Read online "Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station". “More than a poet”: great lines by Yevgeny Yevtushenko There is no Jewish blood in my blood
Author Evtushenko Evgeniy Alexandrovich
Evgeniy Yevtushenko
PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM
MONOLOGUE OF THE EGYPTIAN PYRAMID
SONG OF THE OVERVIEWS
SONG OF THE SLAVES
MONOLOGUE OF THE BRATSK HPP
EXECUTION OF STENYKA RAZIN
DECEMBRISTS
PETRASHEVTSY
CHERNYSHEVSKY
FAIR IN SIMBIRSK
WALKERS GO TO LENIN
ABC OF REVOLUTION
CONCRETE OF SOCIALISM
COMMUNARS WILL NOT BE SLAVES
GHOSTS IN TAIGA
FIRST ECHELON
BOLSHEVIK
LIGHT MANAGER
DON'T DIE, IVAN STEPANYCH
SHADOWS OF OUR LOVED ONES
MAYAKOVSKY
ALUMNI BALL
IN A MINUTE OF WEAKNESS
NIGHT OF POETRY
Evgeniy Yevtushenko
BRATSKAYA HPP
Poem
PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM
A poet in Russia is more than a poet.
Poets are destined to be born in it
only to those in whom the proud spirit of citizenship roams,
to whom there is no comfort, there is no peace.
The poet in it is the image of his century
and the future a ghostly prototype.
The poet fails without falling into timidity,
the result of everything that came before it.
Will I be able to? Culture is missing...
The acquisition of prophecies does not promise...
But the spirit of Russia hovers over me
and orders you to try boldly.
And, quietly kneeling down,
ready for both death and victory,
I humbly ask for your help,
great Russian poets...
Give me, Pushkin, your melodiousness,
his uninhibited speech,
his captivating fate -
as if naughty, with the verb to burn.
Give me, Lermontov, your bilious gaze,
your contempt is poison
and the cell of a closed soul,
where it breathes, hidden in silence,
your sister's unkindness -
lamp of secret goodness.
Let me, Nekrasov, calm down my playfulness,
the pain of your cut muse -
at the front entrances, at the rails
and in the vastness of forests and fields.
Give your inelegance strength.
Give me your painful feat,
to go, dragging all of Russia,
like barge haulers walking along a towline.
Oh, give me, Blok, the prophetic nebula
and two heeling wings,
so that, concealing an eternal riddle,
music flowed through the body.
Give, Pasternak, shift of days,
confusion of branches,
fusion of smells, shadows
with the torment of the century,
so that the word, muttering in the garden,
bloomed and matured
so that your candle will forever
it was burning inside me.
Yesenin, give me tenderness for happiness
to birch trees and meadows, to animals and people
and to everything else on earth,
that you and I love so defenselessly
Give it to me, Mayakovsky
lumpiness,
menacing intransigence towards scum,
so that I can too
cutting through time,
talk about him
fellow descendants.
PROLOGUE
I'm over thirty. I'm scared at night.
I hump the sheet with my knees,
I drown my face in the pillow, I cry in shame,
that I wasted my life on trifles,
and in the morning I spend it the same way again.
If only you knew, my critics,
whose kindness is innocently in question,
how affectionate the trashy articles are
compared to my own breakdown,
It would make you feel better if at a late hour
your conscience unfairly torments you.
Going through all my poems,
I see: recklessly squandering,
I've written so much nonsense...
but you won’t burn it: it has scattered around the world.
My rivals
let's discard flattery
and curse deceptive honor.
Let's think about our destinies.
We all have the same one
illness of the soul.
Superficiality is her name.
Superficiality, you are worse than blindness.
You can see, but you don't want to see.
Perhaps you are illiterate?
Or maybe out of fear of tearing out the roots
trees under which I grew,
without putting a single cola on the shift?!
And isn’t that why we’re in such a hurry,
removing the outer layer only half a meter,
that, having forgotten courage, we are afraid of ourselves
the task itself is to understand the essence of the subject?
We are in a hurry... Giving only a half answer,
We carry superficiality like hidden treasures,
not from a cold calculation - no, no! -
but from the instinct of self-preservation.
Then comes the loss of strength
and inability to fly, to fight,
and the feathers of our domestic wings
the scoundrels' pillows are already stuffed...
I was tossing around... Tossed back and forth
me from someone's sobs or moans
then into inflatable uselessness od,
then into the false usefulness of feuilletons.
I rubbed someone with my shoulder all my life,
and it was myself. I'm in ardent passion,
naively stomping, fought with a hairpin,
where it was necessary to use the sword.
My ardor was criminally infantile.
Complete ruthlessness was not enough,
which means full of pity...
as a mean of wax and metal
and thereby ruined his youth.
Let everyone enter life under this vow:
help what needs to bloom,
and take revenge without forgetting about it,
to everything that deserves revenge!
We will not take revenge through fear of revenge.
The very possibility of revenge diminishes,
and self-preservation instinct
does not save us, but kills us.
Superficiality is a killer, not a friend,
health pretending to be an illness,
entangled in networks of seduction...
In particular, exchanging the spirit,
We are running away from generalizations.
The globe is losing its strength in the empty space,
leaving generalizations for later.
Or maybe his insecurity
and there is a lack of generalization in human destinies
in the insight of the century, clear and simple?!
I was traveling around Russia with Galya,
somewhere to the sea in a Moskvich, hurrying
from all the sorrows...
Autumn of Russian distances
the gilded side is all tired,
sheets rustling under the tires,
and the soul rested behind the wheel.
Breathing steppe, birch, pine,
throwing an unimaginable array at me,
at a speed of over seventy, with a whistle,
Russia flowed around our Moskvich.
Russia wanted to say something
and understood something like no one else.
She pressed the Moskvich into her body
and pulled me right into my gut.
And, apparently, with some kind of idea,
hiding its essence until the end,
she told me right after Tula
turn to Yasnaya Polyana.
And here in the estate, breathing decrepit,
we, children of the atomic age, have entered,
hurrying, in nylon raincoats,
and froze, suddenly making a mistake.
And, descendants of truth walkers,
we suddenly felt in that minute
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov Russian realist poet. Love for the homeland, reflection on the secrets of the national Russian character, a high sense of citizenship - these are the features of Nekrasov’s lyrics.
Proximity to the democratic revolutionaries affected Nekrasov’s views on the essence of art, on the place and role of poetry in the life of society. Supporters of “pure art” were his ideological opponents. Nekrasov stated: “There is no science for science, no art for art; everything exists for society, for the ennoblement of man...”
Nekrasov's citizenship is closely connected with his understanding of the purpose of the poet. What should a poet be like? What is his role in society? What are the tasks of poetry? In the poem “The Poet and the Citizen,” Nekrasov outlined his poetic program and expressed his views on the social duty of the poet. He wrote that a true poet cannot be indifferent to the grief and torment of “those who do not have bread.”
Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die perfectly,
You won’t die in vain - the matter is strong,
When blood flows underneath.
“People’s pains” pass through the poet’s heart. Here they are driving the ragged mob away from the “front door”; here on the “uncompressed strip” a peasant woman is crying from backbreaking labor; here are the devastated, hungry villages; threes racing off-road; here are the barge haulers groaning as they pull the barge; here is Russia, where “a swarm of depressed and trembling slaves envied the life of the last master’s dogs.” Nekrasovskaya Russia is a poetic reflection on the fate of the people.
The poet's muse was the companion of "the poor, born for labor, suffering and fetters." She revealed the abyss of violence and evil and called for struggle.
The poet dedicated many of his poems to courageous, strong-willed people who were an example for him during his life, and to whose behests he remained faithful in his work after their death. These are the leading figures of their time, the leaders of the social-democratic revolutionary movement: Belinsky, Dobrolyubov, Chernyshevsky, Pisarev. The pathos of citizenship, revolutionary spirit is the main difference between such poems. But Nekrasov is also characterized by the expression of simple human feelings that evoke in the poet memories of his revolutionary friends. This is a feeling of friendly tenderness, affection, care, loyalty, a feeling of gratitude.
In the poem “In Memory of Belinsky,” the poet shares with readers sad memories of a friend whose “naive and passionate soul” strove “for one high goal.” Before the reader is a real image of a man who lived, dreamed and struggled, “persevering, worrying and hastening”, and not at all a stone monument erected on the grave of friends.
You loved us, you were faithful to friendship
And we honored you in good time!
In another of his poems dedicated to Belinsky, the poet will call him “a brother by fate,” with whom he walked “the same thorny road.” Nekrasov considers himself the successor of his closest friend. Poetic lines that have become textbooks are dedicated to the fighters for the bright future of Russia:
Mother Nature! If only such people
Sometimes you didn't send to the world,
The field of life would die out.
The poem "Motherland" reveals another side of Nekrasov's personality. Let us read the lines about the majestic soul of a patient woman, the poet’s mother:
But I know: your soul was not dispassionate;
She was proud, stubborn and beautiful,
And everything that you had the strength to endure,
Your dying whisper has forgiven the destroyer!..
Nikolai Alekseevich carried the image of his mother, dear to his heart, throughout his entire life. Five years after her death, he will talk about the tragic fate of a dear person, consonant with the fates of many Russian women. Nekrasov always remembered his mother as a strong woman. Selfless love for her children, mercy and the ability to forgive, but at the same time, perseverance, courage, loyalty - the poet endowed many of his heroines with these characteristic traits of a mother. Let us remember Matryona Timofeevna Korchagina, who endured the greatest grief for every Mother - the loss of a child, and, despite this, managed to forgive Savely, the accidental culprit in the death of Demushka; Let us remember the princesses Trubetskoy and Volkonskaya, who remained devoted to their husbands, faithful to their duty.
The poet believes that it is precisely such women who should raise a new generation of Russian people; they are the ones who are able to pass on to their children all their life wisdom and spiritual beauty, teach them to be tolerant and merciful. “Don’t be afraid,” the mother will say and, holding her child by the hand, will lead him through life.
Don't be afraid of bitter oblivion:
I already hold in my hand
Crown of love, crown of forgiveness,
A gift from your gentle homeland...
It is not for nothing that Nekrasov calls the woman-mother the “long-suffering” mother of the “all-bearing Russian tribe.” Such a woman in Nekrasov’s poems becomes a symbol of her home, her native land, the memories of which are always alive in the heart of a Russian person.
And with the same feeling that permeates the lines about the saints, the sincere “tears of poor mothers,” the poet will talk about the “tears” of the Russian land:
I was called to sing of your suffering,
Amazing people with patience!
And throw at least a single ray of consciousness
On the path that God leads you...
The poet is sincerely concerned about the fate of a people capable of making not only stove pots, but also building railways and creating unique works of art. The poet himself was the greatest Citizen of his Fatherland. Until his last days, he sang of the beauty of the Russian land, the beauty of the human soul. In his work, Nekrasov continued to develop the best traditions bequeathed to Russian literature by Ryleev, Pushkin, and Lermontov. He believed in a wonderful future for Russia.
Don’t be shy for your dear Fatherland...
The Russian people have endured enough
He took out this railway too
He will endure whatever God sends!
Will endure everything and wide, clear
He will pave the way for himself with his chest.
It's a pity to live in this wonderful time
Neither me nor you will have to.
Nekrasov's lyrics are an inexhaustible source of vitality and wisdom. Honor, hard work, the pursuit of truth, humanism, faith in justice, citizenship, love for the Motherland - this is what the poet saw as the meaning and content of human life. Nekrasov tried to express this idea in almost every line. And one cannot agree with those who believe that the value of Nekrasov’s lyrics has been lost over the years, that in our time it is not interesting to read his works. Nekrasov's poetry is not only the poet's response to the pressing problems of his time, but also a testament to his descendants. Love for the Motherland and serving the interests of the state - this is what could help our modern Russian society rise to its feet.
"A poet in Russia is more than a poet.
Poets are destined to be born in it
Only to those in whom the proud spirit of citizenship roams,
For those who have no comfort, there is no peace."
Evgeny Yevtushenko.
The war ended not long ago,
In the sixties, the “thaw” came.
And the country rose from the ruins,
A new tribe of poets grew up.*
Talented, with a fiery soul,
They walked onto the stage, onto the stadium field,
The large hall applauded them in response,
To the poets who are the idols of millions...
Perky, artistic, sing-song
Evgeniy read his works.
He managed to become famous early,
Putting all my soul and inspiration into poetry.
He wrote about life - bitingly, without embellishment,
About the Motherland, love, about lasting peace,
He sang the ringing guitar and the waltz.**
Poems were heard in the halls and on the air.
Having traveled the world throughout my life,
Known wrath and world glory,
“A poet in Russia is more than a poet”...
In poetry he became great by right!
* Poets of the sixties:
Evgeny Yevtushenko, Robert Rozhdestvensky, Andrey Voznesensky,
Bella Akhmadulina, Bulat Okudzhava...
** Songs based on poems by E. Yevtushenko:
"Do the Russians want war?"
“Waltz about a waltz”, “Comrade guitar”, “And it’s snowing...”,
“Ferris Wheel”, “This is What Happens to Me”, etc.
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Top 5 best gastroenterological clinics in Moscow
5 Hadassah Medical
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4 Gastroenterology Department of the State Research Center
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3 Moscow Clinical Research Center
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2 GMS Clinic
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1 Gastrocenter
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A poet in Russia is more than a poet.
Poets are destined to be born in it
only to those in whom the proud spirit of citizenship roams,
to whom there is no comfort, there is no peace.
The poet in her is the image of his century
and the future a ghostly prototype.
The poet fails without falling into timidity,
the result of everything that came before it.
Will I be able to? Culture is missing...
The acquisition of prophecies does not promise...
But the spirit of Russia hovers over me
and orders you to try boldly.
And, quietly kneeling down,
ready for both death and victory,
I humbly ask for your help,
great Russian poets...
Give me, Pushkin, your melodiousness,
his uninhibited speech,
his captivating fate -
as if naughty, with the verb to burn.
Give me, Lermontov, your bilious gaze,
your contempt is poison
and the cell of a closed soul,
where it breathes, hidden in silence,
your unkindness sister -
lamp of secret goodness.
Let me, Nekrasov, calm down my playfulness,
the pain of your cut muse -
at the front entrances and rails
and in the vastness of forests and fields.
Give your inelegance strength.
Give me your painful feat,
to go, dragging all of Russia,
like barge haulers walking along a towline.
Oh, give me, Blok, the prophetic nebula
and two heeling wings,
so that, concealing an eternal riddle,
music flowed through the body.
Give, Pasternak, shift of days,
confusion of branches,
fusion of smells, shadows
with the torment of the century,
so that the word, muttering in the garden,
bloomed and matured
so that your candle will forever
it was burning inside me.
Yesenin, give me tenderness for happiness
to birch trees and meadows, to animals and people
and to everything else on earth,
that you and I love so defenselessly.
Give it to me, Mayakovsky
lumpiness,
riot,
bass,
menacing intransigence towards scum,
so that I can too
cutting through time,
talk about him
fellow descendants...
