Posted on 04/01/2017 12:42:56 PM PDT by EveningStar
Acclaimed Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko, whose work focused on war atrocities and denounced anti-Semitism and tyrannical dictators, has died. He was 84...
Yevtushenko gained notoriety in the former Soviet Union while in his 20s, with poetry denouncing Josef Stalin. He gained international acclaim as a young revolutionary with "Babi Yar," the unflinching 1961 poem that told of the slaughter of nearly 34,000 Jews by the Nazis and denounced the anti-Semitism that had spread throughout the Soviet Union...
Until "Babi Yar" was published, the history of the massacre was shrouded in the fog of the Cold War...
(Excerpt) Read more at abcnews.go.com ...
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My favorite Yevtushenko poem was “Sleep, My Beloved, Sleep”, and “Uncle Vassya”.
I didn’t know he was still alive.
RIP.
” The Heirs of Stalin” is chilling. I highly recommend reading it
I watched a 40 year old Tarokovsky movie recently. The film imagery was accompanied by poetry of which I understood not a bit. It was absolutely mesmerizing.
No mention of Shostakovitch at all? He set ‘Babi Yar’ in his 13th symphony.
The Shostakovich 13th was how I first learned about Yevtushenko!
You all should read the book Babi Yar. A bone chilling account of the mass killing of Jews in Kiev. I couldn’t put the book down.
I had no idea he was at TU! I did a presentation on him in high school humanities class almost fifty years ago. None of the other kids had clue one, who he was. (To tell you the truth, I don’t remember how I knew who he was.)
BABI YAR
By Yevgeni Yevtushenko
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone.
I am afraid.
Today, I am as old
As the entire Jewish race itself.
I see myself an ancient Israelite.
I wander o’er the roads of ancient Egypt
And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured
And even now, I bear the marks of nails.
It seems to me that Dreyfus is myself.
The Philistines betrayed me – and now judge.
I’m in a cage. Surrounded and trapped,
I’m persecuted, spat on, slandered, and
The dainty dollies in their Brussels frills
Squeal, as they stab umbrellas at my face.
I see myself a boy in Belostok
Blood spills, and runs upon the floors,
The chiefs of bar and pub rage unimpeded
And reek of vodka and of onion, half and half.
I’m thrown back by a boot, I have no strength left,
In vain I beg the rabble of pogrom,
To jeers of “Kill the Jews, and save our Russia!”
My mother’s being beaten by a clerk.
O, Russia of my heart, I know that you
Are international, by inner nature.
But often those whose hands are steeped in filth
Abused your purest name, in name of hatred.
I know the kindness of my native land.
How vile, that without the slightest quiver
The antisemites have proclaimed themselves
The “Union of the Russian People!”
It seems to me that I am Anna Frank,
Transparent, as the thinnest branch in April,
And I’m in love, and have no need of phrases,
But only that we gaze into each other’s eyes.
How little one can see, or even sense!
Leaves are forbidden, so is sky,
But much is still allowed – very gently
In darkened rooms each other to embrace.
-“They come!”
-“No, fear not – those are sounds
Of spring itself. She’s coming soon.
Quickly, your lips!”
-“They break the door!”
-“No, river ice is breaking…”
Wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar,
The trees look sternly, as if passing judgement.
Here, silently, all screams, and, hat in hand,
I feel my hair changing shade to gray.
And I myself, like one long soundless scream
Above the thousands of thousands interred,
I’m every old man executed here,
As I am every child murdered here.
No fiber of my body will forget this.
May “Internationale” thunder and ring
When, for all time, is buried and forgotten
The last of antisemites on this earth.
There is no Jewish blood that’s blood of mine,
But, hated with a passion that’s corrosive
Am I by antisemites like a Jew.
And that is why I call myself a Russian!
**************************************************
Wow! I saw him give a reading in the 60s. I thought he died a long time ago.
I read Babi Yar years ago and could not put it down. I still remember it vividly. I highly recommend it to anyone.
RIP
I can’t remember exactly - it was the late ‘60s or early ‘70s. I was listening to the syndicated weekly concert of the Philadelphia Orchestra (with Ormandy conducting) that my local station, the late KFAC, carried. As usual, I was spellbound.
The announcer said that tonight they were presenting “the premier in the Western Hemisphere of the 13th Symphony of Dmitri Shostakovich.” It was wonderful. Of course, when the album was released, I rushed out and got it.
Sometime later I watched Yevtushenko on the David Frost TV show.
I believe ‘’Babi Yar’’ means “Old Woman Ravine’’ in Russian.
Sad news.
The really interesting thing about YY, to me at least, is that he translated all his poem into English himself.
I kind of thought Yevtushenko passed away with the Cold War.
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