First to answer to previous comment, I do write in English, though I haven't in a long time, and I will put something up here, soon I hope I was in the middle of exams, and as usually, life enslaved my creativity But that is over now, and it was a success! Yes, thank you, thank you, I'm amazing

Sergey Yesenin, or as we call him Sergej Jesenjin, is listed in my profile as my favorite poet. I hated him with all the passion of a child who hates school and all things related, in elementary. We had to learn his "Letter to Mother" by heart... and it is one LOOOONNNGGGGG poem. So of course he represented the oppression of mind we endured in elementary in the hands of a horrible professor who wanted us all to rot away in our chairs studying poems by dead Russian gay poets. (He was blond, he wrote poetry, he wrote poems to his MOTHER... what more did we need to dub him gay ).
Fast forward to high school... some time during my first year I decided I was more intelligent than 90% of my schoolmates, and resolved to despising them forever and ever, or at least as long as I had to look at them, so by the time the second year started, I had no friends left. It's funny how people don't respond well to snobbishness. (Only my best friend managed to look beyond it, good for her ) Instead, I made friends with the librarian, and by the end of high-school I read every book in the library.* Nah, I'm not bragging, it was a really tiny library, with just the basics and a few books the librarian ordered for herself. The first day in the library she gave me Jesenjin's book of poems: "Black Man", and I though: "Hah! We meet again you bastard, let me read you and burry you again choking you with your own words!"
I have a habit of reading things, which can be read that way, from back to front. And this book ended with the poem "Black Man". For those of you who never read it, but are (or aren't, but than I'm not responsible) beyond the suicidal phase of puberty, I will post it here, cause it's extremely hard to find on the Internet in English; though if you ask me, some of its mood is lost in translation. He wrote this poem before the short one he wrote in his blood during his suicide. I supposed it's the best study of human mind before death that ever existed. I'm not gonna get all emotional about it, it's not my place to interpret or explain this poem to anyone, much less to convey it's emotion to anyone. just give it a ... read.
After this poem I just kept reading all night long, and in the morning, nothing was the same for me. All my life I looked for complicated words to describe simple things, and here he was using simple words to describe such complicated things. I hate it when people tell me Jesenjin was the "king of metaphors". No, he wasn't. He only used metaphors once, in a poem where he writes about Russia as his mother. What he did was creating art from his emotions, in a way everyone after him could only dream of doing.
Of course I didn't go to school tomorrow wanting to make friends with everyone cause life is so short. I snubbed them even more now that I knew something else they didn't. But I've changed, see, I'm willing to share now So enjoy.

* Except for the books we had to read for school. I never read those. I took great pride in writing and getting A's in essays about books I never read. - this bit is here cause the poem should stand for itself



Translation is by Geoffrey Hurley, and it's the best one I found:

BLACK MAN

My friend, my friend,
How sick I am. Nor do I know
Whence came this sickness.
Either the wind whistles
Over the desolate unpeopled field,
Or as September strips a copse,
Alcohol strips my brain.

My head waves my ears
Like a bird its wings.
Unendurably it looms my neck
When I walk.
The black man,
The black, black,
Black man
Sits by me on the bed all night,
Won't let me sleep.

This black man
Runs his fingers over a vile book,
And, twangling above me,
Like a sleepy monk over a corpse,
Reads a life
Of some drunken wretch,
Filling my heart with longing and despair.
The black man,
Oh black man.

"Listen, listen" -
He mutters to me -
The book is full of beautiful
Plans and resolutions.
This fellow lived
His life in a land of most repulsive
Thieves and charlatans.

And in that land the December snow
Is pure as the very devil,
And the snowstorms drive
Merry spinning-wheels.
This man was an adventurer,
Though of the highest
And the best quality.
Oh, he was elegant,
And the poet at that,
Albeit of a slight
But useful gift.
And some woman,
Of forty or so,
He called his "naughty girl,"
His "love."

Happiness - he said -
Is a quickness of hand and mind.
Slow fools are always
Known for being unhappy.
heartaches, we know,
Derive
From broken, lying gestures,

At thunder and tempest,
At the world's coldheartedness,
During times of heavy loss
And when you're sad
The greatest art on earth
Is to seem uncomplicatedly gay.

"Black man!
Don't you dare!
You do not live as
A deep-sea diver.
What's the life
Of a scandalous poet to me?
Please read this story
To someone else."

The black man
Looks me straight in the eye
And his eyes are filmed
With blue vomit -
As if he wanted to say,
I'm a thief and rogue
Who'd robbed a man
Openly, without shame.

Ah friend, my friend,
How sick I am. Now do I know
Whence came this sickness.
Either the wind whistles
Over the desolate unpeopled field,
Or as September strips a copse,
Alcohol strips my brain.

The night is freezing
Still peace at the crossroads.
I am alone at the window,
Expecting neither visitor nor friend.
The whole plain is covered
With soft quick-lime,
And the trees, like riders,
Assembled in our garden.

Somewhere a night bird,
Ill-omened, is sobbing.
The wooden riders
Scatter hoofbeats.
And again the black
Man is sitting in my chair,
He lifts his top hat
And, casual, takes off his cape.

"Listen! listen!" - he croaks,
Eyes on my face,
Leaning closer and closer.
I never saw
Any scoundrel
Suffer so stupidly, pointlessly,
From insomnia.

Well, I could be wrong.
There is a moon tonight.
What else is needed
By your sleep-drunken world?
Perhaps, "She" will come,
With her fat thighs,
In secret, and you'll read
Your languid, carrion
Verse to her.

Ah, how I love these poets!
A funny race!
I always find in them
A story known to my heart -
How a long-haired monster
Profusing sexual languor
Tells of worlds
To a pimply girl-student.

I don't know, don't remember,
In some village,
Kaluga perhaps, or
Maybe Ryazan,
There lived a boy
Of simple peasant stock,
Blond-haired
And angel-eyed...

And he grew up,
Grew up into a poet
Of slight but
Useful talent,
And some woman,
Of forty or so,
He called his "naughty girl,"
His "love."

"Black man!
Most odious guest!
Your fame has long resounded."
I'm enraged, possessed,
Amd my cane flies
Straight across
The bridge of his nose.

The moon has died.
Dawn glimmers in the window.
Ah, night!
What, night, what have you ruined?
I stand top-hatted.
No one is with me.
I am alone...
And the mirror is broken.