October 12, 1999
Sergey Aleksandrovich Yesenin
Persian Motifs
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| My former wound is quietened... Translated by Lyuba Coffey My former wound is quietened -- The drunk delirium is not eating my heart. With the blue flowers of Tegeran I'm healing them in the chaihana. The chaihana man himself with round shoulders, To glorify his chaihana for Russians, Is treating me to red tea Instead of strong vodka and wine. Treat me, master, but not much. Many roses grow in your garden. Not in vain did the eyes wink me, Half raised the black veil. We in Russia do not keep Green maidens on a chain like dogs, We give kisses for free, Without dagger tricks and duels. Well to this for the body's movements, For her face is like dawn, I'll give her a shawl from Khorossan And a Shiraz carpet. Pour, master, strong tea for me, I won't lie to you forever. I'm responsible for myself now, Can't be responsible for you. You don't look at the door too much, There is still a gate in the garden... Not in vain did the eyes wink me, Half raised the black veil. 1924 |
I asked the money changer today... |
| Shagane, You are my Shagane! Translated by Lyuba Coffey Shagane, you are my Shagane! Maybe because I'm from the North, I'm ready to tell you everything, About the waving rye under the moon, My Shagane, Shagane. Maybe because I'm from the North, That the moon is a hundred times bigger there, No matter how she could be beautiful, It's no better than Ryazan freedom, Maybe because I'm from the North. I'm ready to tell you about everything, This hair I took from the rye, If you wish you may wind on a finger -- I do not feel any pain. I am ready to tell you everything. About the waving rye under the moon. Guess by my curls. My dear, joke, smile, Just don't wake up in my presence The memory of the waving rye under the moon. Shagane, you are my Shagane! There is there in the North, a girl too, She is terribly like you, Maybe she is thinking about me... My Shagane, Shagane 1924 |
You said that Sa'adi... |
| I've never been to the Bosphorus... Translated by Lyuba Coffey I've never been to the Bosphorus, You don't ask me about it. In your eyes I saw the sea, Flaming with blue fire. I didn't go to Baghdad with the caravan, I didn't take silk and henna. Bend with your beautiful body, Let me rest on my knees. Or is it again so, that no matter how often I ask you, You will not care for centuries, That in the faraway name -- Russia -- I'm a famous, recognized poet. In my soul the harmonica is ringing, By the moonlight I can hear the dog barking. Don't you want, Persian, To see the distant blue land? I have come here not because of boredom -- You, invisible, called me. And your swan hands Were weaving me like two wings. Long have I been looking for calm in my destiny And though I don't curse my past life, Tell me something About your merry land. Calm down the sadness of the harmonica in your soul, Give the breath of fresh charms, So that about the far North woman I wouldn't sigh, wouldn't miss. And though I haven't been to the Bosphorus, I'll imagine it to you. All the same -- your eyes, like the sea, Are flying with the blue fire. 21 September 1924 |
The evening light of the saffron land... |
| The air is translucent and blue Translated by Lyuba Coffey The air is translucent and blue, I'll go out in the flowery thickets, The traveler leaving for the azure, He won't reach the desert. The air is translucent and blue. You'll go through the meadow, like the garden, The garden in wild bloom, Your glance can't help, Bending the carnations. You'll go through the meadow, like the garden. Either whisper or rustle or shuffle -- Tenderness like Sa'adi's songs. The moon's yellow splendor Will reflect in a glance at once, Tenderness like Sa'adi's songs. The voice will be heard, Quiet like Gassan's flute. In the body's tight embraces There are neither concerns nor losses, Only Gassan's flute. Here it is the desired destiny Of those who are tired on the way. Fragrant wind I'm drinking with dry lips, Fragrant wind. 1925 |
The moon's cold gold... |
| In Horossan there are such doors... Translated by Lyuba Coffey In Horossan there are such doors, Where the porch is thrown over with roses. There, lives a thoughtful peri. In Horossan there are such doors, But I couldn't open those doors. I have enough force in my hands, And in my hair both gold and bronze. The peri's voice is tender and beautiful. I have enough force in my hands Yet I couldn't unlock those doors. I don't need braveness in my love. And what for? Whom shall I sing songs to? -- Shaga is no longer jealous, If I couldn't unlock the doors, I don't need braveness in my love. It's time for me to go back to Rus. Persia! Is it you I'm leaving? Am I parting with you forever Because of the love for my native land? It's time for me to go back to Rus. Good-bye, peri, good-bye, Let me have failed, opening the doors, You gave me a beautiful suffering, I'm to sing about you in my motherland. Good-bye, peri, good-bye. March 1925 |
The blue motherland Firdusi... |
| To be a poet... Translated by Lyuba Coffey To be a poet -- it means as If one does not bestow the truth of life, To cut oneself on the tender skin, With blood's feelings to cherish another's soul. To be a poet -- it means losing the freedom, To make it more known to you, The nightingale sings -- it doesn't hurt him, He has one and the same song. The canary from another person's voice -- Pitiful, funny trinket. The world needs a song's word To sing on your own even like a frog. Magomed was cunning in the Koran, Having forbidden spirit drinks, That's why the poet won't stop Drinking wine, when he is tormented. And the poet goes to his beloved, And the beloved lying with another's bed, Being savored with a vital liquor, He won't stab a knife in her heart. But burning with a jealous braveness, He will whistle aloud on the homeward way: 'So what, I'll die a tramp, It's familiar to us on earth, too'. |
My darling's hands... |
| Why is the moon shining so dimly... Translated by Lyuba Coffey 'Why is the moon shining so dimly on the gardens and walls of Horossan? As if I'm walking the Russian plain Under the rustling mantle of the fog', -- I asked that dear Lala, Of the silent cypress at night, But my host didn't whisper a word, But rather raised their proud heads to the sky. 'Why is the moon shining so dimly?' -- I asked the flowers in the silent thicket, And the flowers replied: You ache Like the sadness of the rustling rose'. The rose has splashed itself with petals, With those petals she sent secretly to me: 'Your Shagane is cherished by another man, Your Shagane kissed another man.' She said: 'The Russian man will not notice... For the heart -- a song, and for the song -- life and body... That's why the moon shines so dimly, That's why it has become so sadly pale. There have been too many betrayals, Tears and sufferings, who wanted them, who doesn't want. ........................................................ But still in centuries The violet nights are blessed on earth. August 1925 |
Silly heart, don't beat! |
| Blue and merry land... Translated by Lyuba Coffey Blue and merry land. My honor is sold for a song. Wind from the sea, blow quieter -- Do you hear, the nightingale is calling the rose? Do you hear the roses bending -- The song will return to the heart. Wind from the sea, blow quieter -- Do you hear, the nightingale is calling the rose? You -- a child, there's no argument about it, And am I not a poet? Wind from the sea, blow quieter -- Do you hear, the nightingale is calling the rose? Dear Gelia, forgive me. There can be many roses on the way, Many roses bend, But only one can smile with the heart. Let's now together. You and I. For such dear lands. Wind from the sea, blow quieter -- Do you hear, the nightingale is calling the rose? Blue and merry land. Let my whole life be sold for a song, But for Gelia in branches shade The nightingale is embracing the rose. 8 April 1925 |
Notes on the Persian Motifs |
October 12, 1999