La tristesse D'Essenine

 

 

(vers traduits par Thierry Marignac)

         En neige déverse le merisier,

         Sa verdure sur les fleurs et la rosée.

         Prêts aux envols, penchés,

         Les freux en bande vont marcher.

 

         Les herbes soyeuses la tête inclinant,

         La résine des pins, on sent.

         Oh vous, chênaies et champs,

         Je suis grisé de printemps.

        

         Réjouissent de secrètes nouvelles,

         Dans mon âme elles étincellent.

         Je pense à ma fiancée,

         Pour elle seulement, je veux chanter.

 

         En neige, déverse-toi merisier

         Chantez, oiseaux forestiers.

         Dans le champ, d’un vacillement précipité,

         En écume, des fleurs je vais arracher.

 Сыплет черемуха снегом,

Зелень в цвету и росе.

В поле, склоняясь к побегам,
Ходят грачи в полосе.

 

Никнут шелковые травы,
Пахнет смолистой сосной.
Ой вы, луга и дубравы, —
Я одурманен весной.

 

Радуют тайные вести,
Светятся в душу мою.
Думаю я о невесте,
Только о ней лишь пою.

 

Сыпь ты, черемуха, снегом,
Пойте вы, птахи, в лесу.
По полю зыбистым бегом
Пеной я цвет разнесу.

 

         Dans un trimestre… il se sera écoulé un siècle jour pour jour depuis la mort du poète Essenine, dans des conditions étranges. Suicide ou exécution, c’est toujours un mystère. Bien sûr les hypothèses foisonnent, les théories fourmillent, les idées abondent, presque autant que sur l’assassinat de Kennedy. Dans un cas comme dans l’autre, la curiosité est passée de mode, en partie tuée par la multiplicité des supputations — lassitude du consommateur.

         Ce qui devrait susciter non moins de conjectures, c’est le pressentiment constant dans toute l’œuvre du poète d’une fin prochaine, une énigme métaphysique difficile à résoudre par des moyens d’investigation anthropométriques. Et l’accablement prématuré d’un homme mort à trente ans devant les ravages du vieillissement « lorsque se flétrit, grisonne, l’or qui couronnait ma tête ». Ou bien l’ayant grillée par les deux bouts, sentait-il les limites d’un corps endommagé par de nombreux abus, d’un génie dépassé par sa démesure ? De nombreuses anecdotes illustrent sa fébrilité, ses départs précipités de ville en ville, sa crainte des menaces — certaines étaient réelles dans les balbutiements du bolchévisme policier. Essenine aimait aussi attirer les dangers sur sa tête blonde, improvisant dans des cabarets mal famés des vers caricaturant les louches consommateurs des bouges de la Guerre Civile, trafiquants, Nepmen, bandits… jusqu’à l’inévitable rixe. Le lyrisme d’ivrogne s’affutant sur le vertigineux tranchant de la cocaïne…

    

     

    Mais dès avant les excès et leur sillage de mélancolie, la note cristalline de tristesse à laquelle je ne cesse de revenir — elle est d’une pureté rarement égalée — est constante chez Essenine, jusque dans ce poème juvénile de printemps où le ravissement adolescent est teinté de la gravité secrète de l’ivresse, corbeaux prêts à l’envol et herbes courbées, verdure qui pleut comme les neiges d’hiver. La griserie est si brutale qu’elle est à peine tolérable, présage de ces extrêmes d’abattement qui deviendront sa marque de fabrique, lorsque le temps l’aura buriné. Le poète vacille dans l’odeur de résine en plein jour comme il vacillera plus tard au fond des ruelles de Moscou dans la nuit interlope… Certes, c’est le cliché en vigueur chez les poètes maudits, le sentiment d’une mort imminente les accable tant qu’ils n’ont de cesse de la hâter. Ou bien une vie démente les grille en trente ans comme une ampoule. Ces explications de manuel scolaire ne me satisfont pas toujours. Le thème du poète comme héros de lui-même, construisant à mesure le charme maladif qui lui soumettra les foules, est courant. On le retrouve chez Limonov, Ryjii, Tchoudakov, avec une spécificité russe plus acide, plus tragique. Or ce thème complique tout, rajoutant un fardeau supplémentaire, dans cette construction entre une part non négligeable de destruction, le travail du style qui broie avant de modeler. En relisant les premiers poèmes d’Essenine, je retrace le chemin d’une mélancolie originelle jusque dans les manifestations de joie.  La tristesse d’Essenine est-elle feinte, ou surjouée, certes, elle a parfois des airs de fonds de commerce si on veut l’envisager comme ça, brise-nous le cœur Sergueï, tu es le maître… Et Essenine était un professionnel dans tous les sens du terme, possédant à fond les accords déchirants qui lui vaudraient la dévotion du public jusque dans les camps pénitentiaires. Distinguer la douleur du cabotinage… Je pense qu’il ne le savait pas lui-même, exécutant d’instinct cette mélopée familière, pour laquelle il avait tant de talent. Sa mort pose un point final à la question : même si le bateleur avait ajouté quelques cabrioles grinçantes à son numéro dépressif, il était né pour perdre et la note cristalline de pure tristesse inaltérable résonne encore à nos oreilles. Essenine avait trouvé des sanglots pour un siècle.

         Cette tristesse impossible à dissiper

         Dans le rire sonore de la jeunesse

         Mon blanc tilleul s’est finalement fané

         De l’aube du rossignol, les échos disparaissent…

        

Этой грусти теперь не рассыпать

         Звонким смехом ранних лет

         Отцвела моя белая липа

         Отзвенел соловьиный рассвет

         T.M. 26/09/2025.

 

A Paean to coach Steve, street senseï

         In memory of "Big" Steve Felton coach of the Renegade Boxing Club

 

 

I have heard of « Big » Steve Felton’s untimely death, yesterday morning (Western European time) when Denzel Suitt got in touch with me for one of his literary endeavors. Denzel, that I had met at Steve’s house was a strong character who struck me for two reasons. In the basement, he pounded the bags like a man possessed and was hard to spar with. On the other hand, allow me the pun, Denzel was smart as hell. He had written an entire novel, which he showed me, that was clearly inspired by “Game of Thrones” but that you couldn’t dismiss as a mere imitation. The characters were intricate, the intrigue was elaborate, the style and vocabulary superb, there was a keen understanding of what the state power is. How did it come to this wandering kid — at times homeless, with little or no education as far as I knew — was a mystery. There was an impregnable fortress inside the guy, you couldn’t help but admire that. I had told Steve that reading the novel, I had been amazed by Denzel’s imagination and intelligence. Though ignorant of literary matters, Steve wasn’t surprised — Coach Steve had this street sense, or maybe sixth sense, of knowing on the spot who he was dealing with. He knew his fighters. Moreover, he knew who was smart and who was dumb within five miles.

Hearing of Steve’s death, I was shocked. This larger-than-life character seemed eternal. Hard to imagine Warner Avenue without him, his rumbling voice and wisecracks. And he was younger than me.

I had met him at a party in J.C. NJ, where I knew next to nobody, being a newcomer in the hood. There was this wide-shouldered guy with wild hair, but people in the vicinity constantly fussed with their hair, dreadlocked one day, braided the next, shaven skull the third, you name it, the hairstyle was considered an integral part of elegance in those streets. I noticed, however, another crucial detail about him. The top of his hands was covered with some kind of thick black leather, more of a rhino hide if you ask me, than human skin. I think my first line was: “You got a license for that?” He laughed and we struck a conversation. As I had guessed, he had been an amateur and a professional boxer. We exchanged boxing stories. In my youth I had gone to a boxing gym, after kicking heroin, in an effort to rebuild my health, strength and self-confidence. I was no champion at all, but my long arms often allowed me to stay away from trouble and counterpunch. The legacy was a passion for boxing that I shared with my pals, particularly for the boxing that the American Black has refined to another level from what was originally given to him by the British colonial power — sweet science indeed or even an art form, as dangerous as it is. My generation idolized Hagler-Hearns-Duran-Leonard. We also knew about the great ancestry: Sugar Ray Robinson, Monzon, Ali… It was a whole culture and a mild shock for Steve to talk to this white dude from another continent who reveled in it. Over the course of the conversation, he mentioned his basement, where he trained young amateur fighters. I asked him where it was.

A week or so later, I went down there. I had looked at a map and thought, well, take MLK, walk straight on for a while and then make a left. It was late fall, night came in early. I was back from working at the downtown library, black jacket, blue shirt, grey slacks, in perfect nerd fashion, on top of which I carried my computer in its case. Walked along all sorts of groups for a long time, thinking I’m not walking back, or else someone is going to figure I got lost. You don’t want that. A while later, I finally hit the basement. Walked down a flight of steps to bump into a tall heavyweight named Prince that I befriended later, who was quite taken aback seeing me. I explained my purpose and he called Steve who came over. The Coach sized me up, not hiding his surprise, and asked: “How did you come here?”, I answered that I walked it. He looked at me with a stone cold stare and said: “Don’t you ever do that again. From now on you take the bus, you hear me?” He wasn’t joking either, and I did what I was told. I took the bus and climbed down at the stop next to the graveyard on the other side of Warner, to walk down the street, where, I believe, good old Steve had put in a word for me: “This white dude comes to my house”. As generous as he was, nobody messed with him.

From then on, a strong friendship developed between me and him and the rest of the lads, as we hit the bags together three nights a week at least. Anyone of them could have kicked my ass, I was wide aware of it, but it wasn’t the point. Steve didn’t allow me to spar with his fighters, afraid for my brittle cracker bones. Occasionally, he sparred with me, gentle enough to let me work, constantly slipping punches, dodging, ducking, feinting, cutting me short, making almost impossible for all my range, and counterpunches to hit the target, in spite of his large frame. A couple of times, he threw a little one in my ribcage. Each time I was limping for a week.

However, Steve noticed that I religiously did my exercises after each nine -round session on the bags. He soon ordered the fighters to do it with me and I became the informal conditioning coach of the legendary basement of the Renegade Boxing Club. Few titles could have made me prouder. Push-ups and abs to strengthen them, stretching and flexibility to limber them up. Then he asked me to help him in the corner on fight night. Over time, I developed a strong bond not only with him, but with the fighters who trusted me, saw me as Uncle Thierry working alongside Daddy Steve. I think it was a measure of his generosity to me as well as his care for his fighters. They constantly had weight problems, unable to resist any greasy food, asking me about diet. I think Steve sensed that building a rapport with these younger dudes filled a vacuum in me, childless man, and it did — right up to Denzel and his novel. Each boxer was a work in progress for Steve and me, we’d discuss it endlessly. That’s what set him apart in a rough environment, generosity and smarts. He wanted first and foremost to keep these guys away from the street and teach them to work, not to repeat the same mistakes he had made in his troubled youth. He didn’t look for glory, being a modest man in his own way. I listened to his war stories, thinking damn, I would have died.

For all his simple language, Steve was a very intelligent man, he caught on quickly anything I would say, curious about life abroad, France, England, Russia. He was an astute chess player, sitting hours on end before his computer until Marilyn, his sweet as an angel and tough as nails wife, would complain: “Steve, join the party!” Coach Steve assured me that one day he would beat the computer. I don’t know if it happened, but I wouldn’t put it past him, he had brains.

Since it was his home, I also forged a bond with his family. Everyone was used to see me coming and going. I remember one night I was in the kitchen, with Marilyn and her friend, a woman named Michelle, who left her kid there for daycare. I was staying away from them, all sweaty and funky after the workout, and we made small talk for about ten minutes. Going out into the street afterwards, I felt enraptured to the point where I asked myself “What’s happening to me after ten minutes of a banal conversation?” Well, in a mostly male environment, they provided the female vibe that was lacking everywhere else at that time. The soft-spoken Marilyn, nobody to mess with, was always nice and caring.

Then there was Steve Jr. with whom I got particularly close, after a Golden Gloves night, where I had noticed him vomiting in a trash can in some corner of the room. Overwhelming pre-fight tension. I just came over, gave him some water, and opened a window so he could breathe deeply. He went on to fight and knockout a much taller guy with a couple of booming rights, in which you could see the unmistakable Steve Sr. style. At a time when they had a feud, the sly old Steve would use me to communicate with his son. To some extent, it worked. When I later mentioned it to an old African friend, the late writer Alfred Dogbe from Niger, he told me: “Of course Thierry, when I want to talk to my father, I talk to his friends!”

At the time Coach Steve died last November, I hadn’t seen him in years, yet still thought of him and the people around him and the fabulous adventure it had all been for me. His teachings had saved me from a couple of bad encounters at night in other parts of the world. I had no news, had vainly tried to reach out a few years ago after hearing about a shootout on MLK avenue not far from their home. But their numbers had changed and I had no email for them. I spent the entire fall of 2024 in Russia, working on a journalistic book published in June 2025. I had spent a stint near the border, close to the war, where I learned what is an aerial bombardment. I would think of Steve in such situations, and a memory suddenly hit me at the time. Fifteen years earlier, as I was in Ukraine this time, I had called Steve from the headquarters of the Kiev’s Narcotics Anonymous, basically to say hello to an old friend. Right away, he wanted to make sure I was all right and offered immediately to send me a few hundred dollars. Of course, I said no, but that was the kind of man he was, always ready to help. Today we are all grieving. For all his sins, this was a great man, and we’ll miss him forever.

Rest in peace, pal.

Thierry Marignac, September 2025.