Respite, involuntary and gentle
circling one’s
collar, a touch barely felt, renewed.

Or, the other turns,
belying expression and the halted voice.

The recursive window, closing.
A final poem in blood.

And beyond the glass? The face behind
the indifferent mask
designs its own

smile, risking everything
as the chair’s leg tilts,

inertia become constriction,
the taut lapse begun.

A fascinating poet, Sergei Yesenin died nearly 90 years ago. You might check out his bio on wikipedia.


16 thoughts on “Yesenin

  1. Holy God! I read Yesenin’s bio, as you suggested. What a heartbreakingly beautiful man. And, his life! What drama! What pathos! What a wonder as a poet! What a screw-up in relationships! I have exhausted my quota of exclamation points for the day, so I’ll quit, but thanks, Bob. I am your fan first, but I am edified by your poems that illuminate other writers.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Beautiful. What a fiery life he has lead Yesenin, tragic, flamboyant, unforgiving, unforgettable… it burns through me like I know it burns through many. I read your poem again and again…each word. So little says so much. Thank you.

    In case you have no yet stumbled across this, here is a beautiful (and lengthy) post about Yesenin, which I found to have really succeeded in allowing readers to really “feel” what it might have even been to be Yesenin, or anyone in his entourage during his life and time.

    Liked by 1 person

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