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In memory of Sergei Yesenin

It can be simple to abandon life forever,
To thoughtlessly and painlessly flame out.
Not for a Russian poet though, he will never
Choose for his death a lighted, easy route
 
A bullet is the surest way his winged soul
Can quickly get in front of Heaven’s Gate
Or coarse terror’s hairy paw will play its role -
The heart like sponge is squeezed and life deflates.
 

August of 1940

Whenever an epoch is buried
The funeral psalm isn’t sung,
The landscape is sad and unvaried
Just nettle and thistle and funk.
 
And just the gravediggers aren’t tired
They need the dead body interred,
And quiet, Oh God, such a quiet
That the movement of time can be heard
 
And later the epoch will float
As a corpse on a river in spring,
But the mother’s son won’t emote,
Grandson looks away with sad grin
 
And heads are kept lower and lower,
The moon like a pendulum swings.
So Paris has perished, and over
It this deafening quiet now rings.
 

During a white night

Oh, I left the door ajar
And the candles cold
You wouldn't know how tired my eyes are-
Staying awake is getting old.
 
I watched how those lines shrunk
The dark needles of the setting sun
By the sound of a voice I was drunk
It was that of a loved one.
 
And to know that all is lost forevermore
That life lives to attack!
Oh, I was so sure
That you would come back
 

Twenty-first. Night. Monday

Twenty-first. Night. Monday
Soft appearance of the capital in mist.
It must have been some loafer
Who made up the idea the love exists.
And all were convinced, due to the laziness
Or, maybe, the boredom. So that how it rolls.
Excitement of dating and fear of parting
And venerating the feel of love in songs.
But the mystery’s revealed to the others
Who destined to upheld the silence...
I’ve stumbled on this by chance
And since then, nothing feels real again.