Sergey Esenin
The hoologan

With а wet broom а shower sweeps up
The droppings willows strew.
Spit, wind, your mouthfuls of leaves out —
I'm а hooligan, like you.

I love to observe blue coppices,
Like lumbering oxen, go
Dirtying tree-trunks halfway up
With bellies sci-aping low.

There it is, my herd of red cattle!
Who better could sing its praise?
I can see the twilight licking
The footprints а man has made.

My Russia, old wooden Russia!
I alone am your herald and bard.
With mint and mignonette I've nourished
The grief of my wild-beast art.

Come, light up the moon-jug, midnight.
To scoop up the birch-trees' milk!
With grave-cross fingers the cemetery
Looks ready by throttling to kill.

There's tenor abroad, in our orchad
The spite of а thief it inflames.
I'm а bооr myself, and а scoundrel
With horse-stealer’s blood in my veins.

Have you seen at night-time the seething
Bird cherry blossom vibrate?
But the place for me is the blue steppe
With а bludgeon, lying in wait.

О the shrub of my head has wilted
And song bondage has sucked me down.
I'm fated in feeling's prison
To turn poetry's millstones round.

Fear not, mad wind! Unconcernedly
Go spit out the foliage, do!
The "poet" tag won't be the end of me,
I'm а hooligan in poetry too.

Translated by Peter Tempest