Singing about love is never easy, especially if you are in love with your Motherland, a woman, or even a birch tree that grows under your window. This is called love of life. This is exactly what Sergei Yesenin’s quotes are about. In every line of the author's poems one can hear anguish, a groan, a cry, and passion. It’s as if the poet wants the “deaf” to hear him, to hear and feel what he himself feels.
- Quotes about love and why did it mean so much in the poet’s work?
- The most famous sayings and aphorisms of Yesenin, presented in our collection.
- The eternal youth of the writer's creativity.
The great poet subtly noticed things that seem ordinary to many. But at the same time, Sergei Yesenin was able to tell in such a way that everyday life fell away from familiar concepts, things and situations, like husks. And the reader has already seen the true essence of the subject. And this metamorphosis of consciousness was mesmerizing, like magic!
The meaning of love in the poet's works is great. Everything the lyricist wrote about is imbued with a gentle and strong quality. It is everywhere, in the relationship between a man and a woman, in admiring the swan beauty of a sweetheart’s hands, in the whirling of golden foliage, and even in the friendly squeeze of Jim’s paw. These and many other quotes about love, like a mirror, reflect the breadth of soul that the writer had.
His love extended so widely that it touched everything that surrounded the great poet. It was with love that he wrote, devoting lines to a woman, and also: about life; about the Motherland; and about Russia.
Love is a bath, you need to either dive headfirst or not get into the water at all. If you wander along the shore in knee-deep water, you will only be splashed with splashes and you will be cold and angry.
Know how to hate mortally, then you will learn to love...
Live with your soul wide open- it’s like walking with your fly open.
No guarantee is required from love,
With her they know joy and sorrow.
I would forget the taverns forever, and I would give up writing poetry, just to subtly touch your hand and your hair the color of autumn.
There's probably too much in me heat,
Since I always meet cold ones.
It seemed that everything had meaning for him, everything had meaning and was designed to awaken in us warmth and passion for what surrounds us. There is nothing better than love. And the author clearly showed this in his poems. Readers seem to be infected with a virus of tenderness and affection. Such power is possessed by the words and aphorisms of Yesenin, the poet of the village, benches and bird cherry trees, lands of rain and bad weather, all that is recognized to be called the Motherland.
Our collection of Yesenin’s most interesting quotes contains a golden reserve of the poet’s most beloved sayings. These catchphrases have long spread around the world and won respect for Russian poetry. The lines, like fabulous bluebirds, soar easily, giving people warm emotional sadness and dreams.
While pride wins, people are losing each other.
Love doesn't last for three years,
Love doesn't live for three days.
Love lasts just as long
How long do two people want her to live?
Don't give it to anyone with whom are you happy?
I'd like to have you stuffed in the garden,
Scare the crows.
Tormented me to the bone
From all sides.
We are given love only once how it is impossible to die twice.
I asked the money changer today,
What does a ruble give for half a fog?
How to tell me for the beautiful Lala
Tender “I love” in Persian?
And the money changer answered me briefly:
They don't talk about love in words,
They sigh about love only furtively,
Yes, the eyes are burning like yachts.
Each quote, woven from the words of the author, is the sound of rain, the light of a blue star, simple and stupid happiness. These strong figurative expressions take us on their wings to the land of dreams, where everything is so simple: there is the happiness that the soul so longs for, and there is a path to it. A winding path runs from childhood enthusiasm and is lost around the bend of a mature appreciation of life. This is exactly what our favorite author talks about so simply and clearly with nostalgia for all that is good.
Whoever loved is the one cannot love
You can't set fire to someone who's burned out.
Everyone's talking“I want a simple one,” but no one will choose a chamomile among roses.
Light up the stove bed bed,
There is a blizzard in my heart without you.
Works that glorify nature, beauty and love will never age. Yesenin chose such an eternal theme. He dedicated his best statements and creations to what is really important in the life of any person. That is why the author’s lyrics will always be modern.
How much goodness the reader draws from the pictures that the author draws, using imagination as a brush and his talent as paint. His short but apt expressions reach the goal and awaken not only the imagination, but also the feelings. Everything that Yesenin said was conveyed in an emotional background, rhythm and sincerity.
In thunderstorms, in storms, in everyday shame,
during bereavements and when you are sad,
appear smiling and simple
- the highest art in the world.
Face to face- you can’t see the face: the big one is seen from a distance.
I am a true friend and a terrible enemy, depending on who, when and how!
our life- a sheet and a bed.
Our life is a kiss and a whirlwind.
Learn to laugh when you're sad.
Learn to be sad when it's funny.
Know how to appear indifferent when your soul is completely different.
If there are no flowers in the middle of winter, so there is no need to be sad about them.
Love for a woman may pass, love for the Motherland never will.
It's difficult to sing about feelings. But the great bard succeeded. It’s as if he put music and eternity into the basis of his creations. They will always exist and will never fade.
And the month will float and float,
Dropping oars across the lakes...
And Rus' will still live the same way,
Dance and cry at the fence.
In thunderstorms, in storms,
Into everyday shame,
In case of bereavement
And when you're sad
Seem smiling and simple -
The highest art in the world.
The protest remains alive.
Only those in the graveyards are silent,
Who is wearing a strong stone and a cross.
In a country covered in blizzard
And by fire
bad horse
The thief will not take you away.
Dying is nothing new in this life,
But life, of course, is not newer.
Your equality is a deception and a lie.
Old nasal organ
This world of ideological deeds and words.
It's a good bait for fools,
Scoundrels - a decent catch.
Waxed the heart of Cain's complaints
You can't get to compassion.
That's how we will bloom too
And let’s make some noise like guests of the garden...
If there are no flowers in the middle of winter,
So there is no need to be sad about them.
– mill with wing
Drops behind the village
Moon pendulum in rye
It rains unseen for hours.
All of us, all of us in this world are perishable,
Copper quietly flows from the maple leaves...
May you be blessed forever,
What has come to flourish and die.
Everything in this world is made of people
The song of love is sung and repeated.
Hamlet rebelled against lies
In which the royal court was brewing.
But if he lived now,
He would be a bandit and a thief.
The years have flown by
Years change faces -
Another one on them
The light is falling.
Goy, my dear Rus',
The huts are in the robes of the image.
No end in sight -
Only blue sucks his eyes.
Joy is given to the rude.
Sorrow is given to the tender.
I need nothing,
I don't feel sorry for anyone.
The poet's gift is to caress and scribble,
There is a fatal stamp on it.
If there were no hell and heaven,
The man himself would have invented them.
There is a bright joy under the canopy of bushes
Cry about the past of our native shores
And, caressing the first gray hair on your forehead,
Blame fate with pleasant pain.
Life is a deception with enchanting melancholy,
That's why she's so strong
That with your rough hand
Fatal writes letters.
We need to live easier, we need to live more simply,
All accepting what is in the world.
You know? People are all with an animal soul -
That bear, that fox, that wolf,
And life is a big forest,
Where the dawn rushes like a red horseman.
You need strong, strong fangs.
And we have a stock exchange cesspool
Spreads its acrid smoke.
It won't be new to anyone,
What's in the Kremlin buffers
Claws cling to Ilyinka
Broker, broker, broker...
Everyone pays their mite with their mite,
Revenge is whelping with bloody puppies.
He who loved cannot love,
You can't set fire to someone who's burned out.
Someone teaches us and asks
Comprehend and measure.
We did not come to destroy the world,
And to love and believe!
You can't see face to face.
Big things can be seen from a distance.
People honor customs as science,
But what's the point and good of that?
If many people blow their nose loudly into their hand,
And others must wear a handkerchief.
I'm scared - it's passing,
Like youth and like love.
The one who asks for joy is not strong,
Only the proud live in strength.
But since the devils were nesting in the soul,
This means that angels lived in it.
But an embittered heart will never get lost...
But tell me, tell me
Do people really not have a stern grip?
Pull the knives out of your boots
And stick them into the master's shoulder blades?
Oh, I believe, I believe, there is happiness!
The sun hasn't gone out yet.
Dawn with a red prayer book
Prophesies good news.
They don't talk about love in words,
They sigh about love only furtively,
Yes, the eyes are burning like yachts.
No guarantee is required from love,
With her they know joy and sorrow.
Songs, songs, what are you shouting about?
Or do you have nothing more to give?
A kiss has no name
A kiss is not an inscription on coffins.
Kisses blow like red roses,
Melting like petals on your lips.
Poets are not given money.
Happy is he who is miserable in joy,
Living without friend and enemy,
Will pass along a country road,
Praying on the haystacks and haystacks.
So are we! The bloody feet have grown into the huts,
What do we need the first row of cut grass?
They just wouldn't get to us,
If only we could
If only ours
They didn’t squint their heads like a daisy.
Those who don't need anything
There is only one thing in the world that you can regret.
We only live once, only once!
Youth shines only once, like a month in your native province.
Only that swimmer
Who, having hardened
In the struggles of the soul,
Finally opened to the world
Land never seen by anyone.
I want to measure the ends of the earth,
Trusting a ghostly star,
And believe in the happiness of your neighbor
In the ringing rye furrow.
A man in this world is not a log house,
You can’t always rebuild from scratch...
What others?
A pack of hungry beggars.
They do not care…
In this world unwashed
human soul
They decorate with rubles,
And if it's criminal to be a bandit here,
That's no more criminal
What to be a king...
I know -
Time even crumbles stone.
I didn't know that love is an infection
I didn't know that love was a plague.
I have now completely given up on a lot of things,
And especially from the state,
Like an idle thought,
Because I realized
That it's all a contract
Treaty of animals of different colors.
The house where the poet was born. Personification. E. Lebedeva. Rural primary school. Check yourself. State Museum-Reserve. Fragrant bird cherry. Yesenin's creativity. Metaphor. Physical education minute. A. Shevelev. Put the emphasis correctly. Thrift. Speech warm-up. Sergey Yesenin. Monument to S. Yesenin. Born in the Ryazan province. Vocabulary work. Levitan. The first book of poems. Big things can be seen from a distance.
“The poem “Anna Snegina”” - Conversation on issues. The history of the creation of the poem "Anna Snegina". How does the lyrical hero see the past? Statements about Yesenin. How is the attitude towards the war expressed? Lydia Kashina. A traditional theme for Russian literature. Anna Sardanovskaya. What are the moods of the poet’s fellow countrymen? How do the author and the lyrical hero relate? Moral and philosophical sound of the poem “Anna Snegina”. Epigraph for the lesson. Behind the mountains, behind the yellow valleys.
“Yesenin “Cheryomukha”” - S. Yesenin. Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin. Poems about nature. White birch. Familiarize students with the biography of S. Yesenin. Physical education minute. The stream is singing. The first book of poems by Sergei Yesenin. Speech warm-up. Poem. Bird cherry. A dilapidated hut. Read expressively.
“Yesenin’s poem “Anna Snegina”” - Language of the poem. The idea of the poem. Men's wars. Prototype of Anna Snegina. The action of "Anna Snegina". Main topic. Miller. A.S. Pushkin. Poem "Anna Snegina". Man. L. I. Kashina. Letter. Olga Snegina. Epic plan. Poet. Pugachev. Mikhailovskoe. The epic theme of the poem. Yesenin read “Anna Snegina”. Anna Sardanovskaya. Nickname. Eugene Onegin. Earth. Pron Ogloblin. Anna Snegina. Character. The theme of the imperialist and fratricidal civil war.
“Do not wander, do not crush in the scarlet bushes” - “Do not wander, do not crush in the scarlet bushes...”. The subtle name melted away like a sound. Epithet. Alliteration. Preliminary task. Vocabulary work. The impression of perfection. Image of nature. Reading a poem. Let the blue evening whisper to me sometimes. What mood is in the poem? Conversation on issues. Words for color.
“Poem “Porosh”” - Winter fairy-tale landscape. Riddles that the poet thought about as a child. The slow fall of snow creates a fabulous picture. The poem "Porosh". Be healthy. Native nature in poems of 20th century poets. Physical exercise. Warm up. Movement helps convey words. Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin 1895-1925. Arrange words that indicate the movement of snow. LH feels nature. Alliteration. Why are crows gray?
Since the time of Koltsov, the Russian land has not produced anything
more indigenous, natural, appropriate
and ancestral than Sergei Yesenin,
giving it to time with incomparable freedom and without burdening the gift
amazing populist diligence.
At the same time, Yesenin was a living, beating lump of that
artistry, which we always call after Pushkin
the highest Mozartian principle, Mozartian
elemental....
The most precious thing in him is the image of his native forest nature,
Central Russian, Ryazan, conveyed with stunning freshness,
how it was given to him in childhood.
Boris Pasternak, from an essay
"People and Positions", 1956-1957*
Poets about Yesenin have had their say.
Friends and foes are different, though.
And after many years they are not indifferent again.
We read and often think about him.
Now history has put everything in order...
"Big things can be seen from a distance..."
We give our souls to the great poet with recognition.
And the solution to the mystery of his death is important to us.**
He became a poet of the sad bright autumn,
And he created for us many hidden lines -
Russian nature, immense primordial...
In the short life allotted to him.
"My blue May! Blue June!..."
With this favorite color - the sign of Libra...
He will always be with you in verses,
With the Ryazan expanse of fields and forests.
Alexander Blok (1880 - 1921)
Peasant of the Ryazan province. , 19 years. The poems are fresh,
clear, vocal, verbose. Language. Came to
to me March 9, 1915.
Dear Mikhail Pavlovich! [Murashev]
I am sending you a talented peasant poet
nugget. To you, as a peasant writer, he will
closer, and you will understand it better than anyone.
Yours A. Blok.
P.S. I selected 6 poems and sent them
to Sergei Mitrofanovich. Look and do everything
what is possible.
From diaries, notebooks and letters
Zinaida Gippius (1869 - 1945)
Before us is a thin nineteen-year-old guy, yellow-haired and modest,
with cheerful eyes. He arrived from the Ryazan province to “Peter” about two weeks ago, went straight from the station to Blok, he thought to Sergei Gorodetsky, but he lost the address.
...In Yesenin’s poems, one is captivated by a certain “saidness” of words, a fusion of sound and meaning, which gives a feeling of simplicity. If we look more and more often at words (in books) than we hear their sounds, the mastery of poetry comes after long work; It’s hard to get rid of “extra” words. Here the mastery seems to be given: there are no unnecessary words, but simply those that exist, precise, defining each other. What is important, of course, is talent; but I’m not talking about personal talent now; It’s remarkable that with such a lack of direct, immediate connection with literature, with such diversity of styles, Yesenin is a real modern poet....
Earth and Stone, 1915
Nikolay Klyuev (1884 - 1937)
Poet-youth. He entered Russian literature as an equal to the great literary artists.
The Ryazan land gave up its best juices to give birth to the singing face of Yesenin.
The fiery hand of the revolution wove a wreath of glory for him, as for its singer.
Glory to the Russian people, whose soul never ceases to exude miracles even
amidst great disasters, righteous wounds and losses!
About Sergei Yesenin, 1919
Sergei Yesenin
In the steppe Chumatsky ash -
Your verse, cooled by pride;
From the soap boiler
You can't catch pearls.
..
The Ryazan land mourns,
Gray with millet and buckwheat,
What, the nightingale's garden is chattering,
Yesenin's spirit soars.
...
Verbal brother, listen, listen
Poems - birch bark deer:
Olonets cranes
Christening with the "Dove".
"Treryadnitsa" and "Pesnoslov" -
Sadko with green water,
You can't count the singing pearls
On our brainchild - the page.
We are spouses... In living centuries
Our seed will sprout,
And the younger tribe will remember us
At song-making feasts.
"In the steppe there is Chumatsky ash...", 1920
Rurik Ivnev (1891 - 1980)
Life is harsh - and yet it is
Unctuously is sometimes tender.
Get away from evil once and for all,
Burn, but don't burn to the ground.
There are so many joys in the world,
Be younger at heart than children.
This is hardly fate, -
Today you and I are together,
Another day or two, but with new news
The hut will become cramped for us.
A game of passions, love and honor
Brings us torment, perhaps.
Know how to endure everything.
To Sergei Yesenin (acrostic), 1919
We don't need to disturb our memory,
To remember you now.
Your image even in the bustle of the road
And in silence does not leave us.
So, over the years - deeper and clearer,
Without growing old, we realize
Why did Sergei Yesenin enter?
In our heart, as if in a father's house.
In memory of Sergei Yesenin, 1970
Alexei Tolstoy (1882 - 1945)
The surname Yesenin is Russian-indigenous, it contains pagan roots - Ovsen, Tausen, Autumn, Ash - associated with fertility, with the gifts of the earth and the autumn holidays... Sergei Yesenin himself, truly rustic, fair-haired, curly-haired, blue-eyed, with a perky nose....
Yesenin has this ancient gift, born on the banks of foggy, quiet rivers, in the green noise of forests, in the grassy expanses of the steppes, this melodious gift of the Slavic soul, dreamy, carefree, mysteriously excited by the voices of nature...
He is completely dissolved in nature, in the living, polyphonic beauty of the earth...
About Yesenin, 1922
The greatest poet died...
He left the village, but did not come to the city. The last years of his life were a waste
his genius. He wasted himself.
His poetry is, as it were, a scattering of the treasures of his soul with both handfuls.
Sergei Yesenin, 1926
Anna Akhmatova (1890 - 1966)
It's so easy to leave this life,
Burn out mindlessly and painlessly.
But not given to the Russian poet
To die such a bright death.
More likely than lead, the winged soul
The heavenly borders will open,
Or hoarse horror with a shaggy paw
The life will be squeezed out of the heart like from a sponge.
In memory of Sergei Yesenin, 1925
Igor Severyanin (1887 - 1941)
He ran into life as a Ryazan simpleton,
Blue-eyed, curly, fair-haired,
With a perky nose and a cheerful taste,
Drawn to the pleasures of life by the sun.
But soon the riot threw its dirty ball
In the shine of the eyes. Poisoned by the bite
The serpent of rebellion slandered Jesus,
I tried to make friends with the tavern...
Among robbers and prostitutes,
Languishing from blasphemous jokes,
He realized that the tavern was disgusting to him...
And he opened the canopy to God again, repenting
Yesenin of his frantic soul,
Pious Russian hooligan...
Yesenin, 1925
Anatoly Mariengof (1897 - 1962)
More than once we have tortured our fate with the question:
Is it for you?
To me,
In crying hands
Illustrious beloved ashes
You will have to carry it to the churchyard.
I. pushing the deadlines into the distance,
It seemed:
To fade, to rest
Someday we will have a light heart
We'll leave with you.
...
Sergun is wonderful! my golden leaf maple!
There's a worm there
There's death there
The decay is there.
How could you check for selfish
Her speeches.
Our short journey is under the blue wind.
Why make life even shorter?
And who wanted
At the house of Respiration
Leave a leaf to drop its faded head?
...
What mother? what honey? what friend?
(I'm ashamed to roar in verse)
Russia's crying hands
They carry your glorified ashes.
Sergei Yesenin, December 30, 1925
Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky (1895 - 1977)
Dawn over the disgraced capital
She looked so angry when she woke up.
Passers-by have green faces
The glass reflected for a moment.
The dogs whined at the gate,
The fires were burning in the circle,
And the black bell - Isaac -
Swinging in the flying snow.
And there, behind the blue frame,
Going into the electric light
Sleepless, burning, stubborn
The poet was choking all night.
And the twilight has just faded away,
Jumping up onto a pulled-out chair,
Your nightingale throat
Tightened the cold thing with a noose...
...
It would be better if you disappeared into obscurity
Into the moldy silence!
Why alcohol and song
Are you awakening deaf hearts?
...
You were known as a scoundrel and a thief,
A liar and a waste of words,
To cry over their own shame
In the robber expanse of poetry.
When a Poet Dies, 1925
Alexander Zharov (1904 - 1984)
It's still probably stupid
And annoying beyond all measure,
That you, Yesenin, were removed as a corpse
From the ceiling at the Angleterre Hotel...
We forgave both rowdy behavior and drunkenness,
Hearts ring in your loving poems,
But such evil hooliganism
We didn't even expect it from you.
This is a matter of a fatal mistake,
Unfortunately, it cannot be corrected...
Here the violins are mourning you,
Women, poets and friends.
...
But why is all this necessary now?
Really, life was more fun...
Along with the pain we harbor frustration
At you
And on your friends!
Only someone is most offended
At you for being a poet
From their native fields and huts
He took his light to the taverns...
For a new village, for a party
Apparently you've gone missing...
And the talyanka frets are sad, sad
About the words you didn't give.
Sergei Yesenin, 1925
Marina Tsvetaeva (1892 - 1941)
And it’s not a pity - he didn’t live long,
And don’t be bitter - I gave little, -
Lived a lot - who lived in ours
Days, everything was given - who gave the song.
January 1926
Maxim Gorky (1868 - 1936)
Sergei Yesenin is not so much a person as an organ created by nature
exclusively for poetry, to express the inexhaustible “sadness of the fields”,
love for all living things in the world and mercy, which is more than anything else
- deserved by man...
Sergei Yesenin, 1926
Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893 - 1930)
You've gone,
as the saying goes,
to another world.
Emptiness...
Fly,
crashing into the stars.
No advance for you
no pub.
Sobriety.
No, Yesenin,
This
not a joke.
In the throat
grief is lumpy -
not a laugh.
I see -
hesitating with his cut hand,
own
bones
swing the bag.
- Stop it!
Give it up!
Are you out of your mind?
Give,
so that your cheeks
flooded
deadly chalk?!
You
such
knew how to bend
that the other
in the world
I couldn't.
,
And in my opinion,
come true
such nonsense
on myself
they laid hands on me before.
It's better
to die from vodka
than out of boredom!
They won't open
us
reasons for loss
no loop
nor a penknife.
Maybe,
find yourself
ink at Angleterre,
veins
cut
there would be no reason.
,
Eh,
I wish I could talk differently
with this very
with Leonid Lohengrinich!
I wish I could stand here
thundering brawler:
- I will not let it
mumble a verse
and crush!-
Would stun
their
three-fingered whistle
to grandma
and to God the soul mother!
To spread
most mediocre trash
inflating
darkness
jacket sails,
to
scattered
Kogan ran away,
met
mutilation
mustache peaks.
Fleabag
for now
has thinned out a little.
There's a lot to do -
just keep up.
Necessary
life
first redo
having remade -
you can chant.
This time -
a little difficult for the pen,
but tell me
You,
cripples and cripples,
Where,
When,
what a great one chose
path,
to make the path more trodden
and easier?
Word -
commander
human power.
March!
So that time
behind
the cannonballs exploded.
To the old days
so that the wind
related
only
tangle of hair.
For fun
our planet
poorly equipped.
Necessary
snatch
joy
in the days to come.
In this life
die
not difficult.
Make a life
much more difficult.
Sergei Yesenin, 1926
Vasily Nasedkin (1895 - 1940)
I have never heard a dearer cry
Since childhood, when away
At the dawn of the steppe, kurlycha,
Cranes flew by.
This cry is so welcome
He drove me crazy.
And, hearing a guttural call,
Believed strongly: in our countries
Winter will not return.
I also believed - in the cries of the pack
There are clear words.
And watched until it was thick
The blue didn't hide it.
Nowadays the flocks are rarer and quieter
Or life went smoother,
But I'm ready to listen to death
These songs of cranes.
Just yesterday, at the hour of spring laziness,
Suddenly there are streaks in the sky...
And they make such a singing,
It’s like Sergei Yesenin again
He read his poems to me.
Cranes, 1926
Mikhail Svetlov (1903 - 1964)
Today was a short day
The clouds have floated away into the twilight,
The sun walks quietly
She approached her grave.
Here, silently growing
Before greedy eyes,
The night is big, the night is thick
Approaching Ryazan.
Moves over the sedge
The moon is pale yellowish,
On the hook of a star high
He hanged himself once.
And, bending over in anticipation
Someone's help is in vain,
From the beginning of the universe
It's still hanging, poor thing...
Far in the spaces of late
This night they will remember again
Atlantic stars
A young foreigner.
Oh, not in vain, not in vain
It seemed to the stars above
What else is terrible then?
His head was shaking...
The night will go around vigilantly,
He will look at everything with a black glance,
Will turn over New York
And he will fall asleep over Leningrad.
The city, noisily welcoming the holiday,
Having fun at the farewell hour...
At a feast among the merry
There is always one sad one.
And when the native body
The damp earth took over,
Above the pub has not faded
The paint is yellow-blue.
But this dear soul
Will be remembered with tender words
Where the new poets are
They made noise with their heads.
Yesenin, 1926
Sergei Gorodetsky (1884 - 1967)
You were my son. No, not a friend.
And you left your father's house,
To end your life with an empty fright
Before the spring ice in the rivers.
You drank everything that was in the house
And old honey and ancient poison,
Jet tangled in straw
Smiling and cunning look.
...
And a stubborn battle flared up,
The rifle had grown to his hands.
And you wandered, homeless,
By mournful taverns.
You're a swan from rags to glory
He rushed boldly. And he hung.
You have left my home forever,
And in it others were born.
The river carried along steeply
A frightened child's corpse.
The palm is charred from the heat,
Eyebrows broke in the wind.
Sergei Yesenin, 1927
Andrey Bely (1880 - 1934)
The image of Yesenin is very dear to me, as it appeared in front of me.
Even before the revolution, in 1916, I was struck by one feature that later ran through all my memories and all conversations. This is extraordinary kindness, extraordinary gentleness, extraordinary sensitivity and increased delicacy. ... I won’t talk about Yesenin’s enormous and fragrant talent; they will talk about it better than me. Much has been said about this, but I have always been struck by this purely human note. ...
From memories of Yesenin, 1928
Georgy Ivanov (1894 - 1958)
Love for Yesenin brings together... two poles of the Russian consciousness distorted and fragmented by the revolution, between which, it would seem, there is nothing in common... Dead Yesenin succeeded in what none of the living succeeded in thirty-two years of Bolshevism. From the grave he unites Russian people with the sounds of Russian songs...
!949
The significance of Yesenin lies precisely in the fact that he found himself exactly at the level of consciousness of the Russian people of the “terrible years of Russia”, coincided with it to the end, and became synonymous with both its fall and its desire to be reborn. This is Yesenin’s “Pushkin” irreplaceability, transforming both his sinful life and imperfect poems into a source of light and goodness. And therefore, without exaggerating, we can say about Yesenin that he is the heir of Pushkin of our days....
Yesenin, February 1950
Nikolay Rubtsov (1936 - 1971)
The rumors were stupid and harsh:
Who is Yesenin Serega, they say,
Judge for yourself: hanged himself out of boredom
Because he drank a lot.
Yes, he did not look at Rus' for long
With the blue eyes of a poet.
But was there tavern sadness?
There was sadness, of course... But not this one!
Miles and miles of shaken land,
All earthly shrines and bonds
As if nervous system entered
Into the waywardness of Yesenin's muse!
This is not a muse of yesterday.
I love her, I’m indignant and I cry.
She means a lot to me
If I myself mean anything.
SERGEY ESENIN, 1962
Nikolai Brown (1902 - 1975)
This name contains the word "esen".
Autumn, ash, autumn color.
There is something in it from Russian songs -
Heavenly, quiet scales,
Birch canopy
And the blue dawn.
There is something about it that feels like spring
Sadness, purity of youth...
They will only say:
Sergey Yesenin -
All of Russia has the same features:
...
And spring aspen catkins,
And the Ryazan sky is wide,
And country lanes
And the Oka reeds.
...
As if it was walking in pain, freezing,
It was as if the bells were ringing, -
Rus', Russia - no need for paradise,
If only you could live alone!..
If only black knew the harbinger
And guard against death!..
Only hands in a wide gesture
They fly above the shoulders,
Above the shoulders.
Flying over Russia...
Yesenin!
Autumn, autumn, autumn color.
It's still the color of spring,
Birch canopy
And the blue dawn.
Sergei Yesenin, 1965
Evgeny Yevtushenko (b. 1932)
Russian poets,
we scold each other -
Russian Parnassus is sowed with squabbles.
but we are all connected by one thing:
any of us is at least a little Yesenin.
And I am Yesenin,
but completely different.
On the collective farm my horse was pink from birth.
I, like Russia, am more severe,
and, like Russia, less birch.
Yesenin, dear,
Rus' has changed!
but, in my opinion, it is in vain to complain,
and say that it’s for the best, -
I'm afraid,
well, to say that it’s for the worse, -
dangerous...
What kind of construction projects?
satellites in the country!
But we lost
on a bumpy road
and twenty million in the war,
and millions -
at war with the people.
...
No one like the Russians
I didn’t save others like that,
no one like the Russians,
So he doesn’t destroy himself.
But our ship is sailing.
When the water is shallow
We are dragging Russia forward on dry land.
There are enough bastards
no problem.
There are no geniuses -
this is very difficult.
And it’s a pity that you’re not here yet
And your opponent is a loudmouth.
Of course, I’m not a judge for you two,
but still you left too early.
,
But you have to live.
Neither vodka
no loop
no woman -
All this is not salvation.
You are the salvation
Russian land,
salvation -
your sincerity, Yesenin.
And Russian poetry goes
forward through suspicion and attacks
and with Yesenin’s grip he lays
Europe,
like Poddubny,
on the shoulder blades.
In memory of Yesenin, 1965
Victor Bokov (1914 - 2008)
At the Vagankovskoye cemetery, autumn and ocher,
The sky is lead gray mixed with blue.
There the shovels are knocking, but the earth is not deafened -
Hears, mother, the music of living life.
And the living go to Yesenin’s grave,
Giving him both delight and sadness.
He is Hope. He is Rus'. He is her Ascension.
That’s why immortality is within his reach.
Who is he?
God or atheist?
Robber or angel?
How does he touch the heart?
In our atomic age?
That all the stairs of glory
Ranks and ranks
Before a simple title:
He is a soul man!
Everything was in it -
And violence, and silence, and humility.
Only the Volga will appreciate such a party!
Isn’t that why every poem
As a heifer, it was admitted:
- I love herbs!
And snow, and sunsets, and groves, and fields
Quietly, gently they asked: - Speak for us! -
Isn’t that why he guarded so jealously
Our Russian word, shining with the light of dawn.
Glory to the genius the hour has struck,
He is more worthy, the nightingale of the field.
This grave is endlessly dear to us,
I'm on my knees and crying over her!
In memory of Yesenin, 1965
Nikolai Tikhonov (1896 - 1979)
Hello, dear Sergei Yesenin!
We have come, loving your poems,
Here are poets of different generations -
Everyone who came to greet you!
...
You won’t go into the amber sunset,
And your melodies will not subside;
You live - and people are grateful
To the truth of the heart of your verse!
In Mardakan on the anniversary of Sergei Yesenin, 1975
Andrey Voznesensky (1934 - 2009)
Having overlooked Yesenin, missed Pushkin,
I think people should create
"Society for the Preservation of Future Monuments"
in parallel with the Society of Antiquities.
1980
***
... Above you is Yesenin in a frame.
He was an exemplary reader! *
Your table is lined with galleys,
like a tiled stove.
...
Subscription, 1982
* The first exemplary printing house in Moscow.
Andrey Dementyev (b. 1928)
I had a dream about Yesenin,
After all, he was born on an autumn night.
The forest is burning down, the sunset is gilding,
Like sheets of poetry.
Yesenin has a birthday.
In the ringing gold of the autumn distance,
Like music of inspiration
The leaves rustle above the ground.
The mother went out into the outskirts,
I believed in my heart that he was in a hurry.
Next to the stranger is a golden maple,
How similar his foliage is to Seryozha.
Poems sound again in the blue midnight,
All good things will be remembered with them.
In Yesenin's way I want to love,
To be with the song everywhere.
Autumn celebrates birthday
Red grapes, autumn distance
Yesenin has a birthday
Birthday of love.
Yesenin has a birthday, 1995
The poem was written for Yesenin’s 100th anniversary
anniversary of the poet's birth.
* The works (mostly) included in this collection are taken from their books
"ABOUT YESENIN Poems and prose by writers of the poet's contemporaries"
(including memories of him), Moscow, Pravda Publishing House, 1990
** In the newspaper "Arguments and Facts", No. 40, September 30, 2015, pp. 22, 23, article "Who did Yesenin interfere with?"
Photo from the Internet
Yesenin Sergei Alexandrovich - born on October 3, 1895 in the village of Konstantinovo, Ryazan province. Russian poet, in early years was a prominent representative of new peasant poetry; more mature works belonged to imagism. From Yesenin's letters from 1911 to 1913, a picture emerges of the moral and spiritual maturation of the aspiring poet. This period of his life was reflected in Yesenin’s first works, when he wrote 60 poems and poems. In them he reflected his love for all living things, for life itself and for his homeland. The poet drew the beginning of this love from the beauty of the surrounding nature. In Yesenin’s first poems, the themes of revolution and attitude towards the homeland are clearly visible. In 1914, his poems appeared in print. A little later, Yesenin quits his job and devotes all his time to creativity. In March 1915, the poet came to Petrograd, where he met A. Blok, who highly appreciated Yesenin’s poems and helped him by introducing him to famous publishers and writers. And then Yesenin becomes famous, he is often invited to literary salons and poetry evenings.
