Ah, I love poets!
Funny people!
I always find in them
History, familiar to the heart,
Like a pimply student
long haired freak
Talking about worlds
Sexual languor.

© Yesenin.

What a thing ... After all, there are only sixty thousand words in the explanatory dictionary. And how many poems have been written - countless. After all, Pushkin ... And Lermontov ... And others - great, average and ordinary ...

What if you meet a stranger with such an amazing rhyme that you are amazed. And how is it that no one has thought of such an amazing rhyme until now? Neither Yevtushenko, nor Sergei Shnurov, nor, even, you yourself ....

Or you will see such a beautiful metaphor that it will grab your heart and won’t let go…

Or such a soulful tonality that ... that, it seems, you will die, by God, from the surging ... like an angel barefoot ... for a naked soul ...

Catchphrase: "A poet in Russia is more than a poet."

Or maybe everywhere, not only in Russia? What about in the east? And in the west? After all, Serge Ginzburg ... And Omar Khayyam ... More than ... And they drank more ... and loved more ...

Is it because Russia is great, “there are many paths in Russia” and ... poets.

This was noticed not only by Okudzhava: “They are all handsome. They are all poets...

Well, beauties, of course. Such a mixture of races, as in Russia, is nowhere to be found. And from the mixing of races, almost exclusively handsome men are born. Silver age beauties are something special.

A handsome man who married a beautiful lady, as a rule, had loving habits, the beautiful lady also twirled her tail pretty much. Such was the silver poetic reality: powdering your nostrils with cocaine and playing decadence.

At the same time, a poet, exquisite as a giraffe on Lake Chad, could easily speak obscenely about a romantic poetess. And even play a clownish duel with another exquisite poet.

This refined poet, in turn, created, no, here it is more suitable, perhaps, he made a word, from two poetic families one revolutionary family. In which in the evening one poet was a husband to his wife, and in the morning - a lover. And in the morning - on the contrary.

No, really, it’s impossible to object ... A poet in Russia is more than a poet ...

And now the silver poetess leaves her lawful husband, and even goes to virtual Lesvos, where she happily catches rhymes with another silver poetess. The faithful husband in love dutifully waited. And he was rewarded with the return of his beloved and the birth of lovely children. The boy was born especially beautiful. Like two drops of water, he looks like the best friend of a poetess husband who lived in their own house.

And the most revolutionary of all revolutionary poets - that he sang: "Good!" - he preferred marriage, that is, not marriage, of course, but debauchery, three of us. Sometimes the husband of the revolutionary poet's beloved was in bed, and the poet was under the bed in the arms of Onan. Sometimes - on the contrary.

To die at the peak of life is the frequent fate of a poet.

Mayakovsky, Yesenin killed themselves ... And the last romantic of the twentieth century - Boris Ryzhiy.

Aren't those who died from vodka and cocaine suicidal?

And Lermontov? Lermontov, a duelist, a bully, didn't he know the character of his killer, with whom he drank more than one cup? He knew that the vindictive friend would not miss, would not shoot into the air. And he chose the place of the duel so as not to survive. Doesn't that smell like suicide?

Pushkin, on whose account there were almost three dozen duels ... in which all the duelists fired into the air, and even went on business .... Didn't Pushkin know that Dantes was a complete asshole, without honor and conscience, and would kill? Of course he did. It turns out that he deliberately went to his death.

And Rubtsov? Amazing, sad, unfortunate Rubtsov, brutally strangled by his own girlfriend... Having voluntarily connected his life with a violent, scandalous alcoholic and psychopath, didn't he voluntarily doom himself to a terrible death?

……………..

Drunkard Villon and drunkard Khayyam… Sailor and vagabond Rubtsov… Desperate grunts Davydov and Lermontov… Curly wanderer Yesenin. Principal parasite Igor Ehrenburg ... So different, and so similar ...

It is impossible to imagine that a pathologist can be a poet.

Ah, I love poets!
Funny people.
I always find in them
History familiar to the heart -
Like a pimply student
long haired freak
Talking about worlds
Sexual languor.

Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin, "The Black Man", 1925

Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin (September 21 (October 3), 1895, the village of Konstantinovo, Ryazan province - December 28, 1925, Leningrad) - an outstanding Russian poet, a representative of the new peasant poetry, and in a later period of creativity and imagism. From the first poetry collections, he acted as a subtle lyricist, a master of a deeply psychologized landscape, a singer of peasant Russia, an expert in the folk language and the folk soul. In the later lyrics of Yesenin, a tragic attitude and spiritual confusion appeared, which grew under the influence of what was happening around. In recent years, the poet sought to comprehend the "commune rearing Russia", although he continued to feel like a poet of "Russia leaving", "golden log hut". In his late poetry, there is sympathy for the defeated insurgent peasant movement, on the one hand, and hidden resistance, fear of lack of spirituality, of violence, on the other. Nevertheless, despite the theme of death that sounded more insistent in his poems, Yesenin remained faithful to his homeland until the end of his days. “My lyrics,” he said, “are alive with one great love, love for the motherland. The feeling of the motherland is the main thing in my work.”

My friend, my friend
I am very, very sick.
Is the wind whistling
Or, like a grove in September,
Showers brains with alcohol.

My head flaps its ears
Like the wings of a bird.
She has legs on her neck
Loom more unbearable.
Black man,
black, black,
Black man
He sits down on my bed,
Black man
Doesn't let me sleep all night.

Black man
Runs a finger over a vile book
And, sneering at me,
Like a monk over the dead
Reads my life
Some scoundrel and bastard,
Bringing sadness and fear to the soul.
Black man
Black, black...

"Listen, listen, -
He mumbles to me -
There are many wonderful things in the book.
Thoughts and plans.
This person
Lived in the country
the most disgusting
Thugs and charlatans.

In December in that country
The snow is pure as hell
And the blizzards start
Funny spinning wheels.
There was a man that adventurer
But the highest
And the best brand.

He was graceful
Besides, the poet
Even with a small
But with gripping strength,
And some woman
Forty plus years
Called me a bad girl
And my sweetheart."

"Happiness," he said,
There is dexterity of mind and hands.
All the awkward souls
For the unfortunate are always known.
It's nothing,
What a lot of torment
Bring broken
And false gestures.

In thunderstorms, in storms
Into the hell of life
For severe loss
And when you're sad
To seem smiling and simple -
The highest art in the world."

"Black man!
You dare not!
You are not in service.
You live as a diver.
What do I care about life
Scandalous poet.
Please others
Read and tell."

Black man
He looks straight at me.
And the eyes are covered
Blue puke.
Like he wants to tell me
That I'm a crook and a thief
So shameless and brazen
Robbed someone.

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

My friend, my friend
I am very, very sick.
I don't know where this pain came from.
Is the wind whistling
Over an empty and deserted field,
Or, like a grove in September,
Showers brains with alcohol.

Frosty night...
Quiet crossroads.
I'm alone at the window
I am not expecting a guest or a friend.
The whole plain is covered
Loose and soft lime,
And trees like riders
We gathered in our garden.

Somewhere crying
Night ominous bird.
wooden riders
They sow a hoof knock.
Here again this black
He sits on my chair,
Raising your top hat
And casually throwing back his coat.

"Listen, listen!-
He wheezes, looking into my face,
Himself getting closer
And leans closer.-
I didn't see anyone
Of scoundrels
So useless and stupid
Suffered from insomnia.

Ah, let's say I was wrong!
Because today is the moon.
What more do you need
To a world filled with slumber?
Maybe with thick thighs
Secretly "she" will come,
And you will read
Your dead languid lyrics?

Ah, I love poets!
Funny people.
I always find in them
History, familiar to the heart,
Like a pimply student
long haired freak
Talking about worlds
Sexual languor.

I don't know, I don't remember
In one village
Maybe in Kaluga,
Or maybe in Ryazan,
There lived a boy
In a simple peasant family,
yellow-haired,
With blue eyes...

And then he became an adult
Besides, the poet
Even with a small
But with gripping strength,
And some woman
Forty plus years
Called me a bad girl
And my sweetheart."

"Black man!
You are a bad guest!
It's glory for a long time
It's spreading about you."
I'm furious, furious
And my cane flies
Straight to his face
Into the carrier...

. . . . . . . . . .

The moon is dead
Dawn shines through the window.
Oh you night!
What have you done, night?
I'm in a top hat.
Nobody is with me.
I am alone...
And a broken mirror...

Draft autograph Art. 101-126, 143-158 (GLM):

The title is missing.

After 79, the stanza is crossed out:

List I by S. A. Tolstaya-Yesenina with a note: “Rewritten from the original draft. Corrections (insertion and merging of lines) were made by order of Sergei S. E. ”. (GLM):

80-86 are written in the margins and are marked with a caret.

BLACK MAN My friend, my friend,
I am very, very sick.

Is the wind whistling
Over an empty and deserted field,
Or, like a grove in September,
Showers brains with alcohol. My head flaps its ears
Like the wings of a bird
She has legs on her neck
Loom more unbearable.
Black man,
black, black,
Black man
He sits down on my bed,
Black man
Doesn't let me sleep all night. Black man
Runs a finger over a vile book
And, sneering at me,
Like a monk over the dead
Reads my life
Some scoundrel and bastard,
Bringing sadness and fear to the soul.
Black man,
Black, black ... "Listen, listen, -
He mutters to me,
There are many wonderful things in the book.
Thoughts and plans.
This person
Lived in the country
the most disgusting
Thugs and charlatans. In December in that country
The snow is pure as hell
And the blizzards start
Funny spinning wheels.
There was a man that adventurer
But the highest
And the best brand. He was graceful
Besides, the poet
Even with a small
But with gripping strength,
And some woman
Forty plus years
Called me a bad girl
And my dear." "Happiness," he said,
There is dexterity of mind and hands.
All the awkward souls
For the unfortunate are always known.
It's nothing,
What a lot of torment
Bring broken
And false gestures. In thunderstorms, in storms
Into the hell of life
For severe loss
And when you're sad
To seem smiling and simple -
The highest art in the world." "Black man!
You dare not!
You are not in service.
You live as a diver.
What do I care about life
Scandalous poet.
Please others
Read and tell." Black man
He looks straight at me.
And the eyes are covered
Blue puke.
Like he wants to tell me
That I'm a crook and a thief
So shameless and brazen
Robbed someone.
.....................
...................... My friend, my friend,
I am very, very sick.
I don't know where this pain came from.
Is the wind whistling
Over an empty and deserted field,
Or, like a grove in September,
Showers brains with alcohol. Frosty night...
Quiet crossroads.
I'm alone at the window
I am not expecting a guest or a friend.
The whole plain is covered
Loose and soft lime,
And trees like riders
We gathered in our garden. Somewhere crying
night ominous bird,
wooden riders
They sow a hoof knock.
Here again this black
He sits on my chair,
Raising your top hat
And casually throwing back his coat. “Listen, listen! -
He wheezes, looking into my face.
Himself getting closer
And leans closer. -
I didn't see anyone
Of scoundrels
So useless and stupid
Suffered from insomnia. Ah, let's say I was wrong!
Because today is the moon.
What more do you need
To a world filled with slumber?
Maybe with thick thighs
Secretly "she" will come,
And you will read
Your dead languid lyrics? Ah, I love poets!
Funny people!
I always find in them
History, familiar to the heart,
Like a pimply student
long haired freak
Talking about worlds
Sexual languor. I don't know, I don't remember
In one village
Maybe in Kaluga,
Or maybe in Ryazan,
There lived a boy
In a simple peasant family,
yellow-haired,
With blue eyes ... And now he became an adult,
Besides, the poet
Even with a small
But grippy strength