Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Rookie (18 July 1933 / Zima Junction, Siberia)

Yevgeny Yevtushenko Poems

1. Monologue Of An American Poet 8/18/2007
2. My Handwriting 8/18/2007
3. We Should Be Stingier 8/18/2007
4. Black Bandillera 8/17/2007
5. Verlaine 8/18/2007
6. Pasternak's Grave 8/18/2007
7. Eight Year Old Poet 8/17/2007
8. No, I'Ll No Take Half 8/18/2007
9. Murder 8/18/2007
10. In The Wax Museum At Hamburg 8/18/2007
11. Let's Not... 8/18/2007
12. The Mrk Of Cain 8/18/2007
13. Idol 8/17/2007
14. Glasha, Bride Of The Sea 8/17/2007
15. Pitching And Reeling 8/18/2007
16. Poetry Gives Off Smoke 8/18/2007
17. Ballad About False Beacons 8/17/2007
18. Flowers For Grandmother 8/17/2007
19. Again, A Meeting 8/15/2007
20. The Mail Cutter 8/18/2007
21. Psychotherapy 8/18/2007
22. The Hut 8/17/2007
23. In Jest 8/18/2007
24. Tomorrow's Wind 8/18/2007
25. The Depth 8/17/2007
26. Assignation 8/17/2007
27. Hall In Kharkov 8/17/2007
28. I Dreamed I Already 8/17/2007
29. Girl Beatnik 8/17/2007
30. The Inexpressible 8/18/2007
31. Prologue 8/18/2007
32. On The Question Of Freedom 8/18/2007
33. Once People 8/18/2007
34. My Universities 8/18/2007
35. Dwarf Birches 8/17/2007
36. Antedeluvian 8/17/2007
37. Wounds 8/18/2007
38. Final Faith 8/17/2007
39. Vietnam Classic 8/18/2007
40. Irpen 8/18/2007
Best Poem of Yevgeny Yevtushenko

People

No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.

Nothing in them in not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.

And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.

To each his world is private
and in that world one excellent minute.

And in that world one tragic minute
These are private.

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight
it goes with him.

There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and ...

Read the full of People

Alder Catkin

Whenever the wind
drops an alder catkin into my palm,
or a cuckoo calls merrily,
with trains screaming by,
I fall to reflecting,
and struggle to grasp life’s meaning,
and, as usual, arrive
at the place where it slips from my grasp.
Reducing oneself

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