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In the photo: Evgeny Yevtushenko (1961)

Evgeny Yevtushenko. Poem "Babi Yar"

At the request of Viktor Nekrasov, Anatoly Kuznetsov brought the young poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko to Babi Yar. It was already August 1961. 16 years have passed since the end of the war. Instead of monuments to dead people, he saw garbage dumps and desolation.
Evgeny Yevtushenko writes:

– When we [with Anatoly Kuznetsov. MK] came to Babi Yar, I was completely shocked by what I saw. I knew that there was no monument there, but I expected to see some kind of memorial sign or some kind of well-kept place. And suddenly I saw a very ordinary landfill, which had been turned into such a sandwich of foul-smelling garbage. And this is in the place where tens of thousands of innocent people lay in the ground: children, old people, women. Before our eyes, trucks drove up and dumped more and more heaps of garbage on the place where these victims lay.

Yevtushenko could not even hint about the Kurenev tragedy - no one would have missed this material, and he himself would have been accused of slander and God knows what else. And his thoughts were about those executed at Babi Yar.

Kuznetsov would later write about this day: “Yevtushenko, with whom we were friends and studied at the same institute, conceived his poem on the day when we went to Babi Yar together. We stood over a steep cliff, I told where people were driven from and how they drove them away, how the creek later washed away the bones, how there was a struggle for a monument that still doesn’t exist.”

And Yevgeny Yevtushenko wrote about what struck him in the very heart - about human memory, and the moral strength of his poem began to break the callousness and callousness of the ruling power.

There are no monuments above Babi Yar.
A steep cliff, like a rough tombstone.
I'm scared.
I am so old today
as the Jewish people themselves.

It seems to me now -
I'm Jewish.
Here I am wandering through ancient Egypt.
But here I am, crucified on the cross, dying,
and I still have nail marks on me.

It seems to me that Dreyfus -
It's me.
Philistinism –
my informer and judge.
I'm behind bars.
I hit the ring.
Hunted down
spat on,
slandered.
And ladies with Brussels frills,
squealing, pointing umbrellas in my face.

I think -
I'm a boy in Bialystok.
Blood pours, spreading across the floors.
The leaders of the tavern stand are rampaging
and they smell like vodka and onions.
I, thrown back by a boot, am powerless.
In vain I pray to the pogromists.
To the guffaw:
"Beat the Jews, save Russia!" -
The meadowsweet rapes my mother.

Oh, my Russian people! -
I know -
You
Essentially international.
But often those whose hands are unclean
they rattled your purest name.
I know the goodness of your land.
How mean
that, without flinching a vein,
anti-Semites pompously called
ourselves as the “Union of the Russian People”!

I think -
I am Anne Frank
transparent,
like a twig in April.
And I love.
And I don't need phrases.
I need,
so that we look into each other.

How little you can see
smell!
We can't have leaves
and we cannot have heaven.
But you can do a lot -
it's gentle
hug each other in a dark room.

Are they coming here?
Don't be afraid - these are ghouls
spring itself -
she's coming here.
Come to me.
Give me your lips quickly.
They break down the door?
No - it's an ice drift...

The rustling of wild grasses above Babi Yar.
The trees look menacing
in a judicial way.
Everything here screams silently,
and, taking off his hat,
I feel,
I'm slowly turning gray.

And I myself
like a continuous silent scream,
over thousands of thousands buried.
I -
everyone here is an old man who was shot.
I -
Every child here has been shot.

Nothing in me
won't forget about it!
"International"
let it thunder
when he will be buried forever
the last anti-Semite on earth.

There is no Jewish blood in my blood.
But hated with calloused malice
I am anti-Semitic to all,
like a Jew
and that's why -
I'm a real Russian!
1961

The poet read “Babi Yar” from the stage of the Polytechnic Museum. This is what an eyewitness says (taken from Dmitry Tsvibel’s “Babi Yar”. Kyiv is Jewish. On the website:
“In mid-September 1961, the poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko read his poem “Babi Yar” for the first time, which made him world famous.

I was lucky enough to be on this day at the poet’s creative evening, which took place in Moscow at the Polytechnic Museum. Long before the start, the entire area in front of the museum was filled with people eager for tickets. Order was ensured by mounted police. Despite having a ticket, I made my way to the museum building for a long time and had difficulty getting onto the balcony of the third tier.

Yevtushenko was 40 minutes late; he himself could not get through the dense crowd of people. The police helped, literally carrying him into the museum in their arms. There were
not only all the aisles were filled, but also the stage, where there were chairs close together, and where there were none, people simply sat on the floor. An area of ​​no more than one square meter was left for the poet.

Yevtushenko read his already known poems and new ones written after a recent trip to Cuba. However, it was felt that the audience was expecting something unusual. And at the end of the second part, Yevtushenko announced: “And now I will read you a poem written after my trip to Kyiv. I recently returned from there, and you will understand what I’m talking about.” He took out the sheets of text from his pocket, but, in my opinion, he never looked at them.

And a slow, hammered voice rang out in the frozen hall: “There are no monuments above Babyn Yar...”. In the dead silence, the poet’s words sounded like hammer blows: they knocked on the brain, on the heart, on the soul.
Frost walked down my back, tears flowed from my eyes. In the dead silence, sobs were heard in the hall.

In the middle of the poem, people began to rise, as if spellbound, and listened to the end while standing. And when the poet finished the poem with the words: “I am like a Jew to all anti-Semites, and therefore I am a real Russian,” the audience was silent for some time. And then it exploded. It “exploded”. I can’t find another word for what happened. People jumped up, shouted, everyone was in some kind of ecstasy, unbridled delight. There were shouts: “Zhenya, thank you! Zhenya, thank you!” People, strangers, were crying, hugging and kissing each other.

And not only Jews did this: the majority in the hall were, naturally, Russians. But now there were neither Jews nor Russians in the hall. There were people who were tired of lies and hostility, people who wanted to cleanse themselves of Stalinism. The year is 1961, the famous “thaw” has arrived, when the people, after many years of silence, got the opportunity to speak the truth. The rejoicing continued for a long time. A corridor was formed along which dozens of people brought bouquets of flowers to the poet, then they began to pass them along the chain. Flowers were placed directly on the stage at the feet of the poet.

“Zhenya, more! Zhenya, more!” - people shouted, and he stood, stunned and confused. Finally, Yevtushenko raised his hand, and the hall fell silent. No one sat down: the poem was listened to while standing.
And after the second time, “Babi Yar” sounded both as a memory of the dead Jews, and as a condemnation of anti-Semitism, and as a curse on the past. For the first time, it was said out loud that not just “peaceful Soviet people” were shot at Babi Yar, but Jews. And only because they were Jews.”

Reviews

Interview with Vlodov" - Yuri Alexandrovich, how did it happen that other people “used” your poems? Was there really no way to protect yourself from losses?
- Well, how can you protect yourself here? My poems are very strong and they led people into terrible temptation. I published with great difficulty, and the poem, if it is not yet published, is to some extent ownerless, no one’s. Whoever published it first is the author. I even understand them to some extent, that it was difficult to resist. But it was necessary for a real poet, a true creative personality, to resist, otherwise he could no longer worthily bear this title. To some extent, I demonstrated the Divine or Devilish test of people for lice. Many, unfortunately, did not pass this test.
– And who is among the first to fail this test?
– Zhenya Yevtushenko. Yes, that's it. He only used one of my poems. Now I’ll tell you how it happened. In our youth we were friends. I easily came to his house, we read to each other what I had just written, and even then it was clear that I more than covered all his creations. Zhenya became sad after I read it, then he feverishly sat down at his typewriter and tearfully asked me to dictate to him something that he had just read but had not yet published. I dictated, of course, that I was sorry? Then he published one of the poems, with some changes, under his own name. This poem later became famous, one of the best in his work. I mean "Babi Yar".
– Can you tell me how this happened?
“At that time I went to places not so remote. I led a rather sad life at that time, and somehow fell into the hands of the authorities. On April 12, 1960, I was put on trial, and I was imprisoned for 8 years, although I was released much earlier. Zhenya probably thought that I would not return to freedom soon, and if I did, I would have no time for poetry. One day I went into the camp library, took out the Literary Newspaper and saw this poem of mine under the name Yevtushenko. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, but then I still had to believe it.
– And what did you then say to Yevtushenko?
– When I was free, I met Zhenya and asked him why he did it. Oddly enough, he was not at all embarrassed and said that since I sat down, he decided to save this wonderful poem in such an interesting way, not to let it go to waste, because people need it. I couldn’t find an answer to such a statement, it struck me so much. Then he calmed down, forgave him, but forbade him to use this poem in any way in the future: publish it, put it in books."

The history of the creation and publication of these poems is tragic. Known to few. And the poems themselves leave few people indifferent. But in today’s assessment, I think, the main thing is not the desperate courage of the author and the editors responsible for the publication, although at that time this was akin to a feat. The attitude towards the poems, their theme and the associated history turned out to be the very litmus test that clearly reveals the true intelligence of a person, the level of his spiritual culture. And how joyful it is that the best people get into this community and that there are quite a few of them.
It is interesting to listen to E.E. himself reading his poems.
Welcome!

Mikheil Buzukashvili

Evgeniy Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko (surname at birth Gangnus, born July 18, 1932, Zima station, Irkutsk region) famous Soviet, Russian poet, novelist, director, screenwriter, publicist, actor. Speaks English, Spanish, Italian and French. In 2011, it was 50 years since the publication of Yevgeny Yevtushenko’s poem “Babi Yar”.
I believe that in the history of mankind there were no other poetic lines that would have found such an immediate and wide response throughout the world as these lines by Yevgeny Yevtushenko. And how many poems have there been in history that were imprinted in stone, after which monuments were created, and on different continents? Monument in Kyiv, lines in English in front of the Holocaust Museum in Washington. On air, I once expressed my opinion that in the 20th century there were two most famous poems in the world. This does not mean that they were the best of what was written in the last century. Because everyone has their own criteria and priorities in this regard, and it is difficult to compare works of art. But if measured by the degree of impact on people, by responses, then, undoubtedly, such were, in my opinion, the poem “If” by R. Kipling - poems written by the great English writer and poet in 1910, and “Babi Yar”, written in 1961. I will never forget the day when my father came home with a copy of the Literary Newspaper in his hand. There was a kind of stupefaction on his face - how could such a thing be printed. I will never forget my mother's tears when she read these poems. During one of our conversations with Evgeniy Aleksandrovich on air, I asked him, what is the history of “Babi Yar”? How did it happen that, contrary to the logic of that life, all this was published in those tough, harsh times of ours? And Zhenya answered me that it was easier to write such poems than to publish them.

Here's what he himself said about it...<< Подробности о Бабьем Яре я узнал от молодого киевского писателя Анатолия Кузнецова. Он был свидетелем того, как людей собирали, как их вели на казнь. Он тогда был мальчиком, но хорошо все помнил. Когда мы пришли на Бабий Яр, то я был совершенно потрясен тем, что увидел. Я знал, что никакого памятника там нет, но ожидал увидеть какой-то знак памятный или какое-то ухоженное место. И вдруг я увидел самую обыкновенную свалку, которая была превращена в такой сэндвич дурнопахнущего мусора. И это на том месте, где в земле лежали десятки тысяч ни в чем не повинных людей: детей, стариков, женщин. На наших глазах подъезжали грузовики и сваливали на то место, где лежали эти жертвы, все новые и новые кучи мусора. Я был настолько устыжен увиденным, что этой же ночью написал стихи. Потом я их читал украинским поэтам, среди которых был Виталий Коротич, и читал их Александру Межирову, позвонив в Москву.

And the very next day in Kyiv they wanted to cancel my performance. A teacher came with her students, and they told me that they saw how they were covering up my posters. And I immediately realized that the poems were already known to the KGB. Apparently my phone conversations were tapped. When I performed it in public for the first time, there was a minute of silence, this minute seemed like an eternity to me... And then... There, a little old lady came out of the hall, limping, leaning on a cane, and walked slowly across the stage towards me. She said that she was at Babi Yar and was one of the few who managed to crawl through the dead bodies. She bowed to me and kissed my hand. No one has ever kissed my hand in my life. But it is one thing to organize a literary concert and quite another to be published.

The motivation for refusal in those days was standard: “They won’t understand us”! And then I went to see Kosolapov at Literaturnaya Gazeta. I knew that he was a decent person. Of course, he was a party member, otherwise he would not have been editor-in-chief. It was impossible to be an editor and not be a party member. First, I brought the poem to the executive secretary. He read it and said: “What good poems, what a fine fellow you are. Did you bring it for me to read?” I say: “Don’t read it, but print it.” He said: “Well, brother, you give it. Then go to the main thing, if you believe that it can be printed.” And I went to Kosolapov. He read the poems in my presence and said emphatically: “These are very powerful and very necessary poems. Well, what are we going to do with it?” I say: “Like what, you need to print!” He thought about it and then said: “Well, you’ll have to wait, sit in the corridor. I’ll have to call my wife.” I wondered why call my wife. And he says: “Why why? I’ll be fired from this post when this is published. I have to consult with her. This should be a family decision. Go ahead, wait. In the meantime, we’ll send it to recruitment.”
They sent me to the set in front of me. And while I was sitting in the corridor, many people from the printing house came to see me. I remember well how the old typesetter came, brought me a small piece of vodka with a pickled cucumber and said: “Hold on, they’ll print it, you’ll see.” Then Kosolapov’s wife arrived. As I was told, she was a nurse during the war and carried many people from the battlefield. They stayed there together for about forty minutes. Then they went out together, she came up to me, she didn’t cry, but her eyes were a little wet. He looks at me studyingly, smiles, and says: “Don’t worry, Zhenya, we decided to be fired.”

And I decided to wait until morning and didn’t leave. And there are still many left there. And the troubles began the very next day. The head of the Central Committee department arrived and began to find out how they missed it, missed it? But it was already too late. It was already on sale, and nothing could be done. And Kosolapov was really fired. After all, he went into the embrasure deliberately; he accomplished a real feat at that time. What were the first responses to Babi Yar? Within a week, ten thousand letters, telegrams and radiograms arrived, even from ships.

The poem spread like lightning. It was transmitted by telephone. There were no faxes back then. They called, read, wrote down. And what is especially characteristic: they were mostly Russian people! They even called me from Kamchatka. I asked: “How did you read it, since the newspaper hasn’t reached you yet? No, they say, they read it to us over the phone, we wrote it down by ear.” There were many distorted and erroneous versions.

And then the official attacks began. Among other things, I was scolded for not writing anything good about the Russians, accused of all kinds of sins. I, who by that time wrote the words of the song “Do the Russians Want War,” which was sung by everyone, including Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, I saw this myself. And the same Khrushchev criticized me for “Babi Yar”?

What was the reaction in the world? Incredible. This is a unique case in history. Within a week, the poem was translated into 72 languages ​​and published on the front pages of all major newspapers, including American ones. I also remember how huge, basketball-sized guys from the university came to me. They volunteered to protect me, although there were no cases of attack. But they could be. They spent the night on the staircase, my mother saw them. So people were very supportive.

And the most important miracle: Dmitry Dmitrievich Shostakovich called. My wife and I didn’t even believe it right away, we thought it was someone’s hooligan prank. He asked me if I would give permission to write music to my poems. I said, “Of course,” and mumbled something else. And he then said: “Well, come to me then, the music has already been written.” This was the first recording. Maxim Shostakovich has this first recording of Babi Yar, when Shostakovich sang for the choir and played for the orchestra. Maxim tells me: “You know, Evgeniy Aleksandrovich, this is not a professional recording at all. But still, I think that it is unique and it should be released not as a professional recording, but as a human document.” After all, this was the first performance of the most famous symphony of the twentieth century.

There are no monuments above Babi Yar.
A steep cliff, like a rough tombstone.
I'm scared. I am so old today
as the Jewish people themselves.

It seems to me now that I am a Jew.
Here I am wandering through ancient Egypt.
But here I am, crucified on the cross, dying,
I still have nail marks on me.

It seems to me that Dreyfus is me.
The philistinism is my informer and judge.
I'm behind bars. I hit the ring.
Hunted down, spat upon, slandered.
And ladies with Brussels frills,
squealing, pointing umbrellas in my face.

It seems to me that I am a boy in Bialystok.
Blood pours, spreading across the floors.
The leaders of the tavern stand are rampaging
and they smell like vodka and onions.
I, thrown back by a boot, am powerless.
In vain I pray to the pogromists.
To the cackle: “Beat the Jews, save Russia!” -
The meadowsweet rapes my mother.

Oh, my Russian people! - I know you
Essentially international.
But often those whose hands are unclean
they rattled your purest name.
I know the goodness of your land.
How mean that, without even flinching a vein,
anti-Semites pompously called
ourselves as the Union of the Russian People"!

It seems to me that I am Anne Frank,
transparent, like a twig in April.
And I love. And I don't need phrases.
I need us to look into each other.

How little you can see and smell!
We can't have leaves and we can't have sky.
But you can do a lot - it’s gentle
hug each other in a dark room.

Are they coming here? Don't be afraid! these are ghouls
spring itself - she comes here.
Come to me. Give me your lips quickly.
They break down the door? No - it's an ice drift...

The rustling of wild grasses above Babi Yar.
The trees look menacingly, like a judge.
Everything here screams silently, and, taking off his hat,
I feel like I'm slowly turning gray.

And I myself, like a continuous silent cry,
over thousands of thousands buried.
I am every old man who was shot here.
I am every child here who was shot.

Nothing in me will forget about this!
Let the Internationale thunder,
when he will be buried forever
the last anti-Semite on earth.

There is no Jewish blood in my blood.
But hated with calloused malice
I am like a Jew to all anti-Semites,
and therefore - I am a real Russian!

50 years ago, in that day (September 19, 1961)
the poem was published for the first time
Evgenia Yevtushenko "Babi Yar" in "Literaturnaya Gazeta"

BABIY YAR

1961

"A poet in Russia is more than a poet." Many people associate this expression primarily with this work.

The poem is dedicated to the destruction of the Jewish population by the Nazis. Having occupied Ukraine and Kyiv, fascist German troops began to exterminate the Jews living in these places. The executions took place in the town of Babi Yar near Kyiv. At first, people were shot in small groups. During September 29-30, 1941, about 50 thousand people were shot there.

Later, not only Jews began to be exterminated there; Gypsies and Karaites, prisoners of war and partisans, and civilians of Kyiv were shot at Babi Yar. In August 1942, Dynamo Kyiv football players who did not want to lose in the same place were shot.

football match with a fascist team, for which they were sent to Babi Yar/. In total, up to 200,000 people were shot there between 1941 and 1943.

For a long time there was neither a monument nor any sign there. It was not customary to touch on this topic. Moreover, in 1950, the city authorities decided to flood Babi Yar with liquid waste from neighboring brick factories, fencing off the area with a small dam. Ten years later, in the early spring of 1961, when the snow melted, the accumulated mass broke through the barrier and poured towards the villages. A huge disaster occurred: houses and other buildings, a cemetery, and life-supporting structures were destroyed. The victims were up to 1.5 thousand people.

Thus, Babi Yar became the site of yet another crime - forgotten and mismanaged at the same time. But this second crime provoked memories of the first, which marked the beginning of the mass extermination of the Jewish population. Articles and memoirs about the executions at Babi Yar began to appear in the press.

According to the poet himself, the poems appeared unexpectedly quickly. He took them to the Literaturnaya Gazeta. First, Yevtushenko’s friends read them. They did not hide their admiration not only for the courage of the young poet, but also for his skill. They did not hide their pessimism about the publication, which is why they asked the author to make them a copy. And yet a miracle happened - the next day the poem was published in Literary Newspaper. As Yevtushenko himself recalls, all copies of that issue of Literature were sold out at the kiosks instantly. “Already on the first day, I received many telegrams from people I didn’t know. They congratulated me with all their hearts, but not everyone was happy...” Those who were not happy will be discussed below. For now, let's talk about the poem itself.

It had the effect of a bomb exploding. Perhaps only the story “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich” by Solzhenitsyn made the same impression. There are not many poems in Russian poetry that have been talked about so much and written about so much. If Yevtushenko had been the author of only this poem, his name would undoubtedly remain in Russian poetry. From the poet's memoirs:

“When in 1961, in Kyiv, I first read the newly written “Babi Yar”, she (Galya Sokol, Yevtushenko’s wife - M.G.) immediately after my concert was taken away in an ambulance due to unbearable pain in the lower abdomen, as if she had just painfully given birth to this poem. She was almost unconscious. The Kyiv Jewish doctor, who had just been at my speech, had not yet dried up her tears after listening to “Babi Yar,” but... ready to do everything to save my wife, after the examination she unprofessionally burst into tears and refused to cut the unexpectedly huge tumor.

Forgive me, but I can’t kill your wife after your Babi Yar, I can’t,” the doctor said through tears.”

Yevgeny Yevtushenko reads "Babi Yar"

This was not just a response to the shooting of people - the entire work denounced anti-Semitism in any form. Not only fascists are castigated by poetic verse; the poem has become a mouthpiece for hatred of any manifestation of national insult. In addition, the work was in open conflict with the Soviet totalitarian system, which included anti-Semitism in its internal policies and deliberately incited anti-Semitic sentiments within society (this policy had its own economic reasons). Outwardly, as usual, anti-Semitism was not documented as a state policy, the friendship of peoples was widely proclaimed, but in fact, in closed instructions and oral orders, anti-Semitic policy in the USSR was carried out very actively.

The poem "Babi Yar" became not only a literary event, but also a social one. On March 8, 1963, Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev spoke about him a lot and in detail in a speech at a meeting of party and government leaders with figures of art and literature.
“We don’t have a “Jewish question,” and those who invent it are singing from someone else’s voice,” said “Communist No. 1” in 1963.

Later, when Khrushchev was deprived of all positions, he would write in a completely different way in his memoirs about Yevtushenko:

“Do I like Yevtushenko’s own poem? Yes, I do! However, I can’t say this about all of his poems. I haven’t read them all... I think that Yevtushenko is a very capable poet, although he has a violent character...”

More than once there has been an opinion in the press that “Babi Yar” became the apogee of resistance to anti-Semitism, which, in contrast to open Stalinism, took other forms during the Khrushchev “thaw”. This was a challenge from the young poet not only to those in power, but also to the entire system. Here it is appropriate to mention the editor-in-chief of Literaturnaya Gazeta Kosolapov - he knew what he was risking and still published the poem.

The poem "Babi Yar" caused not just irritation, but anger among many of Yevtushenko's literary contemporaries. Who knows, maybe it was from that time that Khrushchev’s “thaw” made its first reversal.

Under pressure from censorship, Yevgeny Yevtushenko was forced to redo some stanzas

Was:

Became:

Was:

Became:

A new text has appeared to please the party leaders. But it didn’t take root. Moreover: all the readers and performers of these poetic changes did not seem to notice.

Http://cyclowiki.org/ http://piratyy.by.ru/article/evtu.html

Poet Yuri Aleksandrovich Vlodov, born Levitsky, (1932 - 2009). The true author of Babi Yar?

Yes, we didn't know. Although the publication of these poems at that time can also be considered a feat. He stole it, but with what benefit, to perpetuate the memory of the tortured and murdered Jews. He stole it, modified it, became famous and never repented.

I never liked E. Yevtushenko. For me, he was always kind of slimy (not slippery), his whole face and manner of holding himself and entering his organs.

But I did not imagine such a theft as Babi Yar and did not believe it. Therefore, I searched the Internet and found a fair amount of evidence that it was Vlodov who was the author of Babyn Yar and at the time of publication he was in the camp.

How bizarre are the interweaving of destinies.
Kharkiv residents, who are no longer too young, remember that they nominated Yevtushenko as a deputy at the last Gorbachev Congress of the USSR Soviet along with Korotich.

Both of these talented freedom fighters disappeared over the hill without even saying goodbye to Kharkov.

And, of course, without talking too much about Yuri Vlodov.

And you should know about him, Yuri Vlodov!

I am sure that there are none among you who are not familiar with the winged couplet:
“Winter has passed, summer has come.
Thanks to the party for this!”

And here is the “Ode to the Party” itself, the lines of which have gained unprecedented fame and popularity:

"Winter has passed, summer has come -
Thanks to the party for this!
Because the smoke is coming up the chimney,
Thank you, party!

Because the day has replaced the dawn,
I thank the party!
After Friday we have Saturday -
After all, this is the party's concern!

And Saturday is a day off.
Thanks to the party dear!
Thanks to the party with the people
For breathing oxygen!

My darling's breasts are white -
The party gave all this.
And even though I sleep in bed with her,
I love you, party!"

In the early fifties, a young poet showed up in the writers' village of Peredelkino and decided to get acquainted... with the classics. Met with Ilya Selvinsky, Korney Chukovsky, Boris Pasternak. And the masters, recognizing a colleague in Yuri Vlodov, predicted a great literary future for him.

With a foreword by Selvinsky, a selection of his poems was published in the Smena magazine. Pasternak admonished him this way: “Each poem by the poet Yuri Vlodov is a brick laid in the foundation of modern Russian-language poetry. Bon voyage, my brother Yuri!” And here is the opinion of Alexander Solzhenitsyn: “The power of this poet lies in the fact that he comes not from books, but from life itself, and therefore, despite his timeless themes, he is always modern.”

During the Soviet years, Yuri Aleksandrovich’s literary career did not work out; he did not publish; KGB officers were often interested in his poems, which were too sharp and unusual for that time. And in general, there are many dark spots in the poet’s fate, starting with close ties with the criminal world in his youth...;

Lev Novozhenov recalls: “Blasphemer. Didn't want to publish. It didn’t matter whether they printed it or not. I didn’t see this as a tragedy. He wrote like a god. I think we can put him on a par with Brodsky."

But during and after perestroika, Yu. Vlodov’s poems splashed out powerfully onto the pages of magazines, collections, and almanacs. And his first book, “The Cross,” was published in 1996, when the poet turned 64 years old...;

And a couple more interesting facts. In addition to “Winter has passed, summer has come...”, the poet wrote no less famous lines: “Under our red banner, we will burn with a blue flame.” Yuri Aleksandrovich composed poems of 8-12 lines, or even less, often in one- and two-line lines.

“I lead through life like a blade,
Blind Girl - Poetry"

* * *
The war crucified childhood.
Left a legacy:
Dry capacity of phrases,
Almost an animal's eye
Hypervigilant mind
Poisoned stomach
Hot Heart Stone
And the spirit of a fellow believer...;

And it's not my fault
That I am a poet of war!

* * *
Talent is essentially thick.
And a genius is as thin as a sliver.
It doesn't matter what's there: canvas,
Poem, fugue, sculpture.
Fate, like a pole in the side, -;
What they gave, he grabbed...;
Talent in spirit is God,
And genius is a real Devil!

* * *
I see Anna Akhmatova:
Crazy rosary in hands
And roses on an open wound
On the black silks of life.

And in a slow glance - bravado
And a viscous darkness of passion...;
And in a royal gesture - a blockade,
In which she lived until her grave.

* * *
I think: Jesus wrote poetry,
Weaving webs of magical nonsense...;
And the life of Christ was the soul of a poet...;
Otherwise - how?! — where would all this come from?!

In the circle of blind sick tribes
He, like a blind man, fed himself with deception...;
And wasn't Judas a graphomaniac?
Unrecognized Salieri of those times?!

* * *
They betrayed each other...;
And immediately it became easier.
Judas - hot and dark -
Walked from corner to corner,
Walked from corner to corner,
The sweaty mustache tormented me!..
And the thought struck my nerves:
“I wish I could be the first to betray!
To be the first to betray!..
Until Jesus betrayed..."

* * *
I will say that it is too hard for me -;
I'll almost lie:
Like a convict in a quarry
I can live.

Blink from the stone dust
Eye of a flower...;
And trembling with fear
The pick will freeze.

* * *
He was an obedient servant -
I walked through life following a staff.
Became a rebellious disobedient -
Amazing deafness!…;
Waiting for the troublemaker artist
The path is unexpected, unexpected...;
And God calls him -
I’m just as desperate!…;

* * *
Sweeter than sky-high manna
Sweet drug of creations.
A genius is always a drug addict.
But a drug addict is not a genius.

Hot fog and dope
Hotter than Sudan and Kenya.
A genius is always a graphomaniac,
But a graphomaniac is not a genius!

* * *
I saw myself from the outside
In the treacherous glow of the moon:
I’m standing with my back pressed to the crucifix,
Two abysses - above me and below me...;
And the ghost of the night with a reflection of the day
The spirit was scorched by an icy breath...;
It's probably not me at all,
But only my lost destiny...;

* * *
I looked into the mirror of Genesis...;
A transparent ringing lightly touched the ear...;
Chu! - there was a beggar behind him!
“Are you my Death?” - I barely said a word.
“I am your Life...” muttered the old woman.

But this poem also belongs to Kharkov resident Vlodov...
Yuri Vlodov. Babi Yar

YURI VLODOV
(1932-2009)

BABIY YAR

There are no monuments above Babi Yar.
A steep cliff, like a rough tombstone.
I'm scared.
I am so old today
as the Jewish people themselves.
It seems to me now -
I'm Jewish.
Here I am wandering through ancient Egypt.
But here I am, crucified on the cross, dying,
and I still have nail marks on me.

I think -
I'm a boy in Bialystok.
Blood pours, spreading across the floors.
The leaders of the tavern stand are rampaging
and they smell like vodka and onions.
I, thrown back by a boot, am powerless.
In vain I pray to the pogromists.
To the guffaw:
"Beat the Jews, save Russia!" -
The meadowsweet rapes my mother.
I think -
I am Anne Frank
transparent,
like a twig in April.
And I love.
> And I don’t need phrases.
I need,
so that we look into each other.
How little you can see
smell!
We can't have leaves
and we cannot have heaven.
But you can do a lot -
it's gentle
hug each other in a dark room.
Are they coming here?
Don't be afraid - these are ghouls
of spring itself -
she's coming here.
Come to me.
Give me your lips quickly.
They break down the door?
No - it's an ice drift...
The rustling of wild grasses above Babi Yar.
The trees look menacing
in a judicial way.
Everything here screams silently,
and, taking off his hat,
I feel,
I'm slowly turning gray.
And I myself
like a continuous silent scream,
over thousands of thousands buried.
I -
everyone here is an old man who was shot.
I -
Every child here has been shot.
Nothing in me
won't forget about it!
"International"
let it thunder
when he will be buried forever
the last anti-Semite on earth.

Jew's blood boils in my soul
And, hated with calloused malice,
For all anti-Semites, I am a Jew! -;
And that’s why I’m a real Russian!

Yevtushenko recognized the authorship of Vlodov... and defended himself by saying that, they say, he still had to sit, and I brought the poem to the people... Although what Yevtushenko wrote in is no weaker than the original, I don’t like it.
And Yevtushenka’s whole life and adventures look different... If you know that he is a thief.

=======================================

Wikipedia:
Yuri Aleksandrovich Vlodov (December 6, 1932, Novosibirsk, RSFSR - September 29, 2009, Moscow) - Russian wandering poet, poet of the Moscow underground; The main theme of his work, by his own admission, is about God, the Devil and Christ.

Vlodov almost never published during his lifetime (his name was banned in the USSR), he often wrote “to order” for so-called “literary clients”, and allowed his poems to be published under the names of other poets. Vlodov is known to a wide Russian reader as the author of such sharply political epigrams as “Winter has passed, summer has come. Thanks to the party for this!” Vlodov’s acquaintances also consider him the real author of the poem “Babi Yar,” which Yevgeny Yevtushenko “borrowed” from Vlodov when he was in prison.

There are no monuments above Babi Yar.
A steep cliff, like a rough tombstone.
I'm scared.
I am so old today
as the Jewish people themselves.

It seems to me now -
I'm Jewish.

and I still have nail marks on me.
It seems to me that Dreyfus -
It's me.
Philistinism -
my informer and judge.
I'm behind bars.
I hit the ring.
Hunted down
spat on,
slandered.
And ladies with Brussels frills,
squealing, pointing umbrellas in my face.
I think -
I'm a boy in Bialystok.
Blood pours, spreading across the floors.
The leaders of the tavern stand are rampaging
and they smell like vodka and onions.
I, thrown back by a boot, am powerless.
In vain I pray to the pogromists.
To the guffaw:
“Beat the Jews, save Russia!” -
The meadowsweet rapes my mother.
Oh, my Russian people! —
I know -
You
Essentially international.
But often those whose hands are unclean
they rattled your purest name.
I know the goodness of your land.
How mean
that, without flinching a vein,
anti-Semites pompously called
ourselves as the “Union of the Russian People”!
I think -
I am Anne Frank
transparent,
like a twig in April.
And I love.
And I don't need phrases.
I need,
so that we look into each other.
How little you can see
smell!
We can't have leaves
and we cannot have heaven.
But you can do a lot -
it's gentle
hug each other in a dark room.
Are they coming here?
Don't be afraid - these are ghouls
spring itself -
she's coming here.
Come to me.
Give me your lips quickly.
They break down the door?
No - this is an ice drift...
The rustling of wild grasses above Babi Yar.
The trees look menacing
in a judicial way.
Everything here screams silently,
and, taking off his hat,
I feel,
I'm slowly turning gray.
And I myself
like a continuous silent scream,
over thousands of thousands buried.
I -
everyone here is an old man who was shot.
I -
Every child here has been shot.
Nothing in me
won't forget about it!
"International"
let it thunder
when he will be buried forever
the last anti-Semite on earth.
There is no Jewish blood in my blood.
But hated with calloused malice
I am anti-Semitic to all,
like a Jew
and that's why -
I'm a real Russian!

Analysis of the poem “Babi Yar” by Yevtushenko

Yevgeny Yevtushenko, a Soviet poet, dedicated his work to the tragedy that occurred at Babyn Yar. The author was shocked not only by the scale of Nazi cruelty, but also by the deliberate suppression of these events. The poem became a kind of protest against the policies of the Soviets and ignoring the Holocaust and persecution of Jews.

In June 1941, when German troops captured Kyiv, Soviet partisans staged an explosion at the Nazi command center. Since there was already propaganda of the Aryan race, Jews were blamed for the death of the German military. All representatives of this people were driven into a ravine called Babi Yar, forced to undress and shot. According to documents from those times, 34 thousand people were killed during the day, including women, children and old people.

The policy of extermination of Jews continued for several more months. The Nazis killed everyone they suspected of hiding and belonging to the Jewish people. For many years, the Soviet government did not recognize the events of 1941 as part of the Holocaust.

The poem was written in 1961 and has been translated into 72 languages. It sharply condemned racism and the persecution of Jews. Evgeniy Aleksandrovich was also shocked by the state of the huge mass grave - the place where thousands of people died had turned into a landfill.

He wrote:

“There are no monuments above Babi Yar.
A steep cliff, like a rough tombstone.”

In addition to identifying anti-Semitic problems in the USSR, the author raises the topic of bureaucracy and the reluctance to recognize the problems of the top government. For this he was accused of prejudice and dislike for the Russian people. After all, because of the persecution of Jews, Soviet citizens who were caught having connections with Semites also died.

In general, the poem evokes dual sensations - on the one hand, there is obvious propaganda for the protection of a specific people. At the same time, the tragedies and exploits of the Soviet people during the Great Patriotic War are, as it were, belittled, becoming unimportant and not terrible.

“It seems to me now -
I'm Jewish.
Here I am wandering through ancient Egypt.
But here I am, crucified on the cross, dying,
and I still have nail marks on me.
It seems to me that Dreyfus -
It's me."

These words vividly describe the state of the poet, who perceives what happened at Babi Yar as a personal grief. But we should not forget that Yevtushenko’s parents went to the front, and he himself saw the suffering of all people, but forgot to mention it in his poem.

Reading the poem leaves a bitter aftertaste and reminds us once again that there are no more important peoples. Those who forget about this become approximately on the same level as the fascists who killed women and children back in 1941.