You asked in a whisper and then what Yevtushenko. Yevgeny Yevtushenko passes away: the best poetry of the poet

08.01.2013 10:41:01
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Amazing poem.
   Real, masculine, imperious. Cruel and passionate at the same time. And cruelty is understandable. An attempt to alienate, distance a woman after intimacy is unbearable for a man. Mastering the body - wants to control the soul, dreams of humility, complete submission, unconditional surrender.
  The woman’s defensive response - “nothing happened”, “you have no rights to me”, “you won the battle, but lost the war” infuriates the man. But if the conquest for a man is a feat that he wants to shout about the whole Universe about, then for a normal woman it’s a fall that she is obliged to “keep secret”. As you know, "a man falls to his knees so that a woman falls even lower."
   Women and men have different goals and priorities. For a woman, it’s more important - “and then what.” For a man - "here and now." A man always wants to be the first, a woman to become the last.
  But for both, the main thing is to feel unique.

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

Today, in one of the US clinics, the famous Soviet poet Evgeny Yevtushenko died, who was hospitalized in serious condition the day before. The tragic news was reported by his friend, writer Mikhail Morgulis.

“Five minutes ago, Evgeny Aleksandrovich went to eternity.”

Yevtushenko was 84 years old. The last hours next to him was his wife Maria Novikova, as well as sons. Eugene Alexandrovich is considered a legend of Soviet poetry. In the eternal classic - the film “The Irony of Fate” - music was superimposed on the poet's poems, although they were written about 18 years before the film appeared - 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 go to me,
but they walk in the shallow bustle
various not those.
And he
not with those walks somewhere
and also understands this,
and our contention is inexplicable
and we both suffer with him.
This is what happens to me:
she’s not at all coming to me,
puts hands on my shoulders
and another steals me.
And that -
tell me for God's sake
to whom to put hands on shoulders?
That
from which I was stolen
in retaliation, too, will steal.

During the creative life of Yevtushenko, more than 130 books have been published, and his works are read in 70 languages \u200b\u200bof the world.

And then what?

You asked in a whisper:
“And then what?
And then what? "
The bed was spread out
and you were confused ...
But you walk around the city
you carry your head beautifully
the arrogance of the ginger bang,
and heels, needles.
In your eyes -
mockery
and in them an order -
do not mix
you
with the same
the former
beloved
and loving.
But this -
business is evil.
You to me -
yesterday
with helplessly forgotten
that little shuttle strayed.
And how do you put yourself
and how to make you think
that there is another woman
with me lay 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 the grave of Pasternak.

PEOPLE
  S. Preobrazhensky

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

And if someone imperceptibly lived
  and was friends with this stealth
  he was interesting among people
  his own lack of interest.

Each has its own secret personal world.
  There is the best moment in this world.
  There is in this world the most terrible hour.
  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, books and bridges remain
  cars and artists canvas;
  Yes, many are destined to stay
  but something after all leaves early.

This is the law of ruthless play
  Not people die, but worlds.
  We remember sinful and earthly people ...
  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 own father
  we, knowing everything, do not know anything.

People are leaving, they cannot be returned.
  Their secret worlds cannot be revived.
  And every time I feel like it again
  from this irrevocability shout.
1962

* * *
  We are numb before our feelings
  we used to die them
  and we still don’t know how to live,
  and we don’t know how to die.

But avoiding degeneration,
  You can’t be friends with bastards,
  as if entering a hostile house,
  where the shot must be made.

So, shoot at the target - or
  to have tea presented to us,
  so that we don’t discharge the charge,
  and inherited and left?

And find there, swallowing the air,
  to justify an example
  and, looking back, throw into the water
  un shot gun.

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: a different work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and otherwise - if you move away.

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

The most valuable thing in life and in verses is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Among all the arts, poetry is more tempted than others to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen sparkles.

Humboldt V.

Poems work out if created with spiritual clarity.

Writing verses is closer to worship than is generally believed.

When would you know from what litter Poems grow without knowing shame ... Like a dandelion at a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Not only poetry is poetry: it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, this sky - everywhere beauty and life breathe, and where beauty and life are, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a disease of mind growth.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not ours - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our hearts our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

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

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to the white verse. Rhymes in Russian are too few. One causes the other. The flame inevitably drags the 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

“… Your poems are good, tell me yourself?”
- Monstrous! - suddenly Ivan boldly and frankly said.
- Do not write anymore! - asked the one who asked imploringly.
- I promise and swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write in words.

John Fowles "The lover of the French lieutenant"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the tips of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them there is a poem.

Alexander Alexandrovich Block

Poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely created more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: all of them were 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 someone who inadvertently wakes the dozing lines.

Max Fry. Chatty Dead

To one of my clumsy hippopotamus verses I attached such a paradise tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not care, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a 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, persecute critics. They are only miserable supporters of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Do not let his vulgar palpable handles go there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic pile of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. Thousand Lives

Poems - a thrill of the heart, excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry, which rejected the word.

  The bed was spread out
  and you were confused ...
  But you walk around the city
  you carry your head beautifully
  the arrogance of the ginger bang,
  and heels, needles.
  In your eyes -
  mockery
  and in them an order -
  do not mix
  you
  with the same
  the former
  beloved
  and loving.
  But this -
  business is evil.
  You to me -
  Yesterday
  with helplessly forgotten
  that little shuttle strayed.
  And how do you put yourself
  and how to make you think
  that there is another woman
  with me lay whispering
  and asked in a whisper:
  "And then what?
  And then what? "

*************
Patriarch's Ponds
Foggy Patriarch Ponds.
The world of their shadows is mysterious and fragile,
and blue boat reflections
visible on the dark green water.
The faces in the square in the corners are white.
Puffing, an irrigation machine crawling,
washing dust off the asphalt and giving
the ability to reflect the lights.
My bike slides in a half-haze.
Two soon, but I still can’t sleep,
and the leaves stick to the wet needles,
and the hands on the steering wheel get colder.
This is the house that is so familiar!
They look at me intently and for a long time
on white semicircle house number
and a light bulb under the blue visor.
I jump silently at the gate.
Here a woman lives - now with her husband
and daughter, but something torments her
and something does not let her sleep at night.
And she sees the same thing as me:
evening forest, large shadows offset,
and lilies of the valley the wrong candle,
ascended from a crevice on a stump,
and distant suffering of harmonica,
and laughter and a dress in white polka dots,
again laughter and everything else from
we didn’t succeed ...
She comes to me sometimes:
"I walked past. I only for a minute," -
but for some reason doesn’t look in my eyes
from some strange shame.
And again her tracks disappear ...

This story is not very clear.
She's foggy like a fall night
foggy patriarchal ponds.
1957

************
You are big in love.
You are brave.
I am shy at every step.
I won’t do you any harm
but I’m unlikely to be good.
Everything seems to me
  as if through the forest
you lead me without a path.
We are in dense colors to the waist.
I don’t understand -
  what kind of flowers.
All previous skills are not good.
I dont know,
  what to do and how.
You are tired.
  You are asking for your hands.
You are already in my arms.
"See
  what sky is blue?
Do you hear
  what kind of birds are in the forest?
Well, what are you?
  Well?
  Carry me
Where will I take you? ..

*************
Unrequited love is terrible
  but for those to whom the whole world is just an exchange, a fight,
  unrequited love is ridiculous
  like a profile of Cyrano de Bergerac.
  One of my business fellow tribesman
  told his wife at the Sovremennik Theater:
  "Well, what did you find in Cyrano?
  What a fool! For example, I would never
  so did not suffer because of some woman ...
  I would find another - and all things. "
  In the haunted eyes of his wife
  something widow peeped in clogged.
  From the husband a pearl - already seams cracked! -
  deadly spiritual health.
  Oh how many of them are so big
  suffering from lack of suffering.
  There are women for them: there is no beautiful lady.
  But am I myself in something not like that?
  Yawning, we play like cards
  in greasy, worn out passions,
  afraid of tragedies, true passions.
  We’re probably just cowards
  when we customize our tastes
  under what is more accessible, simply.
  More than once whispered to me the inner bastard
  from dirty subconscious darkness:
  "Uh, brother, this is a complex material ..." -
  and I cowardly slipped into uncomplicated
  and maybe a great opportunity
  love unrequited lost.
  The man who played everything smartly
  counting on reciprocity dishonored.
  Oh chivalry of the sad Cyrano
  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 gift unrequited love,
  there is no gift of God's love.
  God bless the grace of suffering
  and trembling unrequited, but beautiful,
  and the hopeless sweetness to expect
  and the happiness of foolish foolish fidelity.
  And stretching secretly to rebellion
  against my soul icy
  wandering in half love, wandering around
longing for unrequited love.