To whom did Esenin dedicate his famous poem – his mother or his grandmother?

Prepared by: Bujar Hudhri

Many readers remember Sergei Yesenin's poem, Letter to Mother [Ты жива еще, моя старушка / You are still alive, my old lady]. These touching words, as is known, were addressed to his mother, Tatyana Fedorovna Yesenina [Tatyana Fyodorovna Yesenina]. But no one, ever, would tell Soviet children that the poet had held a grudge against his mother all his life.

And who wouldn't be upset when the mother herself, after consuming large amounts of alcohol, took out her dissatisfaction with her life on her children, beating them mercilessly?

Here are some of the hard facts:

1. Tatyana was married to a man she didn't love.

Why, then, did Esenin dedicate so many poems to his mother, describing her as a loving, elderly woman who would go out into the street in the hope of welcoming her son?

Most likely, the poet was writing about a mother he only had in his dreams – a mother he would have liked to have. But why was Tatyana Fedorovna so unhappy with her life? Because, until the age of 16, she lived in a family where she lacked nothing.

The head of the family – Fedor Titov – was a successful merchant, who owned several ships (barges). Although it is not known exactly what happened, her father decided to marry his 16-year-old daughter to a boy who could boast neither wealth nor beauty.

2. She left her son, Esenin, with her mother

Of course, Tatyana hated her unwanted husband from the very beginning. Their first child died, the husband left his wife with his mother, while he himself went off to earn money. Then Sergey was born. The other two daughters who were born after Sergey did not live long, and the authoritarian mother-in-law almost “kicked” Tatyana out of the house.

When everything became unbearable, she took little Seryozha and ran away from home. The boy was six years old. The mother left him with her parents and went to earn money in other ways. She did not ask about her son's fate at all during that time. Apparently, Tatyana herself took a crooked path in life.

Yesenin's grandmother, Natalya, knew many fairy tales and, according to the poet himself, it was she who gave him the impetus to write his first verses.

3. Yesenin judged the mother for giving birth to a child out of wedlock

In those days, it was quite unusual for a woman, still not officially married (that is, not divorced), to have an affair and even give birth to a child out of wedlock. Tatyana decided to give up the baby. She registered him under a false name and took him to an orphanage. Sergey himself, about the fact that he had a brother, learned much later.

But the discovery of a new relative did not make the poet happy at all. He already had a permanent grudge against his mother and it seemed to him that she loved that last son more than Sergey. This was because he learned that his mother had gone to Moscow, but only to visit that boy, not Sergey.

4. Shroud

For this, Yesenin wrote a letter to his father, begging him to tell his mother that he did not want to see her again. But his greatest insult was not only related to this.

He was only 16 years old when he realized that his mother not only did not love him, but did not care at all what happened to him. In those days, typhus was almost a death sentence. And even more so for a fragile 16-year-old organism like Sergey, who seemed unable to cope.

It is well known that burial, especially in those difficult years and for such a poor family as Sergey's, was a complicated and expensive process. It had to be prepared in advance, but a loving mother would never do this at the bedside of her sick child.

However, the mother sat down in the very room where Yesenin lay sick and began to sew his shroud, right in front of his eyes. Yesenin remembered that in her eyes there was not a single drop of pity for the dying child. Many people, who knew the poet's relationship with his mother, had heard Yesenin repeatedly mention to her those days when he was on the verge of death, telling her that he would never forgive her for this.

5. Where did the beautiful verses of "You're Still Alive, My Old Lady" come from?

Most likely, he wrote about his grandmother, who raised him. It was precisely the grandmother, whose mother had left Seryozha with for years, who could really worry about her grandson. Unlike his real mother, who showed no care for him at all.

This famous poem by Esenin became very popular with Albanian readers in the sixties of the last century.

It was fortunate for Esenin, but also for Albanian culture, that these verses were translated by our best poets.

We are presenting the translation variants of this poem to ExLibris readers.

* * *

Sergey Yesenin

* * *
Letter to mother

* * *

Letter to mother
1924

Are you still alive, my old woman?
I am alive. Hello to you, hello!
Pust struitsya nad tvoey izbushkoy
Tot vecherni neskazannyy svet.

Pishut mne, chto ty, taya trevogu,
Zagrustila shibko obo mne,
Chto ty chasto khadish na dorogu
V staromodnom vetkhom shushune.

And to you in the evening blue gloom
Often one sees the same thing:
Like someone in a tavern fight
Sadanul under the heart of a Finnish knife.

Nothing, dear! Uspokoysya.
Eto tolko tyagostnaya bred.
No takoy uj gorky ya propoytsa,
Chtob, tebya ne vidya, umeret.

Ya po-prejnemu takoy je nejnyy
I mechtayu tolko lish o tom,
Chtob skoree ot toski myatezhnoy
Vorotitsya v nizenkiy nash dom.

Ya vernus, kogda raskinet vetvi
Po-vesennemu nash belyy sad.
Tolko ty menya uj na rassvete
Ne budi, kak vosem let nazad.

What's wrong with you?
Don't worry about what didn't happen,—
Slishkom rannyuyu utratu i ustalost
Ispytat mne v jizni privelos.

I molitsya ne uchi menya. What nado!
I can't give up my star.
Ty odna mone pomoshch i otrada,
Ty odna mne neskazannyy svet.

Tak zabud je pro svoyu vogogu,
Ne grusti tak shibko obo mne.
Not often or often
V staromodnom vetkhom shushune.

* * *

Translated by: Ismail Kadare

Are you alive, my little sister?
I am alive too... Greetings.
Peace cover this evening
Your Izba until morning.

I heard that you are worried
There away for me again
That you often go out on the street worried
Wrapped in the old black scarf.

When the blue evening falls by,
Always like you
Somewhere far away, in a meadow
A drunk is stabbing me with a knife.

In vain, mother, you stand there with frozen blood,
This is not just a dark vision:
I'm not such a merciless vagabond
I will die without looking at you.

I am still as sweet as before,
I dream when I see fields far away
Soon from these pubs
I'll take you back to the little house.

I'll come back whenever I'm full.
Our white garden with purchase.
Just you like eight years ago,
Don't wake me up at dawn.

Don't wake up my dreams that have turned yellow,
Don't remember what you had, it's gone...
That in the world there are losses and fatigue
You try them early, my mother.

Don't beg me to pray to God again!
There is no going back to the past.
You are my only gas.
You, the only peace of my soul.

So throw away your worries, my mother,
Don't be sad for me again,
And don't go out on the main road so often.
Wrapped in the old black scarf.

* * *

Translated by: Vedat Kokona

You still live, you live, my mother.
and I live. I greet you with longing;
On a blue night, a hut in thought
I'd rather stay, sleep until morning.

Without telling me, you will never forget me.
and boredom and longing take you aside,
And it comes out waiting for me there on the road
as once wrapped in a scarf.

The night is getting dark, you are afraid.
and it always seems the same:
that someone is stabbing me in the back with a knife
and leave me dead in an inn.

Stay calm, mother, it's not an animal,
I can never wait for this,
I didn't become so naughty, so naughty,
without seeing him fall and die.

I am who I was before.
I'm still thinking about going home;
Oh, how much I miss you.
to come with you, to stay there.

I will come when the branches have changed.
and let spring play on them,
just you like eight years ago
Don't caress my hair.

Don't love me for what I dreamed of,
Don't be discouraged when your wishes are not fulfilled,
that perhaps from losses I learned
that I should live longer.

I no longer forgive myself for touching my fingers.
that the old is gone and will never return;
You are the only one left for me,
you are the only joy forever.

So, never worry about me.
and don't let sadness and longing take over your soul
and don't go out there on the road so often
as once wrapped in a scarf.

* * *

Translated by Dritero Agolli

Are you still alive, my dear?
I am alive too. Long live!
Evening light pours forth discourses
On your hut, corner by corner!

They say you are very worried.
And for me, you are tormented by worry,
They say you often appear lonely.
And with an old scarf he goes on the road.

When the blue evening comes that way
You can't remove a worry from your heart:
To be haunted as if in a tavern
A bad drunk stabbed me.

Never spoil the blood, my dear,
Out of boredom this vision fades,
I'm not that drunk and horny,
I won't die without seeing you!

As sweet as I once was, fragile,
And I have a dream hidden in my heart:
I leave you bored and vain,
I'll come back to the little house.

I will come when our white garden
To cover the branches with foliage,
Just you like eight years ago
Don't wake me up so early in the morning.

Don't wake up the one who is in despair,
Don't light something that has no more embers!
My heart was hurt by disappointments.
And my life quickly became filled with fatigue!

Don't make me pray to God,
I can't hold on to the old, there's no going back!
Only you are worthy of compassion,
Only you are the light of my soul.

Come on, forget it, don't worry.
And for me, be silent, don't bother!
Don't go out on the streets alone often.
And don't rush with an old scarf.

* * *

Translated by: Jorgo Bllaci

Are you alive, mother? Me too
I am alive. Good health, good health!
May this blessed evening be filled with light.
Your hut, which eagerly awaits me.

They say you're lazy and spoiled.
From my concern, if you don't complain,
That, wrapped in an old scarf,
The road often passes by.

And when the blue twilight falls,
A dark vision frightens you,
As if in a drinking fight somewhere,
Someone comes and stabs me with a knife.

In vain, my dear, you suffer so much, believe me,
I was worried about these things.
I'm not as bad a drunk as they say,
How can I die without seeing you?

I am still a baby, like once,
And I only nourish one hope in my breast:
To escape from this smoke and this chaos,
Come to our house there.

And I will come, when our white garden
Wear it everywhere with purchase.
Only you, like eight years ago,
Don't wake me up so early in the morning.

Don't wake up the one who made you cry.
Dreams of a joyful age.
Life has killed me enough, mother,
I just want to relax and sleep.

I beg God not to tell me,
Like once upon a time in the golden age of childhood.
You have remained a comfort to me,
Untold light, only you.

So don't worry about me too much,
Do not let your mind wander to evil,
And so often, with your old scarf,
Don't cross the road, you idiot.

* * *

Translated by: Vangjush Ziko

My little sister, are you alive?
I'm alive too. Greetings!
Let the evening shine like a fairy tale
Above your hut that is already silent.

I heard that you are worried.
And for me, the worry is eating you up.
He goes out into the street, looking far away.
With the sweatshirt thrown over my arm.

And in the evenings you often haunt
A bad dream fills your eyes.
As if someone is chasing me,
He's sticking a knife in my throat at the tavern.

Calm down, my dear mother.
Erase that parenthesis from your eyes.
I haven't become such a drunkard.
How long will I die without returning home?

I am gentle as I have been.
And I think, I think only one thing.
With great longing, which has seized me,
I'll put my head on your lap.

I will come when our garden is green.
Full of flowers to be decorated.
Just don't wake me up so early again.
Like you woke me up eight years ago.

Don't wake up my dreams that have faded,
What I didn't achieve, don't tease.
Life has been very wild with me.
It took me a lot of effort and fatigue to try them.

Don't beg me to pray like before.
I can't go back to those years.
You are my first support.
You are joy and light to me.

Forget about worrying, mother.
Don't be shy about me anymore.
Don't look away like that.
Don't go out with your sweatshirt on.

* * *

Translated by: Hadharamb Qesku

How is my daughter doing?
I'm fine too. Greetings!
In that hut of yours, may there be blessings
In the evenings when dusk begins to fall.

They're telling me you're very worried,
You become a burden to my blackened fate,
He emerges and sees beyond the endless road,
Gathered together with a torn scarf.

And when evening falls all around,
A desolate vision struck fear into me:
That in a tavern somewhere far away
A villain comes and stabs me with a knife.

Nothing will happen, mother! – Keep your spirits up:
It's just a nightmare I'm having.
I'm not as evil as they say.
And I won't die without seeing you.

I remain as infantile as ever,
With a dream that always tears me apart.
May Jetandrallash never slander me;
Except to be in that lodge again!

I will return when the branches are leafy,
When the garden is lush in the garden;
Don't wake me up so early, except from sleep, –
Like eight years ago, at dawn.

Don't wake up the one who was showered with
Dreams of a carefree age.
You don't know how much they've made my life miserable.
The suffering that finds no rest anywhere.

I won't even apologize, - don't quote me,
Like you did to me many times before.
Only you can heal my every pain,
Only you are my rare gas!

There's no need to become one with sadness,
Don't let the dark worry consume you.
There's no need to go out and lose sight of the road,
Gathered together, with the scarf torn to pieces.

* * *

Translated by: Agron Tufa

Are you still alive, my dear?
I'm alive too. I thank you with a smile!
Flowing over your blue roof
A holy light behind.

They write to me that, hiding the maracuna,
You are bad for me, the third of sadness,
Because often the thread comes out and takes the path
With the old, outdated sarong.

That in the dark blue, lips are turning,
To haunt a whole tool:
It was like a fight in the tavern.
A man thrusts a dagger into my heart.

Never spoil my precious blood!
It's nothing but misery and distress.
I'm not that drunk and reckless.
As soon as I die, I see it with my own eyes.

As I have been sweet, so I have remained,
I dream of nothing but a miracle:
From rebellious worry as soon as possible
He returned to our little school.

I'll return when the oars are lush.
Our white garden in the garden.
Except you, again in the light of day
Don't wake me up, like eight years ago.

Don't wake up the dreams that have been lost to me,
Don't spoil my immortal hostage, -
Too early losses and fatigue
Trying them out in real life was my lot.

Don't even bother teaching me. It's not worth it!
There is no going back to the old ways.
I have only you as my comfort,
Only you have my angelic light.

So forget, good Loki, the maracana,
Don't give in to unbridled sadness.
And don't go out to get the street so often.
With the old, outdated sarong.

* * *

Translated by: Agim Shehu

You are alive, my dear motherland!
Alive and I. Greetings, soul from afar!
May peace cover your hut.
from the surrounding twilight lights!

You say, the silent, tender one,
For me, a heavy burden weighs you down.
and goes out on the street carelessly
Wrap yourself in your old scarf.

For me it happens from time to time
that in the darkness of the evening, in a secret place,
in the tavern, after drinks and quarrels,
Someone put a knife in my heart!

You have comforted me, O my soul! Be still!
What you see is a dream, a delusion.
I am no longer the worst poet.
To die without seeing my mother again!

I am the first one, the golden soul.
Just a dream I'm grinding again,
that soon, with the longing for a son,
To return to my hearth and bosom.

I will come, when the garden is renewed
buy, and the new leaf will come out.
And you won't wake me up again before dawn.
This woke me up eight years ago.

And what about waking up the smart one from the rest!
Why bother with a bad cut in the faith!
It happened, life gave it to me too early.
fatigue and loss, with poison in between.

And don't teach me how to pray!

/ "ExLibris" newspaper/