inspired by the same military events:
The old woman prays and remembers her son.
A son saves his homeland in a distant land.
("Mother's Prayer")
The poet’s works present a wide range of prayer texts - in the form of verbatim quotes or reminiscences, variations, and motives. Among them we have noted: the Jesus Prayer, prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, prayer for the fatherland, memorial prayer, fragments of penitential and “praise” psalms, liturgical hymns performed at the All-Night Vigil during the Easter liturgy, akathists to “Jesus the Sweetest” and “St. Nicholas” and etc.
It is important to note that prayer motives appear with varying degrees of intensity at different stages of Yesenin’s creative path, although each of them is characterized by a certain dominant type of prayer.
In the “biblical” poems of 1917-1919, conciliar public prayer sounds more clearly, church hymnographic and psalmodic traditions, and akathist chants manifest themselves more actively. The intonations of spiritual rhetoric and the elements of direct communication with God are noticeably intensified: “Lord, I believe!” ("Advent")
“Letter to a Mother” is essentially a polemical interpretation of the Mother of God prayer. Refusing prayer (“And don’t teach to pray. Don’t! / There is no longer a return to the old ...”), the poet addresses traditional “akathist” definitions (“help”, “joy”, “unspeakable light”) to his dear “old woman”. The nationwide popularity of this poem can be explained precisely by the fact that in a non-religious era the poet was able to find an earthly analogue for the archetype of the Mother of God deeply rooted in the people's soul - holy maternal love, to create, in essence, a secular prayer addressed to the Mother of Man.
An analysis of the prayer texts included in the story and their comparison with canonical analogues shows that in a number of cases we are dealing with the author’s versions of famous prayers, essentially with the experience of Yesenin’s independent prayer-making.
“...Your voice is invisible, like smoke in a hut.
With a humble heart I pray to you..." (1916)
So, Natalya Kareva’s prayer:
“Mati Devo, I accept everything on my path, send me your cover with grace-filled faith” -
does not find its full correspondence in the “Orthodox Prayer Book”, but is a free author’s contamination of the motives of the troparion in honor of the Kazan Icon of the Most Holy Theotokos, which he could hear on the patronal feast day in the Constantine church that bears her name (“Mother of the Lord Most High, grant useful to all and all save the Virgin Mary: You are the Divine cover of your servants"), and prayers in honor of the Feast of the Intercession of the Most Holy Theotokos ("Cover us with Your honorable cover and deliver us from all evil").
The author’s “participation” in the creation of a new prayer clearly shines through in Yesenin’s characteristic motif of a blissful perception of life (in the prayer - “ I accept everything on my path...”
, and in one of the poems of the same period - “
I meet everything, I accept everything.
/ Glad and happy to take out my soul...") .
An even more striking example of the “author’s” prayer, internally connected with the figurative world of Yesenin’s poetry, is the prayer of Anisim Karev, which he offers upon returning to his native land after a long asceticism in the monastery: “Quiet light, evening light of my homeland, accept our holy glory.” .
The primary source of this prayer is the well-known spiritual hymn “Quiet Light...”, sung during Great Vespers at the All-Night Vigil: “Quiet Light, saints of glory to the Immortal Heavenly Father, Holy, Blessed, Jesus Christ! Having come to the west of the sun, having seen the evening light, we sing of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. God. You are worthy at all times to be a holy voice. Son of God, give life; the world glorifies you with the same.”
Preserving the key images of “quiet light”, “evening light”, “saints of glory”, imbued with special spirituality and poetry, Yesenin introduces a significant “author’s” element into the prayer of his hero - the theme of the homeland, to which he turns, in essence, yearning far from her Anisim, thereby violating all strict church canons. From his lips we hear a prayer to the homeland (and not to God), which clearly reveals the “author’s” participation in it, the purely Yesenin motive of worship of the native land, in which there was always an element of almost religious cult (“O Rus', peaceful corner, / You I love you and I believe you”, )
In a period of spiritual crisis and disappointment in revolutionary illusions regarding the construction of a peasant paradise on earth, along with apocalyptic motives, the introduction of elements of funeral prayers and funeral singing is intensifying (“At the farewell mass / Incense leaves of birch trees...”; “Only for me, as a psalm-reader, to sing / Hallelujah over our native land."
In the last years of his life, the influence of the motives and intonations of the repentant prayer is noticeable in Yesenin’s poetry: “I have loved too much in this world / Everything that puts the soul into flesh ...”; “My thoughts, my thoughts! Pain in the temples and crown. / I squandered my youth without time, without time...”
The very prayerful consciousness of the lyrical hero, his attitude to prayer, also evolves.
So, the poetic style of many of Yesenin’s works is spiritually and aesthetically oriented towards the traditions of Orthodox prayer, the genres and styles of church hymnography (canon, troparion, psalm, akathist). Yesenin's poetic text, from the point of view of his idiostyle, often reproduces the structural and semantic features of prayer as a spiritual and aesthetic whole. The emotional aura of prayer forms the feeling of a temple in Yesenin’s poetic worldview, transforming his lyrics into an inspired prayer to the homeland, Russian nature, and father’s home.
Source - https://otherreferats.allbest.ru/literature/00018412_0.html
And here is the opinion of Father Andrei Tkachev about Yesenin and his work
Octoechos
With my voice I will devour You, Lord. Ts.O.
— 1 —
O homeland, happy and never-ending hour! There is nothing better, nothing more beautiful than Your cow eyes. To you, to your fogs and to the sheep in the fields, I carry the sun in my arms like a sheaf of oats. Hallow yourself at midnight and bless yourself at Christmas, So that those thirsty for the vigil may drink from eternity. With our shoulders we shake the sky, with our hands we shake the darkness, and into the skinny ear of bread we inhale the starry grain. O Rus', O steppe and winds, And you, my father’s house! Spring thunder nests on the golden veil. We feed the storm with oats, We water the valley with prayer, And the mind-ox plows the blue arable land for us. And not a single stone, Through a sling and a bow, Will not knock over us The raising of God's hands.
— 2 —
“Oh Virgin Mary! - The heavens are singing. - Spill a hair on the golden fields. Wash our faces with the Hand of the earth. From beyond the mountains a line of ships are sailing. They contain the souls of the departed and the memory of centuries. Oh, woe, who grumbles without removing the chains! To the one who screams in the darkness and strikes with his forehead We will not close the gates under secret signs. But bend, who came out and saw only a moment! We will crush the blind with a cloud roof.”
— 3 —
Oh God, God, are you shaking the earth in dreams? The dust of the constellations shines on our hair. The heavenly cedar rustles through the fog and the moat, And the cones of words fall into the valley of troubles. They sing about the days of Other lands and waters, Where on the tight branches their lunar mouth bit. And they whisper about the bushes of Impenetrable groves, Where the golden-knee rain dances, having removed its ports.
— 4 —
Hosanna in the highest! The hills are singing about heaven. And in that paradise I see You, my father’s land. My red-haired grandfather sits under the Mauritian oak tree, And his fur coat shines like peas of frequent stars. And that cat's hat that he wore on holiday Looks, like a moon, chilly at the snow of his native graves. From the hills I shout to my grandfather: “Oh Father, answer me...” But the cedars are quietly dozing, Hanging their branches down. The voice does not reach his distant shore... But choo! The snow growing from the ground rings like an ear of corn: “Arise, see and see!” Unspeakable rock. He who lives and builds everything - He knows the hour and the time. God's cries will trumpet with fire and a storm of trumpets, And the yellow-fanged cloud will bite through the milky navel. And the womb will fall out and burn the reins... But the one who thought like a virgin will ascend into the ship of the star.”
*****
Color palette and “silent prayer of the soul”
The use of colors in poetry is a significant means of expressing not so much thoughts as feelings and emotions, and from the palette of colors used one can recreate the image of the poet and his inner worldview. A. Blok in his article “Paints and Words” wrote that modern writers “have become dull to visual perceptions” and educate the reader’s soul among abstractions and the absence of light and color. Blok predicted that a poet would appear who would bring Russian nature into poetry with colors that were amazing in their simplicity. Sergei Yesenin became such a poet, who enriched his poetry with colorful Russian landscapes. I immediately remember the paintings of Savrasov, Polenov, Shishkin, Kuindzhi, Levitan.
The motives of the poet's song lyrics are organically woven into the music of Sergei Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov. Leo Tolstoy once said about music that it is “the silent prayer of the soul.” If we continue this thought, we can say that poetry is music in words. As a national poet, Yesenin found himself close to the range of colors traditionally used in folklore and Russian painting. For Yesenin, it is blue and blue-filled Ryazan landscapes , which began to prevail in his poetic creations: “The valleys turned blue in the transparent cold,” “The blueness of the invisible thicket . The color blue and its shades were not an ordinary palette for the poet, because... expressed something divine, unsaid, romantic: “Unsaid, blue, tender...”, “Blue cloth of heaven . The poet even associated Russia itself with blue, saying that there is “something blue” in this word.
The next color with which the poet skillfully colored his poetic work is yellow-gold : “The moon under the roof is like a golden hillock,” “I dreamed of rivers of golden valleys,” “Coniferous gilding . The crimson color bursts into Yesenin’s poetry with a bright stroke “O Russia - a crimson field...”, “Smoke is smoldering near the crimson villages . The crimson color is an analogue of the “crimson ringing” ( “A booming ringing, like the sound of cast iron” ), which calls the people to the Divine Liturgy. Here are other colors in a thick outline in his poetry: “The scarlet light of dawn is woven on the lake”, “You look like a pink sunset”, “How radiant and bright the light is”, “The cloud-covered forest is burning in purple brocade”, “It’s pouring across the plains” birch milk”, “The grove covers the cherry tree with blue darkness”, “The bird cherry tree sprinkles snow.”
