Evgeny Yevtushenko died

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Evgeny Yevtushenko died. That's really the last of the Mogican. And this all - more precisely, much - said. I read the message - and the tear involuntarily rolled ... Mentally said goodbye (the cognac presented the other day came by the way). Many years ago, companions and students noticed my special affection for this name: “Well, for Herman, the first poet, of course, Yevtushenko ...” Later, a silver age included me, but her was the first and long affection.

In connection with his death - as a sign of gratitude to the poet, who is more in Russia than the poet - I cannot but publish a verse dedicated to Evgeny Aleksandrovich, from my 2007 book "The Thirteenth Apostle":

Evgeny Yevtushenko

I love their nerve nodes -
lines of elastic, as if with nodules;
then harsh with the cursed by us,
That is completely desperate and evil.

It would be better to know a fellow student, with whom
He called them the author with a soldier -
I did not touch this face with a finger
And he drove into his ear with his fist.
I rushed into fights and then
For the poems, it was puffed together ...

All the same from the discount to the bass
Their sounds filled my house.
That is the essence: native voices
Everyone leads the poet's streets,
where is approximately equally like light,
So the shadows are also a strip.

No, it was not in vain that he spent in the "kindergarten",
Every now and then travels the same winter -
how to get a lamp by a kerosene,
How to light up to write.

Worse than the darkening power,
that the current reader:
Brothers you, yes, he, alas, is not Abel -
So easy at the hands of the wrong mouth.

But mine is indifferent, apparently, the deadline
fidelity to the first poet ...
Thirty years, as your portrait
The babble of these lines was promised.