You asked in a whisper what then Yevtushenko. Yevgeny Yevtushenko passed away: the best poems of the poet

08.01.2013 10:41:01
Review: positive
Amazing poem.
Real, masculine, domineering. Cruel and passionate at the same time. And the cruelty is understandable. An attempt to alienate, distancing a woman after intimacy is intolerable for a man. Having mastered the body - wants to own the soul, dreams of obedience, complete submission, unconditional surrender.
The woman's defensive response - “nothing happened”, “you have no right to me”, “you won the battle, but lost the war” infuriates the man. But if a conquest for a man is a feat about which he wants to shout to the entire Universe, then for a normal woman it is a fall, which she must "keep secret." As you know, "a man falls on his knees so that a woman falls even lower."
Women and men have different goals and priorities. For a woman, it is more important - "and then what." For a man - "here and now." A man always wants - to be the first, a woman - to be the last.
But for both, the main thing is to feel like one.

This version of the poem is the strongest for me.
It is like a jump and plunge into the world of Men - mysterious, exciting, shamelessly frank ...
And your reading stunned me.
This is how it should sound!
Very similar to an excerpt from a radio play.
Congratulations!

The famous Soviet poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who was hospitalized the day before in serious condition, died in a US clinic today. The tragic news was announced by his friend, writer Mikhail Morgulis.

"Five minutes ago, Evgeny Alexandrovich departed into eternity."

Yevtushenko was 84 years old. His wife Maria Novikova and his sons were with him for the last hours. Evgeny Alexandrovich is considered a legend of Soviet poetry. In the timeless classic, The Irony of Fate, music was superimposed on the poet's poems, although they were written about 18 years before the film's appearance - in 1957. Then the work was called "B. Akhmadulina ”and was dedicated to his wife - Bella. Now everyone knows these lines.

This is what happens to me:
my old friend doesn't come to me,
but they walk in shallow vanity
various are not the same.
And he
not with those he walks somewhere
and also understands this,
and our discord is inexplicable
and we both suffer with him.
This is what happens to me:
the wrong one comes to me
puts his hands on my shoulders
and steals from the other.
And the one -
tell me, for God's sake,
who should put your hands on your shoulders?
That,
from which I was stolen,
in revenge, he will also steal.

During the creative life of Yevtushenko, more than 130 books were published, and his works are read in 70 languages ​​of the world.

And then what?

You asked in a whisper:
“And then what?
And then what? "
The bed was made out
and you were confused ...
But now you're walking through the city
you carry your head beautifully,
arrogance of a red bang,
and heels-needles.
In your eyes -
mockery,
and in them the order -
do not mix
you
with the one
former
beloved
and loved.
But this -
it’s wasted.
You are for me -
yesterday,
with helplessly forgotten
that bang out of the way.
And how will you put yourself,
and how will you make it count,
that there is another woman
lay with me whispering
and asked in a whisper:
“And then what?
And then what? "

According to the poet's relatives, Yevtushenko's body will be delivered to Russia. In one of his last conversations, he asked to be buried in Peredelkino near Pasternak's grave.

PEOPLE
S. Preobrazhensky

There are no uninteresting people in the world.
Their fates are like planetary histories.
Each has everything special, its own,
and there are no planets like her.

And if someone lived unnoticed
and was friends with this imperceptibility,
he was interesting among people
by its very disinterest.

Everyone has their own secret personal world.
There is the best moment in this world.
This is the worst hour in the world.
But all this is unknown to us.

And if a person dies,
his first snow dies with him,
and the first kiss, and the first fight ...
He takes all this with him.

Yes, there are books and bridges
machines and artists' canvases;
yes, much is destined to remain,
but something leaves all early.

This is the law of a ruthless game
It is not people who die, but worlds.
We remember people, sinners and earthly ...
And what did we know, in essence, about them?

What do we know about brothers, about friends?
What do we know about our only one?
And about his dear father
we, knowing everything, know nothing.

People are leaving, they cannot be returned.
Their secret worlds cannot be revived.
And every time I want it again
from this irreversibility to scream.
1962

* * *
We go numb before our feelings
we used to temper them,
and we still do not know how to live,
and we do not know how to die.

But, avoiding degeneration,
you can't be friends with bastards,
as if we were entering a hostile house,
where the shot must be fired.

So, shoot at the target - or
to be presented with tea,
so that we don't discharge the charge,
and did they inherit and leave?

And there to find, swallowing the air,
to justify an example
and, looking back, throw it into the water
not fired a pistol.

Great about poetry:

Poetry is like painting: another work will captivate you more if you look at it up close, and another if you go further away.

Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of greasy wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which fell through.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is the most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen sparkles.

Humboldt W.

Poems work well if they are created with spiritual clarity.

Writing poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish poetry grows without knowing shame ... Like a dandelion by the fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is poured everywhere, it is around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life blows from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a mental growth disease.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn along the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing within us. As he tells us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens our love and our sorrow in our souls. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no room for quibbling.

Murasaki Shikibu

I am turning to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags a stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! - asked the visitor pleadingly.
- I promise and I swear! - Ivan said solemnly ...

Mikhail Afanasevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write them in words.

John Fowles. "The mistress of the French lieutenant"

Every poem is a blanket stretched out over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

Poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, the whole Universe is invariably hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for the one who inadvertently wakes up the dozing lines.

Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"

One of my clumsy hippopotamuses-verses I attached such a paradise tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not worry, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not the sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore - chase critics. They are just pitiful slips of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Do not let his vulgar palpating hands go there. Let the poems seem to him an absurd hum, a chaotic pile of words. For us, it is a song of freedom from boring reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "Thousand Lives"

Poems are a thrill of the heart, excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.

The bed was made out
and you were confused ...
But now you're walking through the city
you carry your head beautifully,
arrogance of a red bang,
and heels-needles.
In your eyes -
mockery,
and in them the order -
do not mix
you
with the one
former
beloved
and loved.
But this -
it’s wasted.
You are for me -
yesterday,
with helplessly forgotten
that bang out of the way.
And how will you put yourself,
and how will you make it count,
that there is another woman
lay with me whispering
and asked in a whisper:
"And then what?
And then what? "

*************
Patriarch's Ponds
Patriarch's Ponds are foggy.
The world of their shadows is mysterious and fragile,
and blue reflections of boats
visible on the dark green of the water.
Whitening faces in the square in the corners.
The irrigation machine crawls, puffing,
washing dust off the asphalt and giving
the ability to reflect the lights.
My bike glides in half-gloom.
Soon it’s two, but I’m still awake,
and leaves stick to wet knitting needles,
and my hands on the steering wheel are cold.
This house is so familiar!
They stare into my soul for a long time
house number on a white semicircle
and a light bulb under a blue visor.
I jump quietly at the gate.
Here a woman lives - now with her husband
and a daughter, but something torments her
and something does not allow her to sleep at night.
And she sees the same thing as me:
evening forest, great shadows shifting,
and the wrong glow of lilies of the valley,
ascended from the crevice on the stump,
and the distant misery of the accordions,
and laughter, and a dress with white polka dots,
again laughter and everything else, from which
we didn't get anything ...
She comes to me sometimes:
"I was walking by. I was only for a minute", -
but for some reason he doesn't look me in the eye
from some strange shame.
And again her traces disappear ...

This story is not very clear.
She's hazy like an autumn night
the Patriarch's Ponds are foggy.
1957

************
You are big in love.
You are brave.
I am shy at every step.
I won't do you bad
but I can hardly do good.
Everything seems to me
as if in the woods
you lead me without a path.
We are in dense colors to the waist.
I do not understand -
what flowers.
All previous skills will not work.
I do not know,
what to do and how.
You are tired.
You are asking for your arms.
You are already in my arms.
"See,
What is the blue sky?
Do you hear
What birds are in the forest?
So what are you?
Well?
Carry me!
Where am I taking you? ..

*************
Unrequited love is terrible
but to those for whom the whole world is just a stock exchange, a fight,
unrequited love is ridiculous
like the profile of Cyrano de Bergerac.
One of my businesslike tribesmen
told his wife at the Sovremennik theater:
"Well, what did you find in Cyrano?
What a fool! I, for example, would never
I didn't suffer so much because of some woman ...
I would find another - and that's all. "
In the haunted eyes of his wife
something a widow peeped through.
Perlo's husband - the seams were already cracking! -
deadly spiritual health.
Oh, how many of them, such big guys,
suffering from the absence of suffering.
There are women for them: there is no beautiful lady.
Isn't I myself in some way?
Yawning, we play like a game of cards
into greasy, worn out passions,
afraid of tragedies, true passions.
Probably, you and I are just cowards,
when we adjust our tastes
under what is more accessible, simply.
More than once the inner bastard whispered to me
from the dirty subconscious darkness:
"Eh, brother, this is a complex material ..." -
and I cowardly escaped into the uncomplicated
and maybe a great opportunity
lost unrequited love.
The man who played everything smart
relying on reciprocity dishonored.
Oh, the chivalry of the sad Cyranos,
you have moved from men to women.
In love, you are either a knight or you
do not love. The law is adamant:
in whom there is no unrequited love,
in that there is no gift of God's love.
May God know the grace of suffering,
and trembling unrequited, but beautiful,
and the sweetness of the hopeless expect,
and the happiness of a stupid loyalty to an unhappy one.
And, secretly drawn to rebellion
against his frozen soul,
in half-love, entangled, wandering
with longing for unrequited love.