Yesenin send all the fuck. The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen

And the great poets wrote various poems, because they, too, were often ordinary people, with the same problems as us mere mortals. They loved and hated in the same way, they were offended, and they themselves insulted others, obscene and swearing.
Under the cut, a selection of poems by very famous poets, verses without censorship. I am not responsible for the authenticity of the verses, since I took them from here http://www.stihi-xix-xx-vekov.ru/epi1.html But maybe not all of these verses are worth reading.
Yesenin S. A. - “The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen”

The wind blows from the south
And the moon has risen
What are you, whore
Didn't you come at night?

You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
Not! We eat others!

Yesenin S. A. - “Do not grieve, dear, and do not gasp”

Do not grieve, dear, and do not gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Send everyone and everyone to dick
Don't get sent to hell!

Pushkin A. S.
"But I can't think of another joke"

I can't think of another joke
As soon as send Tolstoy to the dick.

Pushkin A. S. - "Epitaph"

O vain glory! about smoldering menacing view -
Hard cock Pushkin is here for the first time.

Pushkin A. S. - “A violinist once came to the castrato”

Once a violinist came to the castrato,
He was poor and that one was rich.
“Look, said the dumb singer,
My diamonds, emeralds -
I took them apart out of boredom.
A! By the way, brother,” he continued, “
When you get bored
What are you doing, please tell me."
In response, the poor fellow is indifferent:
- I AM? I scratch myself.

Pushkin A. S. - On the pictures to "Eugene
Onegin" in the "Nevsky Almanac"

1
Here, having crossed the Kokushkin bridge,
Leaning your ass on granite
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin himself
Stands with Monsieur Onegin.
Not deigning to look
The stronghold of fatal power,
He stood proudly behind the fortress:
Don't spit in the well, my dear.

2
The navel blackens through the shirt,
Outside tit - cute look!
Tatyana crumples a piece of paper in her hand,
Zane's stomach hurts:
She then got up in the morning
With pale moon rays
And tore it to pieces
Of course, the Nevsky Almanac.

Lermontov M. Yu. - "To Tizenhausen"

Don't drive so languidly
Don't turn your round ass
Sweetness and vice
Kindly don't joke.
Don't go to someone else's bed
And do not let your
Not joking, not really
Do not shake tender hands.
Know, our lovely Chukhonets,
Youth does not shine for a long time!
Know: when the hand of the Lord
Breaks over you
All that you are today
You see at your feet with a prayer,
Sweet moisture of a kiss
They won't take away your longing
At least then for the tip of the dick
You would give your life.

Mayakovsky V.V.
"Do you like roses? And I shit on them"

Do you love roses?
and I shit on them!
the country needs steam locomotives,
we need metal!
comrade!
don't ooh
don't ah!
don't pull the bridle!
once the plan has been carried out
send everyone
in pussy
did not fulfill
myself
go
on the
fuck.

Mayakovsky V. V. - “We need fucking”

We need a fuck
like the Chinese
rice.
Don't get tired of dick
bristle with a radio mast!
in both holes
look -
don't catch
syphilis.
And then you will
before doctors
writhe!

Goethe Johann - "What the stork can do"

Found a place to nest
Our stork! .. This bird -
Thunderstorm of frogs from the pond -
Nests on the belfry!

They are there all day long,
The people are literally moaning, -
But no one - neither old nor young -
Don't touch his nest!

You ask what such an honor
Did the bird win? -
She is a badass! - shit on the church!
Admirable habit!

Nekrasov N. A. - “Finally from Koenigsberg”

Finally from Koenigsberg
I approached the country
Where they don't like Gutenberg
And they find taste in shit.
I drank Russian infusion,
Heard "fucking mother"
And go ahead of me
Write Russian faces.

Grigoriev A. A. - "Farewell to St. Petersburg"

Farewell, cold and impassive,
Magnificent city of slaves
Barracks, brothels and palaces,
With your purulent-clear night,
With your terrible coldness
To the blows of sticks and whips,
With your vile royal service,
With your petty vanity,
With your bureaucratic ass
Which are glorious, for example,
Both Kalaidovich and Lakier,
With your claim - with Europe
Go and stand on the level...
Damn you mother fucker!

In contact with

classmates

"The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen"

The wind blows from the south
And the moon has risen
What are you, whore
Didn't you come at night?

You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
Not! We eat others!

“Sing, sing. On the damn guitar

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 didn't know love was contagious
I didn't know love was 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 a whirlpool.

Sing, sing! On a fatal scale
These hands are a fatal misfortune.
You know, fuck them...
I will not die, my friend, never.

“Rash, harmonica. Boredom ... Boredom "

Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...
The harmonist pours his fingers in a wave.
Drink with me you lousy bitch
Drink with me.

Loved you, scourged -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking so blue splashes?
Do you want it in the face?

In the garden you would be stuffed,
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'm not the first among women...
a lot of you
But with someone like you, with a bitch
Only for the first time.

The freer, 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…

"Sorokoust"

A. Marienhof

Blows, blows the death horn!
How can we be, how can we be now
On muddy haunches of roads?

You, lovers of song fleas,
Would you like to suck on a gelding?

It is full of meekness of muzzles to celebrate,
Like it, not like it, take it.
It's good when the twilight teases
And they pour it into your fat asses
Bloody broom of dawn.

Soon freeze with lime will whiten
That village and these meadows.
There is nowhere for you to hide from death,
There is no escape from the enemy.

Here he is, here he is with an iron belly,
Pulls five to the throats of the plains,
Leads the old mill with his ear,
He sharpened his flour-grinding scent.
And the yard silent bull,
That he spilled his whole brain on heifers,
Wiping the tongue on the spinner,
I sensed trouble over the field.

Oh, not from the other side of the village
So the harmonica cries pitifully:
Talia-la-la, tili-li-gom
Hanging over a white window sill.
And the yellow autumn wind
Is it not because, touching the blue with ripples,
As if from horses with a comb,
Comb leaves from maples.
He goes, he goes, a terrible messenger,
The fifth bulky thicket aches.
And the songs yearn more and more
Under the frog squeak in the straw.
Oh electric sunrise
Belts and pipes deaf grip,
Se hut wooden belly
Shaking steel fever!

Have you seen
How it runs through the steppes
Hiding in lake mists,
Snoring iron nostril,
On the paws of a cast-iron train?

And behind him
On the big grass
As at a feast of desperate races,
Thin legs throwing to the head,
Is the red-maned foal galloping?

Dear, dear, funny fool
Well, where is he, where is he chasing?
Doesn't he know that living horses
Did the steel cavalry win?
Doesn't he know that in the fields of the radiant
That time will not return his run,
When a couple of beautiful steppe Russians
Did you give a Pecheneg for a horse?
In a different way, fate repainted at the auction
Our splash, awakened by the gnashing,
And for thousands of pounds of horse skin and meat
Now they are buying a steam locomotive.

Damn you, nasty guest!
Our song will not get along with you.
It's a pity that you didn't have to as a child
Drown like a bucket in a well.
It's good for them to stand and watch
Paint mouths in tin kisses, -
Only I, as a psalmist, sing
Above the native country "Hallelujah".
That's why in the September skelete
On dry and cold loam,
Head smashed on the wattle fence,
The rowan berries were covered with blood.
That's why the sadness has grown
In the busts of talyanka voiced.
And a straw-smelling man
He choked on a dashing moonshine.

"Don't grieve, dear, and don't gasp"

Do not grieve, dear, and do not gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Send everyone and everyone to dick
Don't get sent to hell!

"Yes! Now it's decided. No return"

Yes! Now it's decided. no return
I left my native fields.
They will no longer be winged foliage
I need to ring poplars.

My old dog is long gone.

I love this elm city
Let him be flabby and let him be deaf.
Golden drowsy Asia
Rested on the domes.

And when the moon shines at night,
When it shines ... the devil knows how!
I walk with my head down
Alley to a familiar tavern.

Noise and din in this creepy lair,
But all night long, until dawn,
I read poetry to prostitutes
And with the bandits I fry alcohol.

Heart beats faster and faster
And I say out of place:
“I am the same as you, lost,
I can't go back now."

The low house will stoop without me,
My old dog is long dead.
On Moscow's winding streets
To die, to know, God judged me.

In contact with

Hello comrades. You know, I noticed a long time ago that if you use swear words correctly, speech is transformed. Becomes graceful, interesting. And most importantly - what strong emotions can be conveyed with just one Russian swear word. A unique thing Russian mat.

But, unfortunately, most people do not know how to use it. Sculpts it through every word. What do I suggest. I propose to get acquainted with the work of many classics who used ridiculous verbs in their works.

Many of them you have heard and read. Personally, I re-read it with pleasure, and rediscovered something for myself.

Maybe I'm not the only one interested.

Yesenin S. A. - “Do not grieve, dear, and do not gasp”
Do not grieve, dear, and do not gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Send everyone and everyone to dick
Don't get sent to hell!

Yesenin S. A. - “The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen”
The wind blows from the south
And the moon has risen
What are you, whore
Didn't you come at night?

You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
Not! We eat others!

Yesenin S. A. “Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
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.

Yesenin S. A. - “Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom"
Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...
The harmonist pours his fingers in a wave.
Drink with me you lousy bitch
Drink with me.

They loved you, scourged you -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking so blue splashes?
Do you want it in the face?

In the garden you would be stuffed,
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'm not the first among women...
a lot of you
But with someone like you, with a bitch
Only for the first time.

The freer, 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...

Mayakovsky V.V. - "To you"
To you who live for an orgy orgy,
having a bathroom and a warm closet!
Shame on you for being presented to George
subtract from newspaper columns?

Do you know, mediocre, many,
thinking to get drunk better how -
maybe now the bomb feet
tore out the lieutenant of Petrov? ..

If he is brought to the slaughter,
suddenly saw, wounded,
how you smeared in a cutlet lip
lustfully sing Northerner!

Do you, who love women and dishes,
give life to please?
I'd rather be in a fucking bar
serve pineapple water!
(Something reminds me of the plot of the verse. For example modern world and his principles)

Mayakovsky V. V. “Do you like roses? And I shit on them"
Do you love roses?
and I shit on them!
the country needs steam locomotives,
we need metal!
comrade!
don't ooh
don't ah!
don't pull the bridle!
once the plan has been carried out
send everyone
in pussy
did not fulfill
myself
go
on the
fuck.
(currently relevant)

Mayakovsky V. V. - "Hymn of Onanists"
We,
masturbators,
guys
broad-shouldered!
US
you won't lure
meaty tit!
Not
seduce us
fucking
trifling!
cumshot
right,
work left!!!
(Yes, this is the hymn of pikabushniks XD, sorry guys, this is winrar :))

Mayakovsky V.V. - "Who are the whores"
Not those
whores
that bread
for the sake of
front
and behind
give us
fuck,
God forgive them!
And those whores
lying,
money
sucking,
et
not giving -
lol
existent,
mother of their children!

Mayakovsky V.V. - "I'm lying on someone else's wife"
Lying
on someone else's
wife
ceiling
sticks
to the ass
but we do not grumble -
making communists,
out of spite
bourgeois
Europe!
Let dick
my
like a mast
bristling!
I do not care,
who is under me
minister's wife
or the cleaner!

Mayakovsky V. V. - “Hey, onanists”
Hey onanists,
shout "Hurrah!" -
fucking machines
established,
at your service
any hole,
up to
to the keyhole
wells!!!

Lermontov M. Yu. - "To Tizenhausen"
Don't drive so languidly
Don't turn your round ass
Sweetness and vice
Kindly don't joke.
Don't go to someone else's bed
And do not let your
Not joking, not really
Do not shake tender hands.
Know, our lovely Chukhonets,
Youth does not shine for a long time!
Know: when the hand of the Lord
Breaks over you
All that you are today
You see at your feet with a prayer,
Sweet moisture of a kiss
They won't take away your longing
At least then for the tip of the dick
You would give your life.

Lermontov M. Yu. - “Oh, how sweet your goddess is”
Impromptu
Oh how sweet is your goddess.
A Frenchman follows her,
She has a face like a melon
But the ass is like a watermelon.

Goethe Johann - "What the stork can do"
Found a place to nest
Our stork! .. This bird -
Thunderstorm of frogs from the pond -
Nests on the belfry!

They are there all day long,
The people are literally moaning, -
But no one - neither old nor young -
Don't touch his nest!

You ask what such an honor
Did the bird win? -
She is a badass! - shit on the church!
Admirable habit!

Nekrasov N. A. - “Finally from Koenigsberg”
Finally from Koenigsberg
I approached the country
Where they don't like Gutenberg
And they find taste in shit.
I drank Russian infusion,
Heard "fucking mother"
And go ahead of me
Write Russian faces.

Pushkin A. S. - "Anne Wulf"
Alas! in vain the proud maiden
I offered my love!
Neither our life nor our blood
Her soul will not be touched by the solid.
I will only be full of tears,
Even if my heart breaks sadness.
She's pissed on a sliver,
But it won't let you sniff.

Pushkin A. S. - “I wished to refresh my soul”
I wanted to refresh my soul
Live the old life
In sweet oblivion near friends
Of my past youth.
____

I rode to distant lands;
I did not crave noisy whores,
I was looking for not gold, not honors,
In the dust among spears and swords.

Pushkin A. S. - “A violinist once came to the castrato”
Once a violinist came to the castrato,
He was poor and that one was rich.
“Look, said the dumb singer,
My diamonds, emeralds -
I took them apart out of boredom.
A! by the way, brother,” he continued, “
When you get bored
What are you doing, please tell me."
In response, the poor fellow is indifferent:
- I AM? I scratch myself.

Pushkin A. S. - "The Cart of Life"
In the morning we sit in the cart,
We are happy to break the head
And, despising laziness and bliss,
We shout: let's go! Her mother!
_________________________
Shut up, godfather; and you, like me, are sinful,
And you will break everyone with words;
In someone else's pussy you see a straw,
And you don’t even see the logs!
(“From the All-Night Evening...”)
________________________

And finally.

“I live in Paris like a dandy,
I have up to a hundred women.
My dick is like a plot in a legend
From mouth to mouth."

V.V. Mayakovsky

Both critics and readers often idealize their idols: poets and writers. But this ordinary people with their passions, sins, weaknesses and vices, which are reflected in their work. In obscene verses, for example. Today, when icons are made of classics, forgetting about their earthly essence, these verses are tried not to be remembered either in school or university classrooms. In addition, profanity is prohibited by law. If things go on like this, and the State Duma continues to ban everything, then we will soon forget that in Russian literature there were such popularly beloved authors as V. Erofeev, V. Vysotsky, V. Sorokin, V. Pelevin and many others. Mayakovsky, Lermontov, Pushkin, and, of course, Sergei Yesenin, who himself called himself a hooligan, brawler and bawdy, have verses with profanity.

I have one fun

I have only one fun:

Fingers in the mouth and a cheerful whistle.

Bad fame swept

That I am a brawler and a brawler.

Oh! what a ridiculous loss!

There are many funny losses in life.

I am ashamed that I believed in God.

I'm sorry that I don't believe it now.

Golden, distant distances!

Everything burns worldly dream.

And I was rude and scandalous

To burn brighter.

The poet's gift is to caress and scratch,

Fatal seal on it.

White rose with black toad

I wanted to get married on earth.

Let them not get along, let them not come true

These thoughts of pink days.

But if the devils nested in the soul -

So the angels lived in it.

That's for this fun turbidity,

Going with her to another land,

I want last minute

Ask those who will be with me -

So that for everything for my grave sins,

For disbelief in grace

They put me in a Russian shirt

Under the icons to die.

Why are you looking so blue splashes?

A favorite of women in a drunken stupor, more than once recited in public verses of very dubious content. Although I rarely wrote down. They were born spontaneously and did not linger in the poet's memory. Nevertheless, there are still a few poems left in the drafts, where the author expressed his thoughts and emotions, resorting to taboo vocabulary.

Yesenin was seriously mentally ill, and almost all of his frivolous verses belong to this period. The poet lost faith in love, in social justice, in the new system. He was confused, lost the meaning of existence, disappointed in his work. The world appeared before him in shades of grey.

This is clearly seen in the poem, full of drunken bravado and deep despair.

Rash harmonica. Boredom… Boredom

Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...

The harmonist pours his fingers in a wave.

Drink with me, you lousy bitch.

Drink with me.

Loved you, scourged -

Unbearable.

Why are you looking so blue splashes?

Do you want it in the face?

In the garden you would be stuffed,

Frighten crows.

Tormented me to the liver

From all sides.

Rash, harmonica. Rash, my frequent.

Drink, otter, drink.

I'd rather be that one, boobs -

She is dumber.

I'm not the first among women...

a lot of you

But with one 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…

Here, the Ryazan rake seeks to prove to everyone, and first of all, to himself, that his chaotic life was not in vain. And although the motives for suicide are increasingly breaking through into him, Yesenin still has hope that he will be able to escape from the deep and vicious pool of drunkenness and riotous life. He exclaims: "I'm not going to kill myself, go to hell."

A favorite of women in a drunken stupor has repeatedly recited in public verses of very dubious content

The wind blows from the south

The poet wrote the poem “The Wind Blows from the South” after he invited a girl to visit, who refused to continue her acquaintance, knowing about the difficult character and far from secular manners of her gentleman.

The wind blows from the south

And the moon has risen

What are you, motherfucker

Didn't you come at night?

The poem is sustained in an aggressive and harsh form, and its meaning is that the lyrical hero will easily find a replacement for the intractable young lady, and will be able to drag any other beauty into bed.

Sing, sing. On the damn guitar

A similar leitmotif is contained in the stanzas of the work “Sing, sing. On the cursed guitar”, where the poet again returns to the theme of death.

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 didn't know love was contagious

I didn't know love was 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 a whirlpool.

Sing, sing! On a fatal scale

These hands are a fatal misfortune.

Just know, send them to * er

Alas, the poet's prophecy regarding himself did not come true. The last day of December 1925 turned out to be a holiday with tears in our eyes.

The poet lost faith in love, in social justice, in a new system

On this day, Muscovites and numerous guests of the capital buried Sergei Yesenin. An hour before the solemn chimes, his best friend, the poet Anatoly Mariengof, was crying in his room on Tverskoy Boulevard.

He could not understand how people who recently walked with a mournful look behind the coffin of the poet are now preening, spinning in front of a mirror, tying their ties. And at midnight they will congratulate each other on the New Year, clink glasses of champagne.

He shared these mournful thoughts with his wife. His wife then philosophically said to him:

This is life, Tolya!

Living heating pad

All night long they sat on the couch, sorting through photographs, in which there was a young, perky, mocking Sergei. Read by heart his magic. And Anatoly Borisovich recalled how, before his marriage, he and Yesenin lived in Moscow, without having their own roof over their heads.

By the way, the great poet never received a capital apartment, despite his crazy fame. “After all, he’s spending the night somewhere now, well, let him live there,” an official of the administration of the Krasnopresnensky district threw up his hands with irresistible logic, where, having passed five bureaucratic instances, a paper was received from Trotsky’s apparatus with a proposal to provide housing to Yesenin. “How many do we have in Moscow, and what - to give everyone an apartment?”

Yesenin was saved from "homelessness" by friends. But mostly friends. At first, Yesenin lived together with Anatoly Mariengof, huddling with friends or renting a corner for a while. Brothers in the literary workshop were separated so rarely that they gave rise to all of Moscow to talk about intimacy with each other.

The great poet never got an apartment in the capital, despite his crazy fame

In fact, they even had to sleep in the same bed! And what do you want to do if there is nothing to heat the apartment with, and poetry can only be written with warm gloves!

One day, a little-known Moscow poetess asked Sergei to help her get a job. The girl was rosy-cheeked, round-thighed with lush, soft shoulders. The poet offered to pay her the salary of a good typist. To do this, she had to come to friends at night, undress, lie down under the covers and leave when the bed was warm. Yesenin promised that they would not look at the girl during the procedure of opening and dressing.

Three days already known at that time poets in a warm bed. On the fourth, the young writer could not stand it and indignantly refused an easy, but strange service. To the bewildered question of true gentlemen: “What is the matter?”, She angrily exclaimed:

I wasn't hired to warm the sheets of the saints!

They say that Mariengof, out of friendly motives, incited Yesenin against Zinaida Reich, aroused unreasonable jealousy in him. As a result, Sergei divorced his beloved woman. Since then, his family life has not worked out.

Although Zinaida and Reich and his children are a poet. However, it is difficult to imagine Sergei Yesenin, the owner of a light gait and a lover of noisy feasts, as a respectable father of a family and a faithful husband.

Mariengof, out of friendly motives, incited Yesenin against Zinaida Reich

He walked forward through life with long strides, as if in a hurry to go through it as soon as possible. Isadora Duncan even gave the poet a gold watch, but he still remained at odds with the times.

Dancer Isadora Duncan

The marriage to the famous French dancer Duncan was perceived by the poet's entourage as his desire to finally solve the housing problem. Then a caustic ditty immediately sounded on the Moscow streets:

Tolya walks unwashed,

And Seryozha is clean.

Because Seryozha is sleeping

With Dunya on Prechistenka.

Meanwhile, Yesenin's feeling, which flared up sharply before everyone's eyes, can only be called love.

But that heavy love, in which passion prevails. Yesenin surrendered to her without hesitation, without controlling his words and deeds. However, there were few words - he did not know either English or French, and Isadora spoke Russian poorly. But one of her first sayings about Yesenin was "". And when he rudely pushed her away, she joyfully exclaimed: “Russian love!”

The seductress of many European celebrities with refined tastes and manners, the behavior of the explosive Russian poet with a golden-haired head was to her heart. And he, yesterday's provincial peasant, the conqueror of the capital's beauties, apparently wanted to reduce this refined woman, caressed by salon life, to the level of a village girl.

It was no coincidence that he called her behind her back in the circle of friends "Dunka". Isadora knelt before him, but he preferred the restless life between heaven and earth to her sweet captivity.

Sergei Yesenin and Isadora Duncan - a love story

In the Duncan mansion, they practically did not know what water was - they quenched their thirst with French wines, cognac and champagne. A heavy impression on Yesenin was made by a trip with "Dunka" abroad. The complacency of the well-fed, vulgar bourgeois, and against their background, noticeably heavier from drunkenness, in front of the eyes of the dancer - all this oppressed Yesenin. After another scandal in Paris, Isadora imprisoned her "prince" in a private crazy house. The poet spent three days with the “shiziki”, every second fearing for his mind.

He falls ill with persecution mania. In Russia, this disease will intensify, shatter the already too sensitive nervous psyche. Alas, even close people treated the poet's illness as a manifestation of suspiciousness, another eccentricity.

Yes, Yesenin was, in fact, suspicious, afraid of syphilis, the scourge of troubled times, and then donated blood for analysis. But they really followed him - there were secret agents of the Cheka in his entourage, he was often provoked into scandals and dragged to the police. Suffice it to say that five criminal cases were opened against Yesenin in five years, and recently he was wanted!

Diagnosis - persecution mania

In front of his nose, Dzerzhinsky's favorite, the adventurer and murderer Blumkin, waved a revolver, he was overtaken in the dark by some people in black and demanded huge money in return for peace of mind, his manuscripts were stolen, beaten and robbed repeatedly. What about friends? It was they who pushed Yesenin to. They ate and drank at his expense, envious, could not forgive Yesenin for what they themselves were deprived of - genius and beauty, only. The fact that he scattered handfuls of golden placers of his sonorous soul.

Plow the earth, write poetry

Yesenin's lifestyle and work were completely alien to the Soviet government. She was afraid of his colossal influence on the agitated society, on the youth. All her attempts to reason with and tame the poet were unsuccessful.

Then the persecution began in magazines and in public disputes, humiliation with the issuance of cut fees to him. The poet, who was aware of the uniqueness and power of his gift, could not bear this. His psyche was completely shaken, in the last year Yesenin had visual hallucinations.

What did he think shortly before his death, hiding in a Moscow clinic for the mentally ill from Themis blinded by the Bolsheviks?

He was surrounded by secret agents of the Cheka, he was often provoked into scandals and dragged to the police

Even there he was besieged by countless creditors. And what lies ahead - poverty, because Yesenin sent money to the village, kept his sisters, but where to lay his head? Not on prison bunks! Return to the village? Did Mayakovsky write: “He will plow the land, write poetry”?

No, Yesenin was poisoned by fame and life in the capital, and the poverty and greed of the peasants drove him to despair. Although in Moscow he was gnawed by a terrible loneliness, aggravated by the close and idle attention of the public, greedy for sensations. From this loneliness such painful forebodings were born:

I'm scared - because the soul passes,

Like youth and like love.

He has already said goodbye to love and youth, is it really yet to part - forever - with his soul? Perhaps one of the main tragedies of Yesenin's life is the loss of faith. He did not have outside support, and that he was losing confidence in his own abilities, being both mentally and physically ill by the age of 30.

Galina Benislavskaya - death

Nevertheless, there was support from the outside, but in December 1925 it also broke down. For five years, Galina Benislavskaya followed Esenin relentlessly. His executor, keeper of the poet's manuscripts and cherished thoughts, she forgave him all his betrayals. And she always let the homeless poet to her place, moreover, she looked for him all over Moscow when he disappeared from time to time. She pulled him out of the maelstrom of tavern life, for which Yesenin's "friends" almost killed her once.

But the Benislavskaya marriage could not forgive him - already the fourth! - to Sophia, the granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy (this marriage also ended in failure). Therefore, Galina did not want to come to the sick poet in the clinic for a very important conversation. Perhaps she would have been able to save her beloved Seryozha from a terrible act. cold winter 1925.

He has already said goodbye to love and youth, is it really that he still has to part with his soul?

After the death of Yesenin, a wave of suicides swept across Russia. But Galya wanted to live - in order to write the truth about her relationship with the great poet, in order to collect and prepare for publication the entire vast creative heritage of Yesenin. A year later, this work was completed.

Then Benislavskaya came to Vagankovo, smoked a pack of cigarettes, wrote a farewell note on it and. She had to play Russian roulette to the “victory end”, since there was a single bullet in the drum of her revolver. Next to Yesenin's mound, there are now two graves of the people closest to him: his mother and Galina.

VIDEO: Read by Sergei Yesenin. Confessions of a bully

Is it true that such great Russian poets as Pushkin, Lermontov and Yesenin, as well as the Soviet poet Mayakovsky, wrote poetry using obscene vocabulary?

I was told that yes - motivated by the fact that this is said in schools at literature lessons (of course, I barely remember school over the past years, but for some reason I’m sure that we weren’t told this) and that only those who I didn’t read the biographies of poets at all, I can believe that they wrote only great works and did not indulge in motherhood.

I thought: it's true! After all, these poets are ordinary people and nothing human is alien to them. They also go to shit, vomit with booze, fuck and swear. Especially Yesenin, who, according to his own statement, “I am a bawdy and a brawler.” However, Yesenin himself says this: “The notoriety has swept that I am a brawler and a brawler.” Making some speculative assumptions, we can assume that this “fame” did not quite deserve it, but the poet does not care about that. And again, does it mean that the “obscene” is precisely for obscene verses? Not at all. A person may well be called a bawdy for sebaceous jokes, for example. However, people have a strong opinion that since the poet is a bawdy, it means that he wrote poetry in obscene language. And so it or not - it does not matter! After all, in this way the great is reduced to a simple and understandable “man of the people”, who at the moment is already talking obscenities, not embarrassed by children, women, and no one at all.

But this is all so - my personal, subjective, feelings. As for the verses, here are two verses, for example:
Mayakovsky (type):
"Do you like roses?"

Do you love roses?
and I shit on them!
the country needs steam locomotives,
we need metal!
comrade!
don't ooh
don't ah!
don't pull the bridle!
once the plan has been carried out
send everyone
in pussy
did not fulfill
myself
go
on the
fuck.

And Yesenin (as they say):
***
Do not grieve, dear, and do not gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Send everyone and everyone to dick
Don't get sent to hell!

Considering that the dating of these opuses is omitted everywhere (although there are rumors that Yesenin wrote down his obscene poems mainly on last year life), it is difficult to determine who plagiarized what and who. Personally, it seems to me that this is one "unknown author", who later attributed his attempts to Mayakovsky, ripped off the second, the same one, which was "forged" under Yesenin.

If you try to find scans or photographs of Yesenin's drafts, then Google throws out a bunch of pictures, but there are no obscene verses there - try to search for yourself and poke me with your nose if I'm wrong. Yes, and links to one of Yesenin's most “popular” obscene poems “The Wind Blows from the South” lead to entertainment sites and not a single link to the really original text. Of course, everything can be blamed on the “bloody regime”, which deprived the people, no doubt, of the great heritage of great poets in the genre of obscene versification. But is it?

Alas, I am not a philologist or a historian, and did not closely engage in the work of the poets I mentioned, however, even to my inexperienced eye it can be seen that 99% is a gross fake. Here are two verses allegedly by Mayakovsky

"I'm lying on someone else's wife..."

Lying
on someone else's
wife
ceiling
sticks
to the ass
but we do not grumble -
making communists,
out of spite
bourgeois
Europe!
Let dick
my
like a mast
bristling!
I do not care,
who is under me
minister's wife
or the cleaner!

"We need a fuck"

We need a fuck
like the Chinese
rice.
Don't get tired of dick
bristle with a radio mast!
in both holes
look -
don't catch
syphilis.
And then you will
before doctors
writhe!

You don't see any similarities, do you? Well, yes - the same poet wrote, so he used the same comparison! And as for me - they wrote different people, but definitely not Mayakovsky!

In addition, Mayakovsky was known for his anti-religious views and poems, so insert a line into the verse - “ God forgive them! ”- he could hardly, but any author who imitates him did not get it!

And I don’t understand at all how the poet could insert the word “asshole” in his poem in an abusive sense:
All people are fucking
The whole world is a mess!
One of my uncle
And that asshole

When, according to Wiktionary, the first use of this word (precisely as a curse) occurs in the 40s of the 20th century, and the poet died a little earlier ..
However, it is quite possible that I am wrong and they will convincingly prove it to me, with links to serious studies, scans of drafts and other “reinforced concrete” facts.
But who am I kidding? If anyone reads this text at all, then, most likely, they won’t even comment, let alone prove something - come on! After all, there are more important topics: what is on the main page and who is fat there!

Something like this..

We were born with a mother, we live with a mother,
With a mother we studied, with a mother we will die,
We ate mother's milk with mother's milk,
With swearing, my dad beat mom with his fist.
Y. Klinskikh