Yevtushenko, or whether a decent person can be in accordance with the current Russian power

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Yevtushenko

For a long time I did not remember either himself or his poems. But the reason appeared. Probably, he died even then, in the early 90s, when he dumped from Russia. It’s just that the mail works poorly, and the rider finally jumped and shouted in a hoarse voice - “Evgeny Yevtushenko died!”, Shouted and fell, and died.

For me, he remained some bright shiny tinsel, bright and beautiful, like his shirts with roosters, but empty.

In the algebra lesson, I read his collection of the 59th year in the algebra lesson and instead of the shock, the expected delight of meeting with, then, a legend, there was a feeling as if drank diluted beer. But now I can describe my feelings, then I did not drink beer, and I did not describe the sensations. I absorbed strangers-he was not absorbed somehow.

Poetry is different. It happens that poetry kills, or rather the poet himself dives into such depths of poetry that he understands - there is not enough air to surfacing, the heart will break, but continues immersion and dies. This is Marina and Alexander Blok.

It happens when the poet diving deeply, he felt that there was not enough air and began to frantically scoop back, pop up, damn it with a secret, I learned something about her, I will come up-I’ll tell you. There are many of them, including Yevtushenko. There is nothing wrong with this, for example, my favorite Maximilian from Koktebel belongs to those who surfaced without finishing it. We read them, love, but we understand that those who died in the depths are shaken. The secret with those who have not surfaced. And the happiest try to finish the depths in search of Pearl of Poetry. And everyone who dives deeply risks. Be sure to risk, since poetry is always a matter of life or death. Life or death. Who solves other problems not a poet. In the best case, a teacher of Russian literature in Oklahom.

There is another third category. They just swim in shallow water. They are fine, the fish are no less there, there is no pearl, and no need. Safety, safe and, most importantly, always in sight, because from the shore they are more visible. There are a lot of these. Since Soviet times, now they are already old, but they still stand knee-deep in water or swim like a dog, fingering their hands along the bottom. Ryashentsevs, Dementiev, Rezniki are different, many of them. And their fur coats are beautiful, and some have twisted horns, and their eyes are smart, but where did you see floating rams?

Yevtushenko is still from the second category. But I can’t forgive him alone-as a person of such an amazing fame, such an amazing sense of word and ingenious imagery could not or did not want to overshadow the disastrous of the Afghan trap in the 79th. He squeaked something in the 68th, but timidly and quietly, almost imperceptibly, so he did not angry even those to whom he squeaked. They dismissed him like a forest squeak of shusers. But he could rumble. And his word would definitely come to everyone. I didn't want to.

Already in our time, he came from the American far from the American far away, to orders the thief who privatized power in Russia and never said loudly and figuratively, as he knows how to that the KGBS are not Russia and people who came to power in our country, they do not see their own nose, cannot calculate the situation two moves forward and are only able to fill their own pockets, but the people, the real hazard of the main danger, the main danger. For them.

Instead, he shouted on the stage, reciting his “dwarf birches”, out of the corner of his eye, looking at whether the first rows like. Sorry.

For this they could have killed how they killed not one already, but for this, in order to make you happy as a highest poetic reward, nine grams of lead or thieves' stray, the Russian poet must live in Russia. And die here. The librarian, teacher, turner, baker can live where he wants, the Russian poet - only in Russia.

But, by the way, that I am to him, like Abdullah to his wife: “Gulchatai, why didn’t you die!” Everyone has their own life and I want to live it ... to live. And he died, after all, in the end.

But the gift of God must be given to God.