Today, the well-known Soviet poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko died in one of the US clinics, which was hospitalized in serious condition on the eve. The tragic news was informed by his friend, writer Mikhail Morgulis.
"Five minutes ago, Evgeny Alexandrovich moved to eternity."
Evtushenko was 84 years old. Last clock next to him was his wife Maria Novikova, as well as sons. Evgenia Alexandrovich considers the legend of Soviet poetry. In the eternal classics - the picture "Irony of Fate" - music was imposed on the poet poet, although they were written in about 18 years before the film appeared - in 1957. Then the work was called "B. Ahmadulina "and was devoted to his wife - Belle. Now everyone knows these lines.
With me, this is what happens:
my old friend does not go to me,
and go in shallow bustle
diverse not those.
And he
not with those goes somewhere
and also understands it,
and our discord is unexplained
and both tormented with him.
With me, this is what happens:
not at all comes to me,
i put my hands on my shoulders
and the other I steal me.
And that -
tell me, God forget
who should put on the shoulders?
That
i have stolen,
in retirement will also become steal.
During the creative life of Evtushenko, more than 130 books were published, and his works are read in 70 languages \u200b\u200bof the world.
And what then?
You asked in a whisper:
"And what then?
And what then? "
The bed was dismayed
and you were confused ...
But go around the city,
you are having a beautiful head,
girlfriend red
and healer heel.
In your eyes -
mobility
and in them order -
do not mix
you
with that very
formerly
favorite
and loved.
But this -
the case is in vain.
You are for me -
yesterday
with helplessly forgotten
that crutch confused.
And how you put yourself,
and how to consider you, you
what is there another woman
i was whispering with me
and asked in a whisper:
"And what then?
And what then? "
As the native poet reported, the Body of Eudoshenko will be delivered to Russia. In one of the last conversations, he asked him to be buried in Peredokino not far from the grave of Pasternak.
PEOPLE
S. Preobrazhensky
There are no people not interested in the world.
Their fate - as the stories of the planets.
Everything is all special, its
And there is no planets similar to her.
And if someone imperceptibly lived
and with this inconsistency was friends,
He was interested in people
The most lack of interest.
Everyone has his own secret person.
There is the best moment in this world.
There are the most terrible hour in the world.
But it's all unknown for us.
And if a man dies
his first snow is dying with him,
And the first kiss, and the first fight ...
All this takes with him.
Yes, there are books and bridges,
Machines and artists canvases;
Yes, it is far from being destined,
But something happens all early.
Such is the law of a ruthless game,
Do not people die, but worlds.
People we remember, sinful and earthly ...
And what did we know, in essence about them?
What do we know about the brothers about friends?
What do you know about the only one?
And about his father his own
We, know everything, do not know anything.
People leave, not to return them.
Their secret worlds do not revive.
And every time I want again
From this non-return to scream.
1962
* * *
We are in front of the feelings.
We are accustomed to die,
And we still do not know how
And we do not know how to die.
But, avoiding degenerations,
It is impossible to be friends with the bastards,
as if we enter the house hostile,
where the shot must be made.
So, shoot at goal - or
so that we were presented to us,
So that we do not discharge the charge,
And legitut and gone?
And there find, swallow air,
For excuses example
And, looking around, throw in the water
Laundered gun.
The bed was dismayed
And you were confused ...
But go around the city,
You are having a beautiful head,
girlfriend red
and healer heel.
In your eyes -
mobility
And in them order -
do not mix
you
with that very
formerly
Favorite
And loved.
But this -
The case is in vain.
You are for me -
yesterday
with helplessly forgotten
That crutch confused.
And how you put yourself,
And how to consider you, you
what is there another woman
I was whispering with me
And asked in a whisper:
"And what then?
And what then? "
*************
Patriarch's Ponds
Foggy patriarch ponds.
The world of their shadows is mysterious and breaking,
and blue reflects of boats
seen on dark green water.
Believe faces in the square in the corners.
Copies crawling the machine irrigation,
flushing dust from asphalt and giving
ability to reflect lights.
Slips my bike in the twilight.
Soon two, but I can not sleep yet,
and stick leaves to wet knitting needles,
and the hands are cold on the steering wheel.
This house, which is so familiar!
I look in the soul intently and long
on a white semicircle house number
and the light bulb under the blue visor.
I jump quietly at the gate.
Here woman lives - now with her husband
and her daughter, but something tortured it
and something sleep does not give her at night.
And she seems to her the same as me:
evening forest, big shadows offset,
and the lily of the wrong candle
climbed from cleft on the stump,
and the long suffering of the harmonica
and laughter and a dress in white peas,
again laughter and everything else, from what
we did not succeed ...
She comes to me sometimes:
"I walked past. I'm just a minute," -
but I don't look into my eyes for some reason
from a strange some shame.
And again her traces disappear ...
This story is not very clear.
She is foggy as autumn at night
foggy patriarch ponds.
1957
************
You are big in love.
You are bold.
I am a robe at every step.
I won't do you badly
and good can hardly.
It seems to me that
as if in the forest
without a path, you lead me.
We are in dense colors to the belt.
I do not understand -
What kind of flowers.
All previous skills are not suitable.
I dont know,
What to do and how.
You are tired.
You ask for hands.
You are already in my hands.
"See,
Sky Which is blue?
You hear
What birds are in the forest?
So what are you?
Well?
I carry me!
And where am I rushed you? ..
*************
Love undivided terrible,
But those who have the whole world only stock, fight,
Love is unrequited is funny
As a profile Sirano de Bergerac.
One of my business tribes
Said his wife in the theater "Contemporary":
"Well, what did you find in siorano?
Here is a fool! I, for example, would never
So did not suffer because of some women ...
Other would have found - and all things. "
In the eyes of his wife's eyes
Something went clogged.
From the husband of Person - Already Sleeping the seams! -
Deadly spiritual health.
Oh how many of them, such healthy,
suffering from lack of suffering.
There are women for them: there is no excellent lady.
Does I feel something wrong?
Yawning, we play, like in the picture,
in felling, erased passions,
Fearing tragedies, true passions.
Probably, we are just panties,
When we customize our tastes
Under the fact that the assisted, as requested.
More than once whispered to me inner tie
From dirty subconscious dots:
"E, Brother, this is a complex mothen ..." -
and I cowardly slipped into easy
and maybe a great opportunity
Love is unrequited lost.
The man who walked everything cleverly
Calculation of reciprocity is applied.
Oh, the knighthood of sad sirano,
You moved from men to women.
In love you either knight or you
do not love. The law is inexperienced:
there is no love in unhealthy
There is no gift in God's love.
God let God know the suffering grace,
and thrill unrequited, but beautiful,
and the sweetness is hopeless to expect
And the happiness of the stupid loyalty of the unhappy.
And stretching secret to meer
Against his soul flyedenna
In the half love confused, go
With the longness of love undivided.
08.01.2013 10:41:01
Feedback: positive
Amazing poem.
Present, male, powerful. Cruel and passionate at the same time. And the cruelty is completely explained. An attempt to alienate, distancing a woman after proximity - for a man of non-rebellion. Having mastered the body - wishes to own and soul, dreams of submission, complete submission, unconditional surrender.
Answered protective reaction of a woman - "nothing happened," "You don't have rights on me," "You won the battle, but lost the war" infuriates a man. But if the conquest for a man is a feat that he wants to scream on the whole universe, then for a normal woman is a fall that she is obliged to "keep secret." As you know, "the man falls on his knees so that the woman fell even lower."
In women and men, different goals and priorities. For a woman is more important - "And then." For a man - "here and now." A man always wants to be the first, a woman is to become the last.
But for both, the main thing is to feel the only one.
It is this version of the poem for me - the strongest.
It is like a jump and immersion in the world of a man - a mysterious, exciting, shamelessly frank ...
And reading your stool me.
That is how it should sound!
Very similar to the passage from the radio spectacle.
Congratulations!