Sergey Esenin
The man in black

Friend, friend of mine,
I'm gravely ill, I'm sickening.
I’ve no idea what causes me such pain.
Is it the wind
Over empty wasteland whistling,
Or alcohol denuding,
Like an autumn grove, my brain?

My head is flapping its ears,
Like a winged bird flying.
To stay put on my neck-foot
Is beyond its might.
The man in black,
The black, black
Man in black
Sits on the bed beside me,
He won’t let me sleep
But keeps me awake all night.

The man in black
Down a vile book’s page runs a finger,
In nasal tones,
Like a monk bending over a corpse,
He reads me the Life
Of a rogue and a hard drinker,
Weighing my heart down
With painful, fearsome thoughts.
The black, black
Man in black!

“Listen, listen!”
He mutters, “Listen to this!
In the book there are many superb
Ideas and projects.
This person
Lived in a country that was, alas,
Full of the most repulsive
Tricksters and robbers.

“The December snow in this country
Is devilish white
And the blizzards there spin distaffs
With jollity.
This person was an adventurer all right,
But one of the best,
Of the highest quality.

“He was an exquisite fellow,
A poet too,
A capable lad, as for strength—
He had enough of it.
A woman just over forty
He did woo,
He called her a naughty girl
And his beloved.

“Happiness, he’d say,
Is deftness.of hand and brain.
All clumsy souls
Are ever known as wretched.
It doesn’t matter a damn
That so much pain
Is caused by artificial
And lying gestures.

“In gale and thunderstorm
And when life grows chill,
In times of deepest sorrow,
Loss, disaster,
To seem as blithe as ever, smiling still—
There is no loftier art a man can master.”

“How dare you, man in black,
Tell me such things!
Your occupation
Is not the cleaning of sewers.
The life-story of that poet,
Who liked wild flings,
Does not touch me.
Go tell it to the curious!”

The man in black
Now gives me a long straight look
And his eyes grow bleary,
Blue vomit-hued and strange,
As if he wishes to tell me
I’m a crook
Who has robbed somebody
Brazenly, without shame.

Friend, friend of mine,
I'm gravely ill, I'm sickening.
I’ve no idea what causes me such pain.
Is it the wind
Over empty wasteland whistling,
Or alcohol denuding,
Like an autumn grove, my brain?

It’s a frosty night.
On the high road all is tranquil.
I sit by the window
Awaiting no visitor, no friend.
Shifting powdery quicklime
Covers the valley
And the trees muster in our orchard
Like mounted men.

The ill-omened bird of night
Is crying somewhere.
The wooden cavalry scatter
The patter of hooves.
The man in black sits again
In my easy chair,
Doffs his top-hat, parts his coat
With a manner aloof.

“Listen!”
He rasps, staring me in the face,
And ever closer bends
To admonish me:
“I don’t think I've ever yet seen
A commonplace
Rogue so needlessly plagued
By insomnia.

“Well, supposing lam wrong.
Look, the moon shines bright.
What more do you think
The drowsy world is needing?
Maybe the woman you dream of
Will come, thick-thighed,
And to her your stinking love lyrics
You’ll start reading?

“I simply adore young poets,
They’re so amusing!
Their stories I always find
So trite and corny —
A long-haired freak
Chats up a pimply girl-student,
Talks of other worlds
But in fact he just feels horny.

“In a village somewhere —
I don’t remember which —
Near Kaluga, was it,
Or near Ryazan, maybe,
There once lived a boy
In a plain peasant family,
Tow-coloured hair
And fair blue eyes had he...

“He grew up to be a man,
A poet too,
A capable lad, as for strength —
He had enough of it.
A woman just over forty
He did woo,
He called her a naughty girl
And his beloved.”

“You, man in black,
Are a loathsome guest indeed!
In that reputation
You have long been basking,”
I retort in fury.
With sudden anger I seethe.
Down on the bridge of his nose
My stick comes crashing...

...In the window blue dawn gleams,
The moon’s disappeared.
What a topsy-turvy night!
I'm all in a dither,
Standing, wearing my top hat.
Nobody’s here.
I’m on my own...
And facing a shattered mirror...

Translated by Peter Tempest