Joy is given to the rude,
Gentle is given sadness.
I need nothing,
I don't feel sorry for anyone.
I feel sorry for myself a little
Pity the homeless dogs
This straight road
She took me to a tavern.
Why are you arguing, devils?
Am I not a son of the country?
Each of us pledged
For a glass of your pants.
I dimly look at the windows,
In the heart of longing and heat.
Rolling, wet in the sun,
Street in front of me.
On the street, a snotty boy.
The air is fried and dry.
The boy is so happy
And picks his nose.
Pick, pick, my dear,
Stick your whole finger in there
Only now with ephta force
Don't get into your soul.
I'm ready... I'm timid...
Look at the bottles!
I collect corks -
Shut up my soul.
Do not twist your smile, pulling your hands, -
I love another, but not you.
You yourself know, you know well -
I don't see you, I didn't come to you.
I passed by, my heart doesn't care -
I just wanted to look out the window.
Well, kiss me, kiss me
Whether it's blood or pain.
Out of tune with the cold will
Boiling water of heart jets.
overturned mug
Among the merry is not for us.
Understand my friend
On earth they live only once!
Look around with calm eyes
Look: in the dark damp
The moon is like a yellow raven
Circling, hovering above the ground.
Well, kiss me! So I want.
The song of decay sang to me.
It can be seen that he sensed my death
The one who climbs in the sky.
Withering power!
To die is to die!
Until the end of my dear lips
I would like to kiss.
So that all the time in blue dreams,
Not ashamed and not melting,
In the gentle rustle of bird cherry
It was heard: "I am yours."
And so that the light over a full mug
Not extinguished with light foam -
Drink and sing, my friend:
On earth they live only once!
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
Your fingers dance in a semicircle.
Would choke in this frenzy,
My last, only friend.
Don't look at her wrists
And flowing silk from her shoulders.
I was looking for happiness in this woman,
And accidentally found death.
I did not know that love is an infection,
I didn't know that love is a plague.
Came up with a slitted eye
The bully went crazy.
Sing, my friend. call me again
Our former violent early.
Let her kiss each other
Young, beautiful bastard.
Ah, wait. I don't scold her.
Ah, wait. I don't curse her.
Let me play about myself
Under this bass string.
The days of my pink dome are pouring.
In the heart of dreams of gold sums.
I touched a lot of girls
Many women pressed in the corner.
Yes! there is the bitter truth of the earth,
I peeped with a childish eye:
Males lick in line
Bitch dripping juice
So why should I be jealous of her.
So why should I hurt like this.
Our life is a sheet and a bed.
Our life is a kiss and into the pool.
Sing, sing! On a fatal scale
These hands are a fatal misfortune.
You know, fuck them...
I will not die, my friend, never.
SON OF A BITCH
Again floated years out of the darkness
And they make noise like a chamomile meadow.
I remember a dog today
What was my youth friend.
Today my youth has faded away,
Like maple rotted under the windows,
But I remembered a girl in white,
For which there was a postman dog.
Not everyone has a loved one
But she was like a song to me,
Because my notes
Didn't take the dog out of the collar.
She never read them
And my handwriting was unfamiliar to her,
But I dreamed about something for a long time
At the viburnum behind the yellow pond.
I suffered... I wanted an answer...
Didn't wait... left... And now
Through the years... a famous poet
Here again, at the birth gates.
That dog died a long time ago
But in the same suit, with a tint of blue,
With a lively barking stunned
I was shot by her young son.
Mother honest! And how similar!
The pain of the soul came up again.
With this pain, I feel younger
And at least write notes again.
I'm glad to hear the song of the past,
But don't bark! Don't bark! Don't bark!
If you want, dog, I'll kiss you
For awakened in the heart of May?
Kiss, I will press my body to you
And, as a friend, I will bring you into the house ...
Yes, I liked the girl in white
But now I love in blue.
Rash, harmonica! Boredom... Boredom...
The harmonist pours his fingers in a wave.
Drink with me, you lousy bitch.
Drink with me.
Loved you, tortured you
Unbearable!
Why are you looking so blue splashes?
Or in the face like it?
In the garden would you, on a scarecrow,
Frighten crows.
Tormented me to the liver
From all sides.
Rash, harmonica! Rash, my frequent!
Drink, otter! Drink!
I'd rather be that busty one over there
She is dumber.
I am not the first among women,
There are many of you.
But with someone like you, with a bitch
Only for the first time.
The more it hurts, the louder
Here and there.
I won't end myself.
Go to hell.
To your pack of dogs
It's time to forgive.
Darling... I'm crying...
Sorry Sorry...
BLACK MAN
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...
Joy is given to the rude
Gentle is given sadness.
I need nothing,
I don't feel sorry for anyone.
I feel sorry for myself a little
Pity the homeless dogs
This straight road
She took me to a tavern.
Why are you arguing, devils?
Am I not a son of the country?
Each of us pledged
For a glass of your pants.
I dimly look at the windows,
In the heart of longing and heat.
Rolling, wet in the sun,
Street in front of me.
On the street, a snotty boy.
The air is fried and dry.
The boy is so happy
And picks his nose.
Pick, pick, my dear,
Stick your whole finger in there
Only now with ephta force
Don't get into your soul.
I'm ready ... I'm timid ...
Look at the bottles!
I collect corks -
Shut up my soul.
Analysis of the poem "Joy is given to the rude" Yesenin
In 1923, Sergei Yesenin wrote his famous poem "Joy is given to the rude." Thanks to which you can better understand the emotional experiences of the poet. This year, he understands that the Soviet authorities do not recognize his work, but in addition to this, he has other reasons for sadness. This work is thematically connected with the Moscow Tavern cycle.
Many friends and admirers of his work began to turn away from the poet. This happens due to the fact that people do not want to go against the state, which absolutely does not punish the poet, but still treats him with contempt.
In his poem, the main character talks about how his soul got lost. Therefore, he has pity for himself and stray dogs. He wants to get rid of unpleasant emotional experiences, he wants to overcome the crisis. Because of this, he ended up in a tavern. Alcohol and loose lifestyle - a kind of lifeline. This should help to come to terms with the world order, which has changed a lot. When the lyrical hero sits with a glass of vodka, he feels his involvement with the Russian people. Because of this, a rather peculiar patriotism wakes up in him.
The poem can be divided into two different parts. In the first, the protagonist talks about his own life. In the second, he draws attention to a random passerby - this is a boy. He looks happy and picks his nose. The author uses a direct and slightly crude metaphor, advising the boy not to poke around with such force in his soul, because this can lead to grief and disappointment.
In the penultimate stanza, Sergei Yesenin uses vulgarism, which is very conspicuous - the word "eftoy". The writer Yuri Libedinsky, who wrote his memoirs about the poet, claims that in this way Yesenin strengthened the artistic expressiveness of the poem and more accurately conveyed the image. This does not indicate the author's illiteracy, but on the contrary, only a person who is well versed in language and poetry could use such turns of phrase in his works.
In the poems that are part of the Moscow Tavern cycle, or have a thematic connection with it, the spiritual quest of the protagonist passes through various stages. The verse “Joy is given to the rude” tells about the first stage, which involves making a decision to overcome the crisis with the help of a riotous lifestyle. But at the second stage, the author realizes that this is not quite the right path and it will not lead to the desired. And at the last stage comes insight. The lyrical hero understands that he needs to look at his life differently - with a different look.
Sergey Yesenin
Joy is given to the rude,
Gentle is given sadness.
I need nothing,
I don't feel sorry for anyone.
I feel sorry for myself a little
Pity the homeless dogs
This straight road
She took me to a tavern.
Why are you arguing, devils?
Am I not a son of the country?
Each of us pledged
For a glass of your pants.
I dimly look at the windows,
In the heart of longing and heat.
Rolling, wet in the sun,
Street in front of me.
On the street, a snotty boy.
The air is fried and dry.
The boy is so happy
And picks his nose.
Pick, pick, my dear,
Stick your whole finger in there
Only now with ephta force
Don't get into your soul.
I'm ready... I'm timid...
Look at the bottles!
I collect corks -
Shut up my soul. Sergei Yesenin
Rude given joy
Given gentle sadness.
I don't need,
I wish no one.
I feel sorry for a bit,
sorry for stray dogs
This straight
Led me to the pub.
Well you swear devils?
Or I am not the son of the country?
Each of us has pledged
Over a glass of his pants.
Dull look at the window,
In the heart of longing and heat.
Rolling in the sun izmoknuv,
The street in front of me.
Snotty boy on the street.
Roasted and dry air.
Such a happy boy
And picking his nose.
To pick, to pick, my dear,
Sui there finger whole,
Only here with eftoy force
In his soul do not go.
I'm really ready ... I shy ...
Look at the bottles host!
I collect corks-
plugging my soul.
