Like a kerosene lamp on your shoulders.

Yesenin S. Confession of a hooligan

Not everyone can sing
Not everyone has an apple
Fall at someone else's feet.

This is the greatest confession,
Which the bully confesses.

I purposely go unkempt
With his head like a kerosene lamp on his shoulders.
Your souls leafless autumn
I like to provide light in the dark.
I like it when the stones of battle
They fly at me like a hail of burping thunderstorms,
I just shake my hands tighter then
My hair is a swaying bubble.

It’s so good for me to remember then
An overgrown pond and the hoarse ringing of alder trees,
That my father and mother live somewhere,
Who don't care about all my poems,
To whom I am dear, like a field and like flesh,
Like the rain that loosens the greenery in spring.
They would come to stab you with pitchforks
For every cry you threw at me.

Poor, poor peasants!
You've probably become ugly
You also fear God and the depths of the swamp.
Oh, if you only understood
That your son is in Russia
The best poet!
Didn’t you lose his heart for his life?
When did he dip his bare feet in autumn puddles?
And now he wears a top hat
And patent leather shoes.

But the enthusiasm of the previous amendment lives in him
Village mischief maker.
To every cow on the sign butcher shop
He bows from afar.
And, meeting cab drivers on the square,
Remembering the smell of manure from native fields,
He is ready to carry the tail of every horse,
Like a wedding dress train.

I love my homeland.
I love my homeland very much!
At least there is sad willow rust in it.
I like the dirty faces of pigs
And in the silence of the night the ringing voice of toads.
I am tenderly sick of childhood memories,
On April evenings I dream of darkness and dampness.
It's like squatting to warm up
Our maple tree sat down in front of the fire of dawn.
Oh, how many eggs from crows' nests I have on it,
Climbing the branches, he stole!
Is it still the same now, with a green top?
Is its bark still strong?

And you, my love,
Faithful piebald dog?!
From old age you have become shrill and blind
And you wander around the yard, dragging your drooping tail,
Having forgotten by instinct where the doors are and where the stable is.
Oh, how dear all those pranks are to me,
When, having stolen a crust of bread from my mother,
You and I bit her once,
Without burying each other one bit.

I'm still the same.
I'm still the same in my heart.
Like cornflowers in the rye, the eyes bloom in the face.
A stele of verses with golden mats,
I want to say something tender to you.

Good night!
Good night to all of you!
The scythe rang across the grass at dusk...
Today I really want
From the window the moon.........

Blue light, so blue light!
It’s not even a pity to die in this blue.
Well, why do I seem like a cynic?
With a flashlight attached to his butt!
Good old, hackneyed Pegasus,
Do I need your soft trot?
I came as a stern master,
Sing and glorify the rats.
My head is like August
Wine flows from stormy hair.

I want to be a yellow sail
To the country where we are sailing.

Not everyone can sing
Not everyone has an apple
Fall at someone else's feet.

This is the greatest confession,
Which the bully confesses.

I purposely go unkempt
With his head like a kerosene lamp on his shoulders.
Your souls leafless autumn
I like to provide light in the dark.
I like it when the stones of battle
They fly at me like hail of a burping thunderstorm.
I just shake my hands tighter then
My hair is a swaying bubble.

It’s so good for me to remember then
An overgrown pond and the hoarse ringing of alder trees,
That my father and mother live somewhere,
Who don't care about all my poems,
To whom I am dear, like a field and like flesh,
Like the rain that loosens the greenery in spring.
They would come to stab you with pitchforks
For every cry you threw at me.
Poor, poor peasants!
You've probably become ugly
You also fear God and the depths of the swamp.
Oh, if you only understood
That your son is in Russia
The best poet!

Didn’t you lose his heart for his life?
When did he dip his bare feet in autumn puddles?
And now he wears a top hat
And patent leather shoes.

But the enthusiasm of the previous amendment lives in him
Village mischief maker.
To every cow on the butcher shop sign
He bows from afar.
And, meeting cab drivers on the square,
Remembering the smell of manure from native fields,
He is ready to carry the tail of every horse,
Like a wedding dress train.

I love my homeland.
I love my homeland very much!
At least there is sad willow rust in it.
I like the dirty faces of pigs
And in the silence of the night the ringing voice of toads.
I am tenderly sick of childhood memories,
On April evenings I dream of darkness and dampness.
It's like squatting to warm up
Our maple tree sat down in front of the fire of dawn.
Oh, how many eggs from crows' nests I have on it,
Climbing the branches, he stole!
Is it still the same now, with a green top?
Is its bark still strong?

And you, my love,
Faithful piebald dog?!
From old age you have become shrill and blind
And you wander around the yard, dragging your drooping tail,
Having forgotten by instinct where the doors are and where the stable is.
Oh, how dear all those pranks are to me,
When, having stolen a crust of bread from my mother,
You and I bit her once,
Without burying each other one bit.

I'm still the same.
I'm still the same in my heart.
Like cornflowers in the rye, the eyes bloom in the face.
A stele of verses with golden mats,
I want to say something tender to you.

Good night!
Good night to all of you!
The scythe rang across the grass in the twilight of dawn...
Today I really want
Pee the moon from the window.

Blue light, so blue light!
It’s not even a pity to die in this blue.
Well, why do I seem like a cynic?
With a flashlight attached to his butt!

Good old, hackneyed Pegasus,
Do I need your soft trot?
I came as a stern master,
Sing and glorify the rats.
My head is like August
Wine flows from stormy hair.

I want to be a yellow sail
To the country where we are sailing.

Not everyone can sing
Not everyone has an apple
Fall at someone else's feet.

This is the greatest confession,
Which the bully confesses.

I purposely go unkempt
With his head like a kerosene lamp on his shoulders.
Your souls leafless autumn
I like to provide light in the dark.
I like it when the stones of battle
They fly at me like a hail of burping thunderstorms,
I just shake my hands tighter then
My hair is a swaying bubble.

It’s so good for me to remember then
An overgrown pond and the hoarse ringing of alder trees,
That my father and mother live somewhere,
Who don't care about all my poems,
To whom I am dear, like a field and like flesh,
Like the rain that loosens the greenery in spring.
They would come to stab you with pitchforks
For every cry you threw at me.

Poor, poor peasants!
You've probably become ugly
You also fear God and the depths of the swamp.
Oh, if you only understood
That your son is in Russia
The best poet!
Didn’t you lose his heart for his life?
When did he dip his bare feet in autumn puddles?
And now he wears a top hat
And patent leather shoes.

But the enthusiasm of the previous amendment lives in him
Village mischief maker.
To every cow on the butcher shop sign
He bows from afar.
And, meeting cab drivers on the square,
Remembering the smell of manure from native fields,
He is ready to carry the tail of every horse,
Like a wedding dress train.

I love my homeland.
I love my homeland very much!
At least there is sad willow rust in it.
I like the dirty faces of pigs
And in the silence of the night the ringing voice of toads.
I am tenderly sick of childhood memories,
On April evenings I dream of darkness and dampness.
It's like squatting to warm up
Our maple tree sat down in front of the fire of dawn.
Oh, how many eggs from crows' nests I have on it,
Climbing the branches, he stole!
Is it still the same now, with a green top?
Is its bark still strong?

And you, my love,
Faithful piebald dog?!
From old age you have become shrill and blind
And you wander around the yard, dragging your drooping tail,
Having forgotten by instinct where the doors are and where the stable is.
Oh, how dear all those pranks are to me,
When, having stolen a crust of bread from my mother,
You and I bit her once,
Without burying each other one bit.

I'm still the same.
I'm still the same in my heart.
Like cornflowers in the rye, the eyes bloom in the face.
A stele of verses with golden mats,
I want to say something tender to you.

Good night!
Good night to all of you!
The scythe rang across the grass at dusk...
Today I really want
From the window the moon.........

Blue light, so blue light!
It’s not even a pity to die in this blue.
Well, why do I seem like a cynic?
With a flashlight attached to his butt!
Good old, hackneyed Pegasus,
Do I need your soft trot?
I came as a stern master,
Sing and glorify the rats.
My head is like August
Wine flows from stormy hair.

I want to be a yellow sail
To the country where we are sailing.

Confession of a hooligan

Not everyone can sing

Not everyone has an apple

Fall at someone else's feet.

This is the greatest confession,

Which the bully confesses.

I purposely go unkempt

With his head like a kerosene lamp on his shoulders.

Your souls leafless autumn

I like to provide light in the dark.

I like it when the stones of battle

They fly at me like a hail of burping thunderstorms,

I just shake my hands tighter then

My hair is a swaying bubble.

It’s so good for me to remember then

An overgrown pond and the hoarse ringing of alder trees,

That my father and mother live somewhere,

Who don't care about all my poems,

To whom I am dear, like a field and like flesh,

Like the rain that loosens the greenery in spring.

They would come to stab you with pitchforks

For every cry you threw at me.

Poor, poor peasants!

You've probably become ugly

You also fear God and the depths of the swamp.

Oh, if you only understood

That your son is in Russia

The best poet!

Didn’t you lose his heart for his life?

When did he dip his bare feet in autumn puddles?

And now he wears a top hat

And patent leather shoes.

But the enthusiasm of the previous amendment lives in him

Village mischief maker.

To every cow on the butcher shop sign

He bows from afar.

And, meeting cab drivers on the square,

Remembering the smell of manure from native fields,

He is ready to carry the tail of every horse,

Like a wedding dress train.

I love my homeland.

I love my homeland very much!

At least there is sad willow rust in it.

I like the dirty faces of pigs

I am tenderly sick of childhood memories,

On April evenings I dream of darkness and dampness.

It's like squatting to warm up

Our maple tree sat down in front of the fire of dawn.

Oh, how many eggs from crows' nests I have on it,

Climbing the branches, he stole!

Is it still the same now, with a green top?

Is its bark still strong?

And you, my love,

Faithful piebald dog?!

From old age you have become shrill and blind

And you wander around the yard, dragging your drooping tail,

Having forgotten by instinct where the doors are and where the stable is.

Oh, how dear all those pranks are to me,

When, having stolen a crust of bread from my mother,

You and I bit her once,

Without burying each other one bit.

I'm still the same.

I'm still the same in my heart.

Like cornflowers in the rye, the eyes bloom in the face.

A stele of verses with golden mats,

I want to say something tender to you.

Good night!

Good night to all of you!

The scythe rang across the grass at dusk...

Today I really want

Pee the moon from the window.

Blue light, so blue light!

It’s not even a pity to die in this blue.

Well, why do I seem like a cynic?

With a flashlight attached to his butt!

Good old, hackneyed Pegasus,

Do I need your soft trot?

I came as a stern master,

Sing and glorify the rats.

My head is like August

Wine flows from stormy hair.

I want to be a yellow sail

To the country where we are sailing.

<<Ноябрь 1920>>

Are you my side, my side!

Rainy, autumn tin.

A chilled lantern in a black puddle

Reflects a lipless head.

No, it's better for me not to look

So as not to suddenly see the worst.

I'm dying for all this rusty

I will squint my eyes and narrow them.

It's a little warmer and painless.

Look: between the skeletons of houses,

Like a miller, the bell tower carries

Copper bell bags.

If you are hungry, you will be full,

If you are unhappy, then you are cheerful and happy.

Just don't look openly,

My earthly unknown brother.

As I thought, I did so,

But alas! Everything is the same!

Apparently the body is too used to it

Feel this cold and trembling.

Well, what of it! After all, there are many others

I'm not the only one alive in the world!

And the lantern will blink, then laugh

Lipless with your head.

Only a heart under old clothes

Whispers to me, who visited the firmament:

“My friend, my friend, the sight of sight

Death alone closes.”

Mysterious world, my ancient world,

You, like the wind, calmed down and sat down.

They squeezed the village by the neck

Stone hands of the highway.

So scared in the snowy whitewash

A ringing horror rushed about.

Hello, my black death,

I'm coming out to meet you!

City, city, you are in a fierce battle

He dubbed us as carrion and scum.

The field is freezing in longing eyes,

Choking on telegraph poles.

A sinewy muscle at the devil's neck

And the cast iron road is easy for her.

Well, so what? It's not the first time for us

And loosen and disappear.

The beast fell... and from the cloudy depths

Someone will pull the trigger now...

Suddenly a jump... and a two-legged enemy

Fangs are torn apart.

Oh, hello to you, my beloved beast!

You don't give yourself a knife for nothing!

Like you, I, persecuted from everywhere,

I pass among iron enemies.

Like you, I'm always ready

And even though I hear the victory horn,

But he will taste the enemy's blood

My last, deadly jump.

And let me be on the loose bleach

I'll fall and bury myself in the snow...

Still a song of vengeance for death

They will sing to me on the other side.

From the book ALPHA - Death to Terror author Boltunov Mikhail Efimovich

“THE CHANGED THE HULLIGAN FOR LOUIS CORVALAN” Remember the old funny ditty: “Changed the bully to Luis Corvalan”? In the mid-seventies it was popular among the people. Now we know for certain: in December 1976 Soviet Union exchanged the famous dissident Vladimir

From the book Russian Fate, Confession of a Renegade author Zinoviev Alexander Alexandrovich

CONFESSION Exist various shapes memoirs. Among them, one can single out one, which can be called the word “confession”. It differs from other forms in that the main subject of attention is not the adventures of the author, but his thoughts and experiences, and not chronicle

From the book I, Yesenin Sergei... author Yesenin Sergey Alexandrovich

Confession of a hooligan Not everyone can sing, Not everyone is given the gift of an apple to fall at someone else's feet. This is the greatest confession, which the hooligan confesses. I purposely walk unkempt, with my head like a kerosene lamp on my shoulders. Your souls leafless autumn I like it in the dark

From the book Silver Willow author Akhmatova Anna

CONFESSION He who forgave my sins fell silent. The purple twilight extinguishes the candles, and the dark stole covers the head and shoulders. Isn’t that the voice: “Virgo! stand up...” Heart beats faster, faster. A touch through the fabric of a Hand absentmindedly making the sign of the cross. 1911 Tsarskoe Selo * * *Friends of Nikolai Stepanovich,

From the book My Heavenly Life: Memoirs of a Test Pilot author Menitsky Valery Evgenievich

21. CONFESSION OF AN AIR HULIGAN Usually, cadets live under their family name for a couple of days at most. Then, when people begin to get used to each other, to get to know character traits more deeply, rarely anyone calls you by your last name. They switch to names, and more often to various

From the book by Lika Yesenin. From cherub to bully author Kruchenykh Alexey Eliseevich

Faces of Yesenin. From cherub to hooligan (Yesenin in life and portraits) A researcher of a poet’s work always has to take into account his biography, because there is always interdependence between creativity and life. Sometimes it is weak, barely noticeable. Sometimes,

From the book Leo Tolstoy author Zverev Alexey

“Confession” The novel finally came to a full stop, but for some reason it looked more like an ellipsis. Konstantin Levin did not hang himself or shoot himself; for some time he found peace of mind, thanks to a new feeling that “imperceptibly entered suffering and firmly settled in

From Yeltsin's book. Swan. Khasavyurt author Moroz Oleg Pavlovich

“They exchanged the hooligan for Luis Corvalan” Looking ahead a little, here it is perhaps worth mentioning the most remarkable case of establishing a strict information blockade around Chechnya, expelling almost all independent journalists from it, which occurred

From the book The Last Eyewitness author Shulgin Vasily Vitalievich

5. Confession Somewhere in Galicia there was a church, the kind that only exists there. It was made of wooden logs of unimaginable thickness. No one knows how old these trees were when they were called to the high purpose of being the walls of the temple. But this church was

From the book Miracle of Confession. True stories about the sacrament of repentance author Team of authors

Confession in the camp One day Seraphim Sazikov came. He stood there, hesitated, talked about this and that, and then said: “Father Arseny! I would like to confess, if you allow me. Apparently, the end will come soon, you won’t get out of the “special”, but I carry a lot of sins, a lot.” It’s difficult in the camp

From the book Operation Code - "Tarantella". From the archive of Russian Foreign Intelligence author Sotskov Lev Filippovich

Confession “according to the list” “Sometimes people come to me,” says Bishop Anthony, “who read out to me a long list of sins that I already know, because I have the same lists. I stop them: “You are not confessing your sins,” I tell them. - You confess your sins,

From the book Self-Portrait: The Novel of My Life author Voinovich Vladimir Nikolaevich

Confession Finally, Bogomolets decided to take the step for which he had been psychologically preparing himself for everything. lately. He asked the Tass employee to pass a note to the Soviet embassy, ​​in which he addressed the competent service with a request, if possible, to contact him,

From the book Father Arseny by the author

The confession of a loser of the young and talented members of the Magistral literary association, as soon as they announced their desire to read poetry or prose in class, Levin immediately entered into the calendar, and almost everyone could count from time to time on their full creative

From the book Gogol author Sokolov Boris Vadimovich

From the book Touching Idols author Katanyan Vasily Vasilievich

“THE AUTHOR’S CONFESSION,” an essay written by Gogol in the summer of 1847. He expected to include A. and. in the new edition of Selected Passages from Correspondence with Friends as an appendix in the form of a separate pamphlet. First published: Works of N.V. Gogol, found after his death. M., 1855.

From the author's book

Confession Sergei wrote from the camp: “Svetlana, dear, when I was born, I saw a cloud, beautiful mother, heard the sound of the wind, the ringing of a bell, and all this from the balcony of childhood, and you have to pay for all this.” And the payment was to be his “Confession”, a film of gratitude, a film of memory.

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Not everyone can sing
Not everyone has an apple
Fall at someone else's feet.

This is the greatest confession,
Which the bully confesses.

I purposely go unkempt
With his head like a kerosene lamp on his shoulders.
Your souls leafless autumn
I like to provide light in the dark.
I like it when the stones of battle
They fly at me like a hail of burping thunderstorms,
I just shake my hands tighter then
My hair is a swaying bubble.

It’s so good for me to remember then
An overgrown pond and the hoarse ringing of alder trees,
That my father and mother live somewhere,
Who don't care about all my poems,
To whom I am dear, like a field and like flesh,
Like the rain that loosens the greenery in spring.
They would come to stab you with pitchforks
For every cry you threw at me.

Poor, poor peasants!
You've probably become ugly
You also fear God and the depths of the swamp.
Oh, if you only understood
That your son is in Russia
The best poet!
Didn’t you lose his heart for his life?
When did he dip his bare feet in autumn puddles?
And now he wears a top hat
And patent leather shoes.

But the enthusiasm of the previous edit lives in him
Village mischief maker.
To every cow on the butcher shop sign
He bows from afar.
And, meeting cab drivers on the square,
Remembering the smell of manure from native fields,
He is ready to carry the tail of every horse,
Like a wedding dress train.

I love my homeland.
I love my homeland very much!
At least there is sad willow rust in it.
I like the dirty faces of pigs
And in the silence of the night the ringing voice of toads.
I am tenderly sick of childhood memories,
On April evenings I dream of darkness and dampness.
It's like squatting to warm up
Our maple tree sat down in front of the fire of dawn.
Oh, how many eggs from crows' nests I have on it,
Climbing the branches, he stole!
Is it still the same now, with a green top?
Is its bark still strong?

And you, my love,
Faithful piebald dog?!
From old age you have become shrill and blind
And you wander around the yard, dragging your drooping tail,
Having forgotten by instinct where the doors are and where the stable is.
Oh, how dear all those pranks are to me,
When, having stolen a crust of bread from my mother,
You and I bit her once,
Without burying each other one bit.

I'm still the same.
I'm still the same in my heart.
Like cornflowers in the rye, the eyes bloom in the face.
A stele of verses with golden mats,
I want to say something tender to you.

Good night!
Good night to all of you!
The scythe rang across the grass at dusk...
Today I really want
From the window the moon............

Blue light, so blue light!
It’s not even a pity to die in this blue.
Well, why do I seem like a cynic?
With a flashlight attached to his butt!
Good old, hackneyed Pegasus,
Do I need your soft trot?
I came as a stern master,
Sing and glorify the rats.
My head is like August
Wine flows from stormy hair.

I want to be a yellow sail
To the country where we are sailing.