Sergei Yesenin
Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin [Сергей Александрович Есенин], 1895-1925, sometimes spelled as Esenin, was a Russian lyric poet. He is one of the most popular and well-known Russian poets of the 20th century, known for "his lyrical evocations of and nostalgia for the village life of his childhood - no idyll, presented in all its rawness, with an implied curse on urbanisation and industrialisation."
Born of peasant parents, he received very little formal education, and although he later traveled quite extensively it was the pre-revolution countryside of his youth that served as inspiration for most of his poetry. Yesenin initially supported the Bolshevik revolution, thinking that it would prove beneficial to the peasant class, but he became disenchanted when he saw that it would lead only to the industrialization of Russia. A longing for a return to the simplicity of the peasant lifestyle characterizes his work, as does his innovative use of images drawn from village lore. He is credited with helping to establish the Imaginist movement in Russian literature.
Yesenin led an erratic, unconventional life that was punctuated by bouts of drunkenness and insanity. Before hanging himself in a Leningrad hotel, Yesenin slit his wrists, and, using his own blood, wrote a farewell poem.
“Ako jednom odeš, nemoj se okrenuti, jer ako se okreneš moraš se vratiti, a ja ne želim da se vratiš odlazeći.”
“Не жалею, не зову, не плачу, Все пройдет, как с белых яблонь дым. Увяданья золотом охваченный, Я не буду больше молодым.Ты теперь не так уж будешь биться, Сердце, тронутое холодком, И страна березового ситца Не заманит шляться босиком.Дух бродяжий! ты все реже, реже Расшевеливаешь пламень уст О, моя утраченная свежесть, Буйство глаз и половодье чувств!Я теперь скупее стал в желаньях, Жизнь моя, иль ты приснилась мне? Словно я весенней гулкой ранью Проскакал на розовом коне.Все мы, все мы в этом мире тленны, Тихо льется с кленов листьев медь... Будь же ты вовек благословенно, Что пришло процвесть и умереть.”
“Not sorry, not calling, not cryingAll will pass like smoke of white apple treesSeized by the gold of autumn,I will no longer be young.”
“„U oluji i buri kraj nedaća svih, uz teške gubitke i tugu kletu, biti prirodan, nasmejan i tih najveća je umetnost na svetu.”