"Mothers are leaving": Yevtushenko's touchingly truthful poem about mothers

Inside of me,
like seven tributaries,
seven cross bloods:
Russian -
like Nepryadva,
not spinning fearfully,
where reeds grow
through shattered helmets;
Belarusian -
bitter from the ashes of the burned Khatyn;
Ukrainian -
with a taste of gunpowder
moistened with gorilka,
which the Cossacks
put on their wounds;
Polish -
like a scarlet thread from Kostyushka's kuntush;
Latvian -
like drops of melted wax
falling from memorial candles over graves in Riga;
Tatar -
which became the last ink of Jalil
on the slimy walls of ghost-filled Moabit,
and one and a half liters
Georgian blood,
transfused into me in a Tbilisi hospital
from the vein of the taxi driver's wife -
according to unverified rumours,
distant relative
Great Mouravi
Anna Vasilievna Plotnikova,
my father's mother,
paramedic, in whose family
was a novelist Danilevsky,
worked with the homeless
and patted her head
by the hand of an aged populist,
possibly Sasha Matrosov.
Rudolf Wilhelmovich Gangnus,
my father's father,
Latvian mathematician,
co-author of the textbook "Hurwitz - Gangnus",
wore gold pince-nez
but strictly always said
what really learn
only for copper money.
Grandpa never raised his voice.
At thirty seven
on him
raised their voice
but they say
he answered calmly
without raising your own voice:
"Yes,
I work for Latvia.
A serious crime for a Latvian...
My connections in Latvia?
Please - Rainis...
Spell out:
Russia,
America,
Yoshkar-Ola,
Nicaragua,
Italy,
Senegal…"
The only thing my mom said was:
"Grandpa is gone.
He teaches
at a very far north school."
And I asked:
"Can't you ride a reindeer to grandpa's?"
Before the war, I had the surname Gangnus.
At Zima Station
physical education teacher
with childishly clear athletic eyes,
with white eyebrows
and white stubble on rosy smooth cheeks,
resembling a boar dressed as a woman,
told Karyakin
to my roommate:
"How can you be friends with Gangnus,
while other nasal Hans
shoot at the front at your father?!"
Sobbing, I came home and asked:
"Grandmother,
Am I German?"
Grandmother,
nee Pani Baikovska,
answered "no"
but took her rolling pin,
sprinkled with flour from dumplings,
and rushed to the gym,
where,
as I was later told
heard a thin teacher's squeak
and grandmother's bass:
"Psya krev,
But what if he was German?
Beethoven, who do you think is an Uzbek?!"
But since then it has appeared in my metrics
the surname of my Belarusian grandfather.
My father
Alexander Rudolfovich Gangnus
did not wear any Komsomol leather jacket
and what's more -
provocatively wore a tie,
who was
according to the public
bourgeois burp,
for which he was once almost expelled
from the Geological Survey Institute.
Father told about this, laughing,
when it
mid seventies
not allowed into the restaurant "Soviet"
precisely because of the lack
"bourgeois eructation" on the neck.

When I brought my mother the manuscript of the "Bratskaya HPP",
Mom cried and took out of the box "Landrin"
one yellowed photo.
There is a young geologist -
mother
sat awkwardly on a mangy horse,
lifting the mosquito net,
like a visor
and my father is
incorrigibly uncomsomol -
gallantly supported my mother's stirrup,
helping her to jump off the horse by the fire.
Mom turned the photo over and showed a faded inscription,
made by the father's hand:
"At the site of exploration of the future Bratsk hydroelectric power station. 1932".
Mom stroked her finger
such a distant flame of a fire
and suddenly withdrew her hand,
as if the flame was still burning.
Mum,
stammering
looking for words:
"This fire...
you was…
started…"
and blushed like a girl.
Why did my mother and my father separate?
I don't know…
It's probably the fire
whose flame is just tired,
although sometimes it can still burn
photographed flame.

Dad was married twice after.
I loved all my dad's wives
starting with my own mother.
And I loved all the other women
who loved my dad,
including one department head
in Soyuzvodokanalproekt,
fifty-year-old mother of two PhDs,
who adored black hats with a pink ribbon
and who called herself in letters to dad
"your Assol".
My mom, of course
didn't like that
that I liked wives
and other women of the pope.
Sometimes judging me for something
mother sighed sadly:
"The spitting father!"
And the father, who was not in the habit of judging,
threw up his hands:
"The spitting image of mom!"
So
if I turn out to be brilliant,
no need to cast me in bronze,
and let them pour
my dad and mom -
and it will
spilled me...

My father,
when my mother was pregnant with me
wrote these poems
and, in my opinion, good ones:
"When will the gray smoke rise
my fires to the shores,
you probably go
my oldest son,
in my unfading footsteps.
And I know that there, on the side of the river,
where will you water the horse,
by your walk, by the movement of your hand
recognize and remember me…”
Forty years later
me and my three friends
jumped off the boat of the Limnological Institute
after a two-day Baikal rocking
on something,
reminiscent of earth.
Surrounded by a mess of dirt
a cafe appeared in the darkness.
In common language - glass,
it looked like a crystal palace,
where behind the transparent walls
danced visions
in white sandals
and black lacquered boots
while the hosts were waiting in the foyer
rubber boots.
doorman,
arms folded in a Napoleonic way,
asked through the glass
so inaccessible
like a bearded princess in a crystal coffin:
"And what isho, besides the boots?"
And we realized
that although we are shod -
we are barefoot.
Helped my cheap popularity
for at that moment they played the melody "Do not rush ..." -
and one of my friends, choking, explained,
what exactly am I
despite the proletarian shell of the legs, -
the author of the words of this world-famous historical song,
and my rubber boots
this is a sign of merging with the people.
The porter sniffed suspiciously,
but solved the situation flexibly:
"Tady - barefoot ...
And "Buchenwald Alarm", by any chance, didn't you compose it?"
We entered in socks
like housekeepers,
to the hall
and, hiding unaesthetic legs under the tablecloth,
timidly asked for the menu,
but sullen waitress
pulled the tablecloth off the heavenly plastic table.
The Crystal Palace was closed.
I was delegated to the bar
because on my toes
had fewer holes than friends.
elderly barmaid
with fake pearl thread
on the wrestler's neck,
reminiscent of a Russian rag merchant's wife
in the unmarried Assisi apartment of a professor from Perugia,
I was by no means perceived as a marble Catullus
and held out no such coveted cup.
I decided to take pity.
I put my left elbow on the rack,
and with his right hand he began to torment his face,
like my dad always did,
when he really wanted something.
And suddenly the barmaid stopped
state business
wiping wine glasses
and startled
both eyes and lush body,
asked:
"Wait,
what is your name?"
"Zhenya…" -
I replied, sighing
and rejoicing that holey socks
covered by the buffet.
"And mother - how?"
I replied: "Zina ..." -
Not understanding,
what's with mom.
"And your dad -
not Alexander Rudolfich?" -
she quickly asked
turned pale
though it was impossible to imagine
on her merchant's ruddy cheeks.
"Alexander Rudolfovich..." -
I replied,
already a little scared.
And she,
dropping wine glasses and glasses,
leaned over with her whole body to me through the bar
and whispered:
"Is Sashenka alive?"
"Alive..." -
I whispered to her involuntarily,
and then she
smiling through tears
fussed
fussed:
"So why are we here...
Let's go to the hut ... "
And in the hut
putting omulka and lingonberries on the table,
and a bottle of white horse whiskey
who had not known how to reach her sideboard.
she said she was a cook
campfire,
who is in my mother's photo,
and dragged notes from tent to tent,
from father -
to the unapproachable mother,
and then cried
without adding anything
just sighed.
"Well, the main thing is that Sashenka is alive..."
And I understood everything
what is behind this breath.
I asked:
"Well, how did you know me -
You have never seen me!"
And she laughed:
"How can you not know!
Only Sashenka wiggled his hand like that
by the face
if you really want something..."
About this meeting
I didn't tell my mom.
Father - told
and he exhaled stifledly: "Pear!" -
and then darkened
and palm
began to torment his face in bewilderment.

I learned from my father's last wife
how he was brought to the hospital by ambulance
(in which there was no oxygen bag!)
and put it in the hallway,
because there was no room in the wards.
"It's a draft here... -
She asked the doctor on duty: -
Is it possible somewhere
where is it not windy?..
The doctor on duty replied irritably:
"Who cares!
He is hopeless
and in two hours he will throw back his skates ... "
She claimed that at that moment
father opened his eyes
He heard.
I found
this duty doctor
one month after his father's death.
I only asked him:
"Are you Yasnikhin?" -
"Yes, Yasnikhin ... -
he answered in bewilderment. -
And what?" -
"Nothing.
I just wanted to look you in the eye."
He had clear athletic eyes
physical education teachers.

Mom... This person has a special place in the heart of every person. And with age, love for mom only intensifies. Perhaps that is why all the poems about mom are so touching. No one can replace a mother, but often the understanding of what happiness is when a mother is around comes too late ...

MOTHERS GO

Video by: Vladimir Shumilin

What a loving mother will not do for your child. Yes, one.

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Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

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Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

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Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

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I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

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To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

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Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

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