Sergei Yesenin uncensored. The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen

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 suggest you get acquainted with the works of many classics who used absurd verbs in their works.

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

Perhaps I’m not the only one who will be 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?
No! 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 a bitter truth of the earth,
I spied 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 accordionist's fingers flow like a wave.
Drink with me you lousy bitch
Drink with me.

They loved you, they abused you -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?
Or do you want a punch 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 one.
Drink, otter, drink.
I'd rather be that busty one over there, -
She's dumber.

I'm not the first among women...
Quite a few 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 catch a cold.
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 poem. For example, the modern world and its foundations)

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 reins!
once the plan has been carried out
send everyone
in pussy
did not fulfill
myself
go
on
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,
eat
not giving -
lol
existent,
mother of their children!

Mayakovsky V.V. - "I'm lying on someone else's wife"
Lie
to 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 don't 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,
right 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? 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

Guys, who has more, write in the comments.

“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 that love is an infection

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

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 a bitter truth of the earth,

I spied 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.

The freer, the louder

Here and there.

I won't end myself

Go to hell.

To your pack of dogs

It's time to catch a cold.

Darling I'm crying

Sorry Sorry…

"Sorokoust"

A. Mariengof

The horn of death blows, blows!

What should we do, what should we do now?

On the muddy thighs of the roads?

You lovers of song fleas,

Would you like to suck the gelding?

It’s full of meekness to celebrate,

Like it or not, you know, take it.

It's good when twilight teases

And they pour it into your fat asses

The bloody broom of dawn.

Soon the freeze will whiten with lime

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 his fingers to the throats of the plains,

The old mill leads with its ear,

I sharpened my milling nose.

And the yard silent bull,

That he spilled all his brains on the chicks,

Wiping my tongue on the spindle,

I sensed trouble over the field.

Oh, isn't it just outside the village?

This is how the harmonica cries pitifully:

Tala-la-la, tili-li-gom

Hanging over a white window sill.

And the yellow wind of autumn

Isn’t that why, touching the blue ripples,

As if with a horse comb,

Strips leaves from maples.

He comes, he comes, a terrible messenger,

The fifth bulky thicket aches.

And the songs become more and more yearning

To the sound of a frog squeaking in the straw.

Oh electric sunrise

Belts and pipes have a tight grip,

Behold the ancient belly

Steel fever is shaking!

Have you seen

How he runs across the steppes,

Hiding in the lake mists,

Snoring with an iron nostril,

A train on cast iron legs?

Through the big grass

Like at a festival of desperate racing,

Throwing thin legs to the head,

Red-maned colt galloping?

Dear, dear, funny fool,

Well, where is he, where is he going?

Doesn't he really know that live horses

Did the steel cavalry win?

Doesn't he really know that in the fields of lightless

His running will not bring back that time,

When a couple of beautiful steppe Russian women

Did you give Pechenegs for a horse?

Fate repainted it differently at the auction

Our reach, awakened by the grinding,

And for thousands of pounds of horse leather and meat

They are now buying a locomotive.

Damn you, nasty guest!

Our song won't work 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

Painting mouths with tin kisses, -

Only for me, as a psalm-reader, to sing

“Hallelujah” over our native country.

That's why on September morning

On dry and cold loam,

My head smashed against the fence,

The rowan berries are drenched in blood.

That's why the tension has grown in

In the bustle of the ringing talyanka.

And a man smelling of straw

He choked on the 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 refund"

Yes! Now it's decided. no return

I left my native fields.

They will no longer be winged leaves

I need the poplars to ring.

My old dog died long ago.

I love this elm city,

Let him be flabby and let him become decrepit.

Golden nap Asia

She rested on the domes.

And when the moon shines at night,

When it shines... God knows how!

I walk with my head hanging down,

Down the street to a familiar pub.

The noise and din in this terrible lair,

But all night long, until dawn,

I read poetry to prostitutes

And I fry alcohol with the bandits.

The heart beats faster and faster,

And I say it out of place:

“I’m just like you, lost,

I can’t go back now.”

The low house will stoop without me,

My old dog died long ago.

On Moscow's crooked streets

God destined me to die, to know.

"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?

Both critics and readers often idealize their idols: poets and writers. But these are ordinary people with their passions, sins, weaknesses and vices, which are reflected in their work. In obscene poems, for example. Today, when icons are made from classics, forgetting about their earthly essence, they try not to remember these poems either in school or university classrooms. In addition, profanity is prohibited by law. If things continue 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 obscenity, have poems with profanity.

There's only one thing left for me to do

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'm 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 at those blue splashes like that?

The favorite of women, in a drunken stupor, more than once recited poems of very dubious content in public. Although I rarely wrote it down. They were born spontaneously and did not linger in the poet’s memory. However, there were 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 it was to this period that almost all of his frivolous verses date back. The poet lost faith in love, in social justice, in the new system. He was confused, lost the meaning of existence, and became disillusioned with his creativity. The world around him appeared in gray tones.

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

Rash harmonica. Boredom... Boredom

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

The accordionist's fingers flow like a wave.

Drink with me, you lousy bitch.

Drink with me.

Loved you, scourged -

Unbearable.

Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?

Or do you want a punch 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 one.

Drink, otter, drink.

I’d rather have that busty one over there -

She's dumber.

I’m not the first among women...

Quite a few of you

But with someone like you and 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 catch a cold.

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 whirlpool of drunkenness and riotous life. He exclaims: “I won’t commit suicide, go to hell.”

The favorite of women in a drunken stupor has repeatedly recited poems of very dubious content in public

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 the 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 the fuck are you doing?

Didn't you come at night?

The poem is presented in an aggressive and harsh form, and its meaning is that the lyrical hero can 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 damned 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 that love is an infection

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 a bitter truth of the earth,

I spied 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 whirlwind.

Sing, sing! On a fatal scale

These hands are a fatal misfortune.

You just know, fuck them

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 the new system

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

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

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

This is life, Tolya!

Live hot water bottle

All night they sat on the ottoman, looking through photographs in which there was a young, perky, mocking Sergei. They recited his magical ones by heart. Anatoly Borisovich also 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 an apartment in the capital, despite his crazy fame. “After all, he’s spending the night somewhere now, so let him live there,” an official of the Krasnopresnensky district administration threw up his hands with irresistible logic, where, after passing through five bureaucratic authorities, a paper was received from Trotsky’s office with a proposal to provide living space to Yesenin. “How much do we have in Moscow, and why should we give everyone an apartment?”

Yesenin was saved from “homelessness” by his friends. But mostly - friends. At first, Yesenin lived 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 the whole of Moscow reason to talk about intimacy with each other.

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

And in fact, they even had to sleep in the same bed! What are you going to do if there is nothing to heat the apartment with, and you can only write down poems while wearing warm gloves!

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

For three days the already famous poets of that time went to a warm bed. On the fourth, the young writer could not stand it and indignantly refused the easy but strange service. To the perplexed question of true gentlemen: “What’s the matter?”, she angrily exclaimed:

I didn’t hire myself to warm the sheets of the saints!

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

Although Zinaida and Reich and their children are a poet. However, it is difficult to imagine Sergei Yesenin, the owner of a light walk 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 he was in a hurry to get through it as quickly as possible. Isadora Duncan even gave the poet a gold watch, but he still remained at odds with time.

Dancer Isadora Duncan

Marriage to the famous French dancer Duncan was perceived by those around the poet as his desire to finally solve the housing problem. Then a caustic ditty immediately began to sound on the Moscow streets:

Tolya walks around unwashed,

And Seryozha is clean.

That's why Seryozha is sleeping

With Dunya on Prechistenka.

Meanwhile, Yesenin’s feeling, which flared up sharply before everyone’s eyes, cannot be called anything other than love.

But that heavy love in which passion prevails. Yesenin gave himself to her without hesitation, without controlling his words and actions. However, there were few words - he did not know either English or French, and Isadora did not speak Russian well. But one of her first sayings about Yesenin was “”. And when he roughly 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 “Dunka” behind her back among his friends. 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. The trip with “Dunka” abroad made a grave impression on Yesenin. The complacency of the well-fed, vulgar bourgeois, and against their background, the dancer, noticeably heavier from drunkenness, before our eyes - all this depressed Yesenin. After another scandal in Paris, Isadora imprisoned her “prince” in a private madhouse. The poet spent three days with the “schizos,” fearing for his sanity every second.

He develops persecution mania. In Russia, this disease will intensify and weaken the already overly 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 every now and then he had his blood tested. But he was really being watched - he was surrounded by secret agents of the Cheka, he was often provoked into scandals and dragged to the police. Suffice it to say that in five years five criminal cases were opened against Yesenin, and recently he was wanted!

Diagnosis: persecution mania

Dzerzhinsky’s favorite, the adventurer and murderer Blumkin, was waving a revolver in front of his nose, some people in black overtook him in the dark and demanded huge money in return for peace of mind, they stole his manuscripts, beat him and robbed him repeatedly. What about friends? It was they who pushed Yesenin to. They ate and drank at his expense, being jealous, they could not forgive Yesenin for what they themselves were deprived of - genius and beauty, just that. The fact that he scattered handfuls of gold from his sonorous soul.

He will plow the earth, write poetry

Yesenin's lifestyle and creativity were completely alien to the Soviet regime. She was afraid of his colossal influence on an agitated society, on young people. All her attempts to reason with and tame the poet were unsuccessful.

Then the persecution began in magazines and at public debates, humiliation with the issuance of cut fees to him. The poet, aware of the uniqueness and power of his gift, could not bear this. His psyche was completely shaken; in the last year Yesenin experienced 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 still sent money to the village, supported 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 both fame and metropolitan life, and the poverty and greed of the peasants led 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 is passing,

Like youth and like love.

He has already said goodbye to love and youth, is it really still necessary to part with his soul forever? Perhaps one of the main tragedies of Yesenin’s life is the loss of faith. He had no outside support, and he was losing confidence in his own abilities, being both mentally and physically ill by the age of 30.

Galina Benislavskaya - death

And yet there was support from the outside, but in December 1925 it also gave way. For five years, Galina Benislavskaya relentlessly followed Yesenin. His executor, keeper of the poet's manuscripts and cherished thoughts, she forgave him all his infidelities. And she always allowed the homeless poet to come to her, moreover, she looked for him all over Moscow when he disappeared from time to time. She pulled him out of the whirlpool of tavern life, for which Yesenin’s “friends” once almost killed her.

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

He has already said goodbye to love and youth; is he really yet to part with his soul?

After Yesenin’s death, 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 all of Yesenin’s vast creative heritage. 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 bitter end, since there was only one bullet in the cylinder of her revolver. Near the Yesenin hill there are now two graves of the people closest to him: his mother and Galina.

VIDEO: Sergey Yesenin reads. Confession of a hooligan

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?
No! 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.