Bratskaya hydroelectric station author. Encyclopedia of Literary Works

BRATSKAYA HPP CONTINUES

Now, pyramid, I'll show you something else.

DECEMBRISTS

They were still boys, but the ringing of spurs did not drown out someone’s groans for them. And the boys angrily fumbled for their swords. The essence of a patriot is to rebel in the name of freedom.

PETRASHEVTSY

The Semyonovsky parade ground smells like Senate Square: Petrashevites are being executed. Hoods are pulled over the eyes. But one of those executed sees through the hood the whole of Russia: how Rogozhin is rampaging through it, Myshkin is rushing about, Alyosha Karamazov is wandering. But the executioners see nothing of the kind.

CHERNYSHEVSKY

When Chernyshevsky stood at the pillory, the whole of Russia was visible to him from the scaffold, like a huge “What to do?” Someone's fragile hand threw him a flower from the crowd. And he thought: the time will come, and this same hand will throw a bomb.

FAIR IN SIMBIRSK

Goods flash in the hands of the clerks, and the bailiff monitors order. Hiccupping, the caviar god rolls. And the woman sold her potatoes, grabbed the first one and fell, drunk, into the mud. Everyone laughs and points their fingers at her, but some bright-eyed high school student picks her up and leads her away.

Russia is not a drunken woman, she was not born for slavery, and she will not be trampled into the dirt.

BRATSKAYA HPP TURNS TO THE PYRAMID

The fundamental principle of revolutions is kindness. The Provisional Government is still feasting in Winter. But now “Aurora” is already unfolding, and the palace has been taken. Take a look at history - Lenin is there!

The pyramid answers that Lenin is an idealist. Only cynicism does not deceive. People are slaves. It's elementary.

But the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station replies that it will show another alphabet - the alphabet of revolution.

Here is teacher Elkina at the front in 1919, teaching Red Army soldiers how to read and write. So the orphan Sonya, having escaped from Zybkov’s fist, comes to Magnitogorsk and becomes a red digger. She has a patched padded jacket, tattered supports, but together with her beloved Petka they lay the CONCRETE OF SOCIALISM.

The Bratsk hydroelectric power station roars over eternity: “Communists will never be slaves!” And, thinking, the Egyptian pyramid disappears.

FIRST ECHELON

Ah, the Trans-Siberian Railway! Do you remember how cars with bars flew at you? There were a lot of scary things, but don’t worry about it. Now there is an inscription on the carriages: “The Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station is coming!” A girl is coming from Sretenka: in the first year her pigtails will freeze to the folding bed, but she will stand, like everyone else.

The Bratsk hydroelectric power station will come up, and Alyosha Marchuk will answer questions about it in New York.

A grandmother is walking through the taiga, and she has flowers in her hands. Previously, prisoners lived in this camp, and now - dam builders. Neighboring residents bring them some sheets, others some clothes. But the grandmother is carrying a bouquet, crying, baptizing excavators and builders...

I am a concrete worker, Nyushka Burtova. I was raised and educated by the village of Great Mud, because I was left an orphan, then I was a housekeeper, worked as a dishwasher. Those around me lied and stole, but while working in the carriage restaurant, I got to know the real Russia... Finally, I got to work on the construction of the Bratsk hydroelectric power station. She became a concrete worker and gained social influence. Fell in love with one proud Muscovite. When a new life awoke in me, that Muscovite did not recognize paternity. The unfinished dam prevented me from committing suicide. My son Trofim was born and became a construction worker’s son, just as I was a village daughter. He and I were together at the opening of the dam. So let the grandchildren remember that they got the light from Ilyich and a little from me.

BOLSHEVIK

I am a hydraulic engineer Kartsev. When I was young, I dreamed of a world fire and cut down the enemies of the commune. Then I went to workers' school. Built a dam in Uzbekistan. And he couldn’t understand what was happening. It was as if the country had two lives. In one - Magnitogorsk, Chkalov, in the other - arrests. I was arrested in Tashkent, and when they tortured me, I wheezed: “I am a Bolshevik!” Remaining an “enemy of the people,” I built hydroelectric power stations in the Caucasus and on the Volga, and finally the 20th Congress returned my party card. Then I, a Bolshevik, went to build a hydroelectric power station in Bratsk. I will tell our young shift: there is no place for scoundrels in the commune.

SHADOWS OF OUR LOVED ONES

In Hellas there was a custom: when starting to build a house, the first stone was placed in the shadow of the beloved woman. I don’t know in whose shadow the first stone was laid in Bratsk, but when I peer into the dam, I see in it the shadows of your loved ones, builders. And I put the first line of this poem in the shadow of my beloved, as if in the shadow of my conscience.

MAYAKOVSKY

Standing at the foot of the Bratsk hydroelectric power station, I immediately thought about Mayakovsky: it was as if he had been resurrected in her appearance. He stands like a dam across untruth and teaches us to stand for the cause of the revolution.

NIGHT OF POETRY

On the Brotherly Sea we read poetry and sang a song about the commissars. And the commissioners stood in front of me. And I heard the hydroelectric power station thundering in meaningful grandeur over the false grandeur of the pyramids. At the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station, the maternal image of Russia was revealed to me. There are still many slaves on earth, but if love fights and does not contemplate, then hatred is powerless. There is no purer and more sublime destiny - to give your whole life so that all people on earth can say: “We are not slaves.”

Evgeniy Aleksandrovich Evtushenko b. 1933

Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station - Poem (1965)
PRAYER IN FRONT OF THE DAM
PROLOGUE
MONOLOGUE OF THE EGYPTIAN PYRAMID
MONOLOGUE OF THE BRATSK HPP
EXECUTION OF STENYKA RAZIN

We are in 1965 in the project “One Hundred Years - One Hundred Books,” and we have come to the poem “Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station” by Yevgeny Yevtushenko. I think that there is no work more slandered and more common in Soviet poetry. Suffice it to recall the legendary parody “Panibratskaya Hydroelectric Power Station”, absolutely accurate, this is from the early texts of Alexander Ivanov, then still very poisonous. But one cannot help but admit that everything bad that has been said about this poem is, in general, true. And there is surprisingly little good in it, but what is good, what little good there is, ultimately outweighs it.

Why does it outweigh? This is that rare case when the work itself, with its flaws, is more eloquent than what the author wanted to say. The author, of course, did not put such meaning into it, did not look at history from such a height. And in general, Yevtushenko wanted to say something else, but it turned out to be a symptom, a sign of the era.

To begin with, this idea is quite complex, but nevertheless, over 65 lectures we have become accustomed to each other and easily talk about complex things. Let's start with the fact that a poem is generally a genre of retardation, a genre of retreat, rebuilding, pause. This idea was first expressed by Lev Anninsky, the idea is quite deep, because the lyrics are such small flying squads working at the forefront. The poem is, in general, rather a genre of surrender, because the lyrical effort is exhausted, and what harms the verse begins - the narrative. Here is Soviet narrative poetry, the Soviet novel in verse - this, brothers, is, of course, a nightmare.

It’s scary to imagine the great Antokolsky, who composed his, therefore, strained epic poem “In an alley behind the Arbat,” which he himself hated. Well, Pasternak was struggling with the poem “Glow,” with an attempt to write a novel in verse about the end of the war. And, by the way, he succeeded in the first chapter, but things didn’t go any further. And now you can’t remember how many of these novels were in verse. “Volunteers” by Dolmatovsky, even Anatoly Safronov had a novel in verse “Into the Depth of Time,” which is impossible to remember without cramps.

In general, the narrative genre is very harmful to poetry. In order to write a novel in verse, as Pushkin wrote Onegin, you still need to have a thought, or at least a hero, before your eyes. And Soviet poetry was engaged in such chewing, shifting prose into boring socialist realist cloth poems.

And here in the 60s a fundamentally new concept of the poem appears. “Bratskaya Hydroelectric Power Station” in a certain sense was an attempt to revive the poem of the 20s, the poem, well, let’s say, by Mayakovsky “Good”.

It must be said that “Good” is a rather serious contribution by Mayakovsky to genre specifics, an attempt to build a new poem. There is no cross-cutting plot. “Good” is, in essence, a cycle of poems, a cycle of the author’s personal memories of the decade 1917-1927. An attempt to highlight some of the main episodes of the first Soviet decade, a retrospective. This is not a plot poem, it is precisely a lyrical cycle in which there is a single mood. And this mood is not “good” at all, because “good,” as we know from the same poem, are the last words of Blok that Mayakovsky heard from him. And in this “good thing,” he says, both the burned library and these bonfires before the Winter Palace merged. That is, it is a blessing, but a blessing for a dying person.

Here, “Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station” is a set of pictures from Russian life, from Russian history. For Yevtushenko, the pinnacle of this story in 1965 was the Bratsk hydroelectric power station. This means that the main idea of the poem is rather strained, which, naturally, by about the second half of it, and the poem is huge, there are 150 pages, it begins to fizzle out by about the second half and ceases to be at all interesting.

This is a dialogue between the Bratsk hydroelectric power station and the Egyptian pyramid, you won’t believe it. This means that the Egyptian pyramid is a large-scale construction of the ancients, a monument to ancient greatness, it looks at everything with extreme skepticism, it is outdated, it does not believe that a communist experiment can work out.

The Bratsk hydroelectric power station is our answer to the Egyptian pyramid. This is our immortal monument, a monument to brotherhood, a monument to freedom. And it is no coincidence that there is just such a chapter about the teacher Elkina, a teacher who came, that is, to teach the villagers, then she teaches the Red Army soldiers, tries to hammer something into them, and one of them exhaled painfully before dying: “We are not slaves, teacher "We are not slaves." Here is the same monument to freedom - this is the Bratsk hydroelectric power station.

Yevtushenko, I think, of course, it would be funny to talk to him now - this is the first living author whom we are analyzing in this series, and he, of course, is also partly a monument of the era. And it would be funny to ask Evgeniy Aleksandrovich sometime in his spare time whether he understood how suicidal this metaphor was, how much he, in general, lowered the Bratsk hydroelectric power station, making it a kind of Egyptian pyramid of mature socialism. It is absolutely clear that the Bratsk hydroelectric power station is just as dead a reinforced concrete structure as the Egyptian pyramid and, in general, the same monument to a dead regime. She, of course, continues to work for herself, continues to give sense, but the brotherhood in whose honor it was erected no longer exists. And the city of Bratsk in its former form no longer exists. And there is a poor, distant Siberian city where people have been laughing at this poem and this mythology for a long time.

But nevertheless, this dialogue, it then somehow disappears from the foreground, and the main characters that Yevtushenko sees in Russian history come to the fore. What’s surprising here is that the first chapter, the beginning of the poem: “I’m over thirty, I’m scared at night” - here there is some certain accuracy.

In general, I love Yevtushenko very much, I must say with bitterness. With bitterness - because this person very often deceives this love and writes things that are completely unworthy of this love. But here’s an interesting thing, you know, that came out. Now, then, when this “Mysterious Passion” thundered across the screens, swept across the screen, everyone began to read poetry from the 60s. Well, it turned out that most of these poems are no good. Voznesensky survived, we just talked about him, he survived to a great extent thanks to his joy of destruction, a very Russian joy at the sight of something burning or collapsing and something new beginning.

And Yevtushenko survived, this is a strange thing. Yevtushenko, who was so much reproached for vulgarity, for lack of taste, but he has two things that no one else has to this extent: he is absolutely honest, he talks about himself all the time and tells the truth about himself. Yes, he is flirty, sometimes he flirts, of course. Yes, he does not tell the last, most bitter truth about himself. But at least he is sincere, and he knows how to admit defeat. “What a shame to go to the cinema alone” is a phrase that not everyone will say to themselves, such a wonderful symbol of loneliness and love defeat. And he has many love poems dictated by real anger, real jealousy and absolute honesty.

And the second thing that Yevtushenko stands out among many is that he thinks. His poetry is, after all, the poetry of the mind. And poems like “Monologue of the Blue Fox,” which I sincerely consider to be brilliant, incredibly accurate, no one has written a stronger, more accurate poem about the Soviet intelligentsia. “Whoever feeds me will kill me” - these are wonderful words about an arctic fox who escaped from a cage and cannot live without a cage.

These are brilliant poems, this is exactly what Kataev told him about: “Zhenya, stop writing poems that please our liberal intelligentsia. Start writing poetry that pleases your bosses, or I won’t vouch for your future.” But nevertheless, Yevtushenko, we must give him his due, did not follow this path. He continued to write poetry, which in many ways pleased the liberal intelligentsia, because he spoke the truth.

And this thought, the experience of thoughts and sincerity, it must be said, is present in the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station. There are several fragments there that are surprisingly accurate. There is an attempt to save Leninism, this is a chapter about the walkers “Walkers are coming to Lenin”, which, in my opinion, is rather naive even for this thing. There are extremely naive revolutionary chapters, “Roasting,” for example. And there are many attempts at false affection for the pathos of work, a description of this wedding, among which suddenly there is an alarm at the dam, and everyone runs urgently to fix it.

But, of course, on the one hand, the most false, and on the other hand, the most breakthrough chapter there is, of course, “Nyurka,” the chapter about the concrete worker Nyurka. Of course she looks funny today. “If I put the vibrator down for a moment, it’s as if I don’t weigh anything, I’ll push off from the ground and fly.” Well, who thought that a vibrator would mean something completely different for a Soviet, post-Soviet person? Then this is such a device with which a concrete structure is built.

But the point is not only in these funny and completely, in general, unimportant episodes. The fact is that “Nyurka” is such a fairly accurate psychological analysis. What's going on there? This Nyurka got pregnant. Naturally, she was knocked up by an engineer, an intelligent person, because all the nasty things are done by intelligent people, and only they want sex. And then he refused to acknowledge the child to her. He said: “I, of course, was the first, but someone could have been the second,” this thing is written in a poignant anapest. And so this Nyurka decided to throw herself from the dam. And when she climbed up this dam with the intention of throwing herself from there, she saw a wide panorama of the construction site, and this panorama made such an impression on her that she changed her mind about committing suicide and decided to raise a Soviet citizen.

So, you know, it's actually not that stupid. And I'll tell you why. The fact is that, after all, in Soviet mythology and in Soviet culture there was one very important message: if nothing works out for you as a person - in your personal life, in your career, in love, it doesn’t matter, you have consolation - you you are participating in a great cause. And in this sense, “Nyurka” is a breakthrough text. Because, look, a huge number of films of this time, starting with “The Irkutsk Story”, a film adaptation of Arbuzov’s play, and ending with comedies like “Dima Gorin’s Career” or “Girls”, they carry a very simple idea: if in your personal life you are always a loser, because love ends, because everyone is mortal in the end, but you have a business, a large-scale majestic business. And thanks to this business, you are no longer just “I am a simple concrete worker from Nyurka,” but you are already a brick in a huge majestic wall, you are a participant in a great project. It works psychologically, that is, I understand that it’s naive, but it works.

Just like that, you see, take Chulyukinsky, and Chulyukin is a good director, his film “Girls”, surprisingly frank, where there is this poor klutz played by Nadya Rumyantseva, and there is Rybnikov who is in love with her, and the girl is stupid to the point of purity , she doesn’t understand how people kiss, their noses should get in the way. But against the backdrop of these periodically appearing Siberian landscapes, giant clearings, great mountains and snow, there is some feeling of belonging to the great, it’s not all bad, and it turns out that we are building the future here. And therefore, in the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station, all these episodes dedicated to its construction, they, of course, sound like a big digression for a major lyric poet who suddenly began to glorify socialist construction.

But, on the other hand, this is, in a sense, a way out of all lyrical contradictions, because it allows us to overcome the private fear of death, which allows us to overcome this idiocy of our egoism, our fear, our glance at our superiors, which allows us to outgrow ourselves - only a great common cause. This is Tolstoy’s idea, which, by the way, works quite well for Yevtushenko. And therefore, the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station is, on the one hand, as many joked then, a mass grave. Of course, a mass grave of characters, cultural quotes, and the great intentions of Yevtushenko himself. On the other hand, this is a very good symbol of the Soviet Union as such.

After all, the Soviet Union was built by people, mainly, with failed, tragic personal lives. One can understand why Larisa Reisner, Gumilyov’s mistress and Trotsky’s lover, why she rushes into the communist project with such despair, this girl of Russian decadence. Yes, because all decadence is built on the idea of insufficient privacy. And therefore, the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station is a rather worthy crown of the eternal debate about the meaning of this Egyptian pyramid. The pyramid says: “Everything is meaningless, everyone is mortal.” No, nothing like that. And “Bratskaya HPP”, with its idiotic pathos of common labor, oddly enough, brings some really fresh perspective.

There are some good, very historical chapters, and some very decent personal sketches. There is no ending, because there cannot be one. There is such a departure into general false pathos, but of all the poems of the 60s, it’s amazing that “Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station” is alive. Yevtushenko’s two great poems are still alive - “Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station” and “Kazan University”, because then he himself wrote: “As in the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station, Russia was revealed to me in you, Kazan University.” And now the epilogue of “Kazan University” sounds very majestic: “I love you, my Fatherland, not only for ditties and nature - for Pushkin’s secret freedom, for its hidden knights, for the eternal Pugachev spirit among the people, for the valiant civil Russian verse, for your Ulyanov Volodya, for your future Ulyanovs.”

In 1970, to say “for your future Ulyanovs,” and even write the chapter “Yes, the wall, if you poke it, it’s rotten, if you poke it, it will fall apart”—these words forced Kaverin to ask Yevtushenko on a ski trip: “Zhenechka, our power has changed ?. How did he really manage to write this? After all, in 1965 to glorify the Russian revolution at the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station, and in 1970 to glorify Volodya Ulyanov as the destroyer of rotten walls means to feel the era quite accurately.

The rest of the poems of the 60s, say, “Letter to the 30th Century” by Rozhdestvensky or the poems of most young authors who imitated these, they were, as a rule, categorically unsuccessful. Even Voznesensky’s “Wasps” is a rather uneven thing. But “Bratskaya Hydroelectric Power Station”, with all its roughness, vulgarity and stupidity, retained an important idea - an important belief that a common cause can redeem a personal drama. Therefore, when I re-read this work today, I think: much is destined to return here, when we again try to build something in Russia, and not just exploit what has been built, the fresh and pure pathos of this work can teach us a lot.

Well, next time we’ll talk about the turning point year 1966.

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Evgeniy Yevtushenko
BRATSKAYA HPP
Poem

PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM

A poet in Russia is more than a poet.
Poets are destined to be born in it
only to those in whom the proud spirit of citizenship roams,
to whom there is no comfort, there is no peace.
The poet in her is the image of his century
and the future a ghostly prototype.
The poet fails without falling into timidity,
the result of everything that came before it.
Will I be able to? Culture is missing...
The acquisition of prophecies does not promise...
But the spirit of Russia hovers over me
and orders you to try boldly.
And, quietly kneeling down,
ready for both death and victory,
I humbly ask for your help,
great Russian poets...
Give me, Pushkin, your melodiousness,
his uninhibited speech,
his captivating fate -
as if naughty, with the verb to burn.
Give me, Lermontov, your bilious gaze,
your contempt is poison
and the cell of a closed soul,
where it breathes, hidden in silence,
your sister's unkindness -
lamp of secret goodness.
Let me, Nekrasov, calm down my playfulness,
the pain of your cut muse -
at the front entrances, at the rails
and in the vastness of forests and fields.
Give your inelegance strength.
Give me your painful feat,
to go, dragging all of Russia,
like barge haulers walking along a towline.
Oh, give me, Blok, the prophetic nebula
and two heeling wings,
so that, concealing an eternal riddle,
music flowed through the body.
Give, Pasternak, shift of days,
confusion of branches,
fusion of smells, shadows
with the torment of the century,
so that the word, muttering in the garden,
bloomed and matured
so that your candle will forever
it was burning inside me.
Yesenin, give me tenderness for happiness
to birch trees and meadows, to animals and people
and to everything else on earth,
that you and I love so defenselessly
Give it to me, Mayakovsky
lumpiness,
riot,
bass,
menacing intransigence towards scum,
so that I can too
cutting through time,
talk about him
comrades descendants.

PROLOGUE

I'm over thirty. I'm scared at night.
I hump the sheet with my knees,
I drown my face in the pillow, I cry in shame,
that I wasted my life on trifles,
and in the morning I spend it the same way again.
If only you knew, my critics,
whose kindness is innocently in question,
how affectionate the trashy articles are
compared to my own breakdown,
It would make you feel better if at a late hour
your conscience unfairly torments you.
Going through all my poems,
I see: recklessly squandering,
I've written so much nonsense...
but you won’t burn it: it has scattered around the world.
My rivals
let's discard flattery
and curse deceptive honor.
Let's think about our destinies.
We all have the same one
illness of the soul.
Superficiality is her name.
Superficiality, you are worse than blindness.
You can see, but you don't want to see.
Perhaps you are illiterate?
Or maybe out of fear of tearing out the roots
trees under which I grew,
without putting a single cola on the shift?!
And isn’t that why we’re in such a hurry?
removing the outer layer only half a meter,
that, having forgotten courage, we are afraid of ourselves
the task itself is to understand the essence of the subject?
We are in a hurry... Giving only a half answer,
We carry superficiality like hidden treasures,
not from a cold calculation - no, no! -
but from the instinct of self-preservation.
Then comes the loss of strength
and inability to fly, to fight,
and the feathers of our domestic wings
the scoundrels' pillows are already stuffed...
I was tossing around... Tossed back and forth
me from someone's sobs or moans
then into inflatable uselessness od,
then into the false usefulness of feuilletons.
I rubbed someone with my shoulder all my life,
and it was myself. I'm in ardent passion,
naively stomping, fought with a hairpin,
where it was necessary to use the sword.
My ardor was criminally infantile.
Complete ruthlessness was not enough,
which means full of pity...
I was
as a mean of wax and metal
and thereby ruined his youth.
Let everyone enter life under this vow:
help what needs to bloom,
and take revenge without forgetting about it,
to everything that deserves revenge!
We will not take revenge through fear of revenge.
The very possibility of revenge diminishes,
and self-preservation instinct
does not save us, but kills us.
Superficiality is a killer, not a friend
health pretending to be an illness,
entangled in networks of seduction...
In particular, exchanging the spirit,
We are running away from generalizations.
The globe is losing its strength in the empty space,
leaving generalizations for later.
Or maybe his insecurity
and there is a lack of generalization in human destinies
in the insight of the century, clear and simple?!
...I was traveling around Russia with Galya,
somewhere to the sea in a Moskvich, hurrying
from all the sorrows...
Autumn of Russian distances
the gilded side is all tired,
sheets rustling under the tires,
and the soul rested behind the wheel.
Breathing steppe, birch, pine,
throwing an unimaginable array at me,
at a speed of over seventy, with a whistle,
Russia flowed around our Moskvich.
Russia wanted to say something
and understood something like no one else.
She pressed the Moskvich into her body
and pulled me right into my gut.
And, apparently, with some kind of idea,
hiding its essence until the end,
she told me right after Tula
turn to Yasnaya Polyana.
And here in the estate, breathing decrepit,
we, children of the atomic age, have entered,
hurrying, in nylon raincoats,
and froze, suddenly making a mistake.
And, descendants of truth walkers,
we suddenly felt in that minute
still the same, same knapsacks on the shoulders
and the same broken feet barefoot.
Obeying the silent command,
pierced through the foliage by sunset,
we entered a shady alley
named "Alley of Silence".
And this golden penetration,
without moving away from human misfortunes,
removed the vanity like leprosy,
and, without relieving, exalted the pain.
The pain, rising, became beautiful,
combining peace and passion,
and the spirit seemed to be an omnipotent force,
but a dispassionate question arose in my soul -
and is this power really so omnipotent?
Have you achieved any changes?
all those who receive such honor from us,
whose spirit is broader than our dimensions?
Have you achieved it?
Or is everything going on as before?
Meanwhile, the owner of that estate,
invisible, kept us in sight
and seemed to be around: then slipping
a gray-bearded cloud in a pond,
then you could hear your large gait
in the nebula of smoking hollows,
then part of the face appeared in the rough bark,
cut by gorges of wrinkles.
His eyebrows sprouted shaggy
in the dense weeds in the meadow,
and roots appeared on the paths,
like the veins on his mighty forehead.
And, not dilapidated, - royally ancient,
performing witchcraft with the peak noise,
powerful trees rose around,
like thoughts beyond his grasp.
They rushed into the clouds and depths,
made more and more menacing noise,
and the roots of their peaks grew from the sky,
going deep into the tops of the roots...
Yes, up and down – and only at the same time!
Yes, genius - heightened connection with depth!..
But how many live just as mortally,
fussing in the shadow of great thoughts...
So, in vain did the geniuses burn
in the name of changing people?
And maybe the ideas are outdated -
evidence of the impotence of ideas?
Which year has already passed, which,
and our purity is like drunkenness,
rushes to Natasha Rostova
to false experience - a rake and a liar!
And again and again - to Tolstoy in reproach -
we forget, hiding from passions,
that Vronsky is more callous than Karenin,
in his soft-hearted cowardice.
And Tolstoy himself?
I am shaken by myself,
he is not an example of his impotence, -
helplessly rushing about like Levin,
in a benevolent desire for change?..
The work of geniuses, sometimes themselves
frightens with a doubtful result,
but generalizations of each of them,
like in a battle, centimeter by centimeter.
Three greatest names of Russia
let us be protected from fears.
They gave birth to Russia again
and they will give birth to her again more than once.
When both tongueless and sightless
she wandered through the whips, the batog,
Pushkin appeared simply and transparently,
as her self-awareness.
When she has tired eyes
I was looking for the source of my sorrows, -
as the comprehension of a ripening consciousness,
Tolstoy came, pitifully cruel,
but - hands clasped behind the strap.
Well, when the way out was unclear to her,
and anger ripened irreversibly, -
Lenin escaped from the whirlwind, as a conclusion,
and, to save her, he blew her up!
So I thought confusingly, extensively,
leaving Yasnaya Polyana long ago
and rushing through Russia in a Moskvich
with your beloved, quietly sleeping on your shoulder.
The night deepened, only faintly turning pink
along the edge...
Lights flew head-on.
The accordions were filling up.
Red month
fell drunkenly behind the fence.
Turning somewhere off the highway,
I braked, unfolded the seats,
and we sailed with Galya into dreams
through the delusions of the stars - cheek to cheek...
I dreamed of the world
without the weak and fat,
without dollars, chervonets and pesetas,
where there are no borders, where there are no false governments,
rockets and foul-smelling newspapers.
I dreamed of a world where everything was so pristine
the bird cherry bristles in the dew,
filled with nightingales and blackbirds,
where all peoples are in brotherhood and kinship,
where there is no slander or abuse,
where the air is clean, like on the river in the morning,
where we live, immortal forever,
with Galya,
as we see this dream - cheek to cheek...
But we woke up...
"Moskvich" is our bold
stood in the arable land, poking into the bushes.
I opened the chilled door,
and took my breath away from the beauty.
Above the furious dawn, red, rough,
with a cigarette clenched fiercely in his mouth,
the steel-toothed boy was driving the dump truck,
drove furiously in the fierce wind.
And fiercely, like a fiery nozzle,
over the rabble of arable land, the greenery of meadows
the sun pushed itself out
from the furiously clinging haystacks.
And the trees flew around furiously,
and, galloping furiously, the stream roared,
and the blue, the alley and the ravine,
swayed madly from the rooks.
I wanted to burst in just as furiously,
like into rage, into life, revealing the fury of its wings...
The world was beautiful. I had to fight
so that he can be even more beautiful!
And again I took it in, crouching at the steering wheel,
into my unquenchable eyes
Palaces of culture.
Teahouses.
Barracks.
District committees.
Churches.
And traffic police posts.
Factories.
Huts.
Slogans.
Birches.
Jet crackle in the sky.
Shaking carts.
Jammers.
Overgrown figurines
milkmaids, pioneers, miners.
The eyes of old women, looking iconically.
The arrogance of women.
A mess of kids.
Prostheses.
Oil rigs.
waste heaps,
like the breasts of reclining giantesses.
The men were driving the tractor. They sawed.
They walked to the entrance, then rushing to the machine.
They fell into the mines. We drank beer
placing the salt along the rim.
And the women cooked. Washed.
They patched everything up in no time.
They painted. There were queues.
They hammered the ground. They dragged cement.
It was getting dark again.
The Moskvich was all dewy.
and the night was so full of stars,
and Galya took out our transistor,
placing the antenna out of the window.
The antenna rested on the universe.
The transistor hissed in Galina's hands.
From there,
not ashamed before the stars,
Lies were spreading cheerfully in so many languages!
Oh, globe, don't lie and don't play!
You yourself are suffering - no more lies!
I will gladly give up the afterlife paradise,
so that there is less hell on earth!
The car flopped over potholes.
(Road workers, what are you bastards!)
It seemed like there was chaos all around
but there were “beginnings” and “ends” in it.
There was Russia -
first love
coming...
And in it, forever imperishable,
Pushkin was foaming somewhere again,
Tolstoy thickened, Lenin was born.
And, looking into the starry night, forward,
I thought I was in the saving graces
great insights are associated
and maybe there's just a missing link...
Well, we're alive.
It's our turn.

MONOLOGUE OF THE EGYPTIAN PYRAMID

I -
Egyptian pyramid.
I am entwined with legends.
And scribblers
me
looking at
and museums
me
steal
and scientists are fiddling with magnifying glasses,
timidly picking off the dust with tweezers,
and tourists,
sweating,
crowded,
to appear against the backdrop of immortality.
Why the ancient proverb
fellahs and birds repeat,
what all people are afraid of
time,
and it -
afraid of pyramids!
People, tame the age-old fear!
I'll be kind
I just pray:
steal
steal
steal my memory!
I absorb in the harsh silence
all the explosive power of centuries.
Spaceship
with a roar
I'm having a blast
I
from the sands.
I'm floating on Martian mystery
above the ground,
over the bug people,
just some tourist hanging out,
clinging to me with suspenders.
I see through the nylon-neon:
states are only superficially new.
Everything in the world is terribly not new -
the same ancient Egypt -
Alas!
The same meanness in her ostentation.
The same prisons -
only modern ones.
The same oppression
only more hypocritical.
The same thieves
greedy
gossips,
traders...
Remake them!
Pipes!
Pyramids are not without reason skeptics.
Pyramids -
they are not stupid.
I'll push the clouds apart
and I'll cut through
like a ghost, of them.
Come on, the sphinx called Russia,
show your mysterious face!
I see something familiar again with my own eyes -
only snowdrifts instead of sand.
There are peasants
and there are workers
and scribes -
a lot of scribes.
There are officials
there is also an army.
There are probably
your pharaoh.
I see some kind of banner...
Aloe!
A, -
I've known so many banners!
I see
new buildings are piled up,
I see
the mountains rear up.
I see
working...
Unsurprisingly, they are working hard!
Slaves used to work too...
I hear -
makes a primitive noise
their
taiga called forest.
I see something...
No way, a pyramid!
"Hey, who are you?"
“I am the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station.”
“Oh, I heard:
you are the first in the world
and in terms of power,
and so on.
Listen to me
pyramid.
I'll tell you something.
I, Egyptian pyramid,
As a sister, I will open my soul to you.
I've been washed away by the rains of sand,
but not yet washed away from the blood.
I'm immortal
but in my thoughts there is lack of faith,
and inside everything screams and sobs.
I curse any immortality,
if death -
its foundation!
I remember
like slaves with moans
dragged under whips and sticks,
straining,
hundred-ton block
on the sand
on palm runners.
A block has risen...
But looking for a way out
they were told without any hesitation
dig a hollow for the runners
and lie down in these hollows.
And the slaves lay down in submission
under the runners:
God wanted it that way...
Immediately the block moved along the slipperiness
their crushed bodies.
The priest appeared...
With a dirty grin
looking at the slaves' labors,
a hair that smells like ointment,
he pulled it out of his beard.
He personally whipped
and squealed:
“Redo it, you nits!” -
if suddenly a hair came through
between the blocks of the pyramid.
AND -
obliquely
on the forehead or temple:
“Rest for an hour?
At least a piece of bread?
Eat sand!
Drink some bitch juice!
So - not a hair!
So - not a hair!”
And the overseers ate
got fatter
and whistled their song with the whips.

SONG OF THE OVERVIEWS

We are the overseers
We -
your legs
throne.
When you see us
winces
disgustedly
Pharaoh.
What is he without us?
Without our eyes?
Without our throats?
Without our whips?
Whip -
medicine,
although she is not honey.
The basis of the state -
supervision,
supervision.
A people without edification
I wouldn't be able to work.
The basis of creation -
supervision,
supervision.
And the warriors, limp,
they would run like rabble.
The basis of heroism -
supervision,
supervision.
Dangerous
who are thoughtful.
To all who think -
to the slaughter.
Watching over souls
more important
than above the bodies.
Did you say something?
Are you back for whining?
Do you want freedom?
Isn't she there?
(And they don't sound too cheerful
vote:
"Eat!
Eat!" -
do they have freedom?
maybe they want to eat!)
We -
overseers.
We are humanely rough.
We will not beat you to death,
for your benefit, stupid ones.
Whips
on black
backs
chopping
we inspire:
"Honorable
Job
slave."
What about freedom to dream?
You fools have
freedom -
how much will fit
be silent
What are you thinking about.
We are the overseers.
Us too
sweat in a stream.
Slaves,
you can't us
reproach
not with anything.
We look wary.
We are dogs -
only without muzzles.
But we too
overseers, -
slaves of other overseers.
And over the moaning slaves, -
he is a slave of Amun -
the overseer of all overseers,
our poor pharaoh.

But slaves are not grateful for slavery.
Slaves are unconscious
unconscious.
They don't feel sorry for the overseers,
slaves
they don't feel sorry for Pharaoh
slaves, -
I don't have enough self-pity.
And a groan passes through the rows,
groan of fatigue.

SONG OF THE SLAVES

We are slaves... We are slaves... We are slaves...
Like the earth, our hands are rough.
Our huts are our coffins.
Our backs are as hard as humps.
We are animals. We are for mowing,
threshing, and also towning
pyramids - to exalt in order
pharaohs arrogant foreheads.
You laugh while you're partying
among women, wine, boasting,
Well, the slave - he carries poles
and stones pyramid cubes.
Is there really no strength to fight?
to ever stand on its hind legs?
Is there really nothing in the eyes -
predestination of eternal destiny
repeat: “We are slaves... We are slaves...”?

The pyramid continues:

And then the slaves rebelled
the pharaohs were rewarded for everything,
they were thrown at the feet of the crowds...
What's the point of this?
I,
egyptian pyramid,
I'm telling you,
Bratsk hydroelectric power station:
so many slaves were killed in riots,
but I don’t see any miracles.
They say,
slavery abolished...
I do not agree:
even more powerful
slavery
all class prejudices,
slavery of money,
slavery of things.
Yes,
there are no old-fashioned chains,
but others have chains on people -
chains of deceitful politics,
churches
and paper chains of newspapers.
Here lives a little man.
Let's say a clerk.
He collects stamps.
He has his house in installments.
He has a wife and daughter.
He vilifies his superiors in bed,
Well, in the morning he brings reports
bending, nods:
"Yes..."
He's free,
Bratsk hydroelectric power station!
Don't judge him harshly.
Poor fellow
he is a slave of the family.
Well, here it is
in the presidential chair
different little man,
and if,
Let's assume he's not even a bastard,
what good can he do?
After all, like the throne of Pharaoh,
no innovations
armchair -
in slavery to your own feet.
Well, the legs -
those who support
and when they need it,
hold.
The President is getting bored
what's above it
someone's “must!” soars,
but it's too late to fight:
in their flattery
fists get stuck
as in the test.
The President sniffles exhaustedly:
“Well, to hell with them!
Everything is disgusting..."
Noble passions are extinguished in him...
Who is he?
A slave to his own power.
Think about it,
Bratsk hydroelectric power station,
in how many people -
congestion,
intimidation.
People,
where is your vaunted progress?
People,
People,
how confused you are!
I observe with strict edges
and cracked sphinxes
behind your great construction projects,
for your great disgusting things.
I see:
the human spirit is weak.
In man
it is forbidden
don't believe it.
Human -
slave by nature
Human
will never change.
No,
I flatly refuse
wait for something...
Directly,
open
I say this
Bratsk hydroelectric power station,
I, Egyptian pyramid.

MONOLOGUE OF THE BRATSK HPP

Pyramid,
I am a daughter of Russia,
a land you don't understand.
She was baptized with whips from childhood,
torn to shreds,
burned.
Her soul was trampled, trampled,
delivering blow after blow,
Pechenegs,
Varangians,
Tatars
and theirs -
worse than the Tatars.
And the ravens' feathers shone,
reality grew above the bones,
and there was a belief in the world
about her great patience.
Russia's patience is glorified.
It has grown to the point of heroism.
She was kneaded with blood like clay,
well, she endured it, and that’s all.
And a barge hauler, with a shoulder rubbed by a strap,
and the plowman who fell in the steppe,
she whispered with maternal affection
the eternal: “Be patient, son, be patient...”
I can understand how for so many years Russia
endured hunger and cold,
and cruel wars, inhuman torment,
and the burden of backbreaking labor,
and parasites, deceitful to the limit,
and various deceptive lies,
but I can’t comprehend how I endured
Is she her own patience?!
There is a weak, pathetic patience.
There is a complete downtroddenness of nature in him,
there is slavish obedience and dullness in him...
Russia is not like that at all.
Her patience is the courage of a prophet,
who is wisely patient.
She endured everything...
But only until the deadline,
like a mine.
And then
happened
explosion!

P r e v a l a p i r a m i d a:

I'm against
all sorts of explosions...
I've seen enough!
Stab,
they chop down
But is it of much use?
Only blood is shed in vain!

Bratskaya HPP continues:

In vain?
I call to mind the past,
repeating to myself again
prophetic lines:
"...The matter is solid,
when the blood flows underneath.”
And over the taps,
overpasses,
pyramid,
to you through the midge
I lift with an excavator bucket
in the taverns and boyars of Moscow.
Look at this:
in the bucket over the teeth
gold
domes stick out.
What happened there?
What's frowning
did the bells ring?

Evgeniy Yevtushenko

PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM

MONOLOGUE OF THE EGYPTIAN PYRAMID

SONG OF THE OVERVIEWS

SONG OF THE SLAVES

MONOLOGUE OF THE BRATSK HPP

EXECUTION OF STENYKA RAZIN

DECEMBRISTS

PETRASHEVTSY

CHERNYSHEVSKY

FAIR IN SIMBIRSK

WALKERS GO TO LENIN

ABC OF REVOLUTION

CONCRETE OF SOCIALISM

COMMUNARS WILL NOT BE SLAVES

GHOSTS IN TAIGA

FIRST ECHELON

BOLSHEVIK

LIGHT MANAGER

DON'T DIE, IVAN STEPANYCH

SHADOWS OF OUR LOVED ONES

MAYAKOVSKY

ALUMNI BALL

IN A MINUTE OF WEAKNESS

NIGHT OF POETRY

Evgeniy Yevtushenko

BRATSKAYA HPP

Poem

PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM

A poet in Russia is more than a poet.

Poets are destined to be born in it

only to those in whom the proud spirit of citizenship roams,

to whom there is no comfort, there is no peace.

The poet in it is the image of his century

and the future a ghostly prototype.

The poet fails without falling into timidity,

the result of everything that came before it.

Will I be able to? Culture is missing...

The acquisition of prophecies does not promise...

But the spirit of Russia hovers over me

and orders you to try boldly.

And, quietly kneeling down,

ready for both death and victory,

I humbly ask for your help,

great Russian poets...

Give me, Pushkin, your melodiousness,

his uninhibited speech,

his captivating fate -

as if naughty, with the verb to burn.

Give me, Lermontov, your bilious gaze,

your contempt is poison

and the cell of a closed soul,

where it breathes, hidden in silence,

your sister's unkindness -

lamp of secret goodness.

Let me, Nekrasov, calm down my playfulness,

the pain of your cut muse -

at the front entrances, at the rails

and in the vastness of forests and fields.

Give your inelegance strength.

Give me your painful feat,

to go, dragging all of Russia,

like barge haulers walking along a towline.

Oh, give me, Blok, the prophetic nebula

and two heeling wings,

so that, concealing an eternal riddle,

music flowed through the body.

Give, Pasternak, shift of days,

confusion of branches,

fusion of smells, shadows

with the torment of the century,

so that the word, muttering in the garden,

bloomed and matured

so that your candle will forever

it was burning inside me.

Yesenin, give me tenderness for happiness

to birch trees and meadows, to animals and people

and to everything else on earth,

that you and I love so defenselessly

Give it to me, Mayakovsky

lumpiness,

menacing intransigence towards scum,

so that I can too

cutting through time,

talk about him

comrades descendants.

PROLOGUE

I'm over thirty. I'm scared at night.

I hump the sheet with my knees,

I drown my face in the pillow, I cry in shame,

that I wasted my life on trifles,

and in the morning I spend it the same way again.

If only you knew, my critics,

whose kindness is innocently in question,

how affectionate the trashy articles are

compared to my own breakdown,

It would make you feel better if at a late hour

your conscience unfairly torments you.

Going through all my poems,

I see: recklessly squandering,

I've written so much nonsense...

but you won’t burn it: it has scattered around the world.

My rivals

let's discard flattery

and curse deceptive honor.

Let's think about our destinies.

We all have the same one

illness of the soul.

Superficiality is her name.

Superficiality, you are worse than blindness.

You can see, but you don't want to see.

Perhaps you are illiterate?

Or maybe out of fear of tearing out the roots

trees under which I grew,

without putting a single cola on the shift?!

And isn’t that why we’re in such a hurry?

removing the outer layer only half a meter,

that, having forgotten courage, we are afraid of ourselves

the task itself is to understand the essence of the subject?

We are in a hurry... Giving only a half answer,

We carry superficiality like hidden treasures,

not from a cold calculation - no, no! -

but from the instinct of self-preservation.

Then comes the loss of strength

and inability to fly, to fight,

and the feathers of our domestic wings

the scoundrels' pillows are already stuffed...

I was tossing around... Tossed back and forth

me from someone's sobs or moans

then into inflatable uselessness od,

then into the false usefulness of feuilletons.

I rubbed someone with my shoulder all my life,

and it was myself. I'm in ardent passion,

naively stomping, fought with a hairpin,

where it was necessary to use the sword.

My ardor was criminally infantile.

Complete ruthlessness was not enough,

which means full of pity...

as a mean of wax and metal

and thereby ruined his youth.

Let everyone enter life under this vow:

help what needs to bloom,

and take revenge without forgetting about it,

to everything that deserves revenge!

We will not take revenge through fear of revenge.

The very possibility of revenge diminishes,

and self-preservation instinct

does not save us, but kills us.

Superficiality is a killer, not a friend,

health pretending to be an illness,

entangled in networks of seduction...

In particular, exchanging the spirit,

We are running away from generalizations.

The globe is losing its strength in the empty space,

leaving generalizations for later.

Or maybe his insecurity

and there is a lack of generalization in human destinies

in the insight of the century, clear and simple?!

I was traveling around Russia with Galya,

somewhere to the sea in a Moskvich, hurrying

from all the sorrows...

Autumn of Russian distances

the gilded side is all tired,

sheets rustling under the tires,

and the soul rested behind the wheel.

Breathing steppe, birch, pine,

throwing an unimaginable array at me,

at a speed of over seventy, with a whistle,

Russia flowed around our Moskvich.

Russia wanted to say something

and understood something like no one else.

She pressed the Moskvich into her body

and pulled me right into my gut.

And, apparently, with some kind of idea,

hiding its essence until the end,

she told me right after Tula

turn to Yasnaya Polyana.

And here in the estate, breathing decrepit,

we, children of the atomic age, have entered,

hurrying, in nylon pants...

Give, Pushkin, your melodiousness and your ability, as if in a shawl, to burn with a verb. Give me, Lermontov, your bilious gaze. Give, Nekrasov, the pain of your mutilated muse, give strength to your inelegance. Give me, Blok, your prophetic nebula. Let me, Pasternak, let your candle burn in me forever. Yesenin, give me tenderness for happiness. Give, Mayakovsky, menacing intransigence, so that I, cutting through time, can tell my fellow descendants about it.

Prologue

I'm over thirty. At night I cry because I wasted my life on little things. We all have one disease of the soul - superficiality. We give half answers to everything, but our strength fades...

Together with Galya, we drove across Russia to the sea in the fall and after Tula we turned to Yasnaya Polyana. There we realized that genius is the connection between height and depth. Three brilliant men gave birth to Russia again and will give birth to it more than once again: Pushkin, Tolstoy and Lenin.

We drove again, spent the night in the car, and I thought that in the chain of great insights, perhaps only a link was missing. Well, it's our turn.

Monologue of the Egyptian pyramid

I beg you: people, steal my memory! I see that everything in the world is not new, everything exactly repeats Ancient Egypt. The same meanness, the same prisons, the same oppression, the same thieves, gossips, traders...

And what kind of face does the new sphinx called Russia have? I see peasants, workers, and there are scribes - there are a lot of them. Is this really a pyramid?

I, the pyramid, will tell you something. I saw slaves: they worked, then rebelled, then they were humbled... What's the point of this? Slavery has not been abolished: slavery of prejudice, of money, of things still exists. There is no progress. Man is a slave by nature and will never change.

Monologue of the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station

Russia's patience is the courage of a prophet. She endured - and then exploded. Here I am lifting Moscow to you with the bucket of an excavator. Look - something happened there.

Execution of Stenka Razin

All the inhabitants of the city - the thief, the tsar, the noblewoman and her boyar, the merchant, and the buffoons - rush to the execution of Stenka Razin. Stenka rides on a cart and thinks that he wanted good for the people, but something let him down, maybe illiteracy?

The executioner raises an ax as blue as the Volga, and Stenka sees in his blade how FACES are sprouting from the faceless crowd. His head rolls, croaking “Not in vain...” and laughs at the king.

Bratsk HPP continues

Now, pyramid, I'll show you something else.

Decembrists

They were still boys, but the ringing of spurs did not drown out someone’s moans for them. And the boys angrily fumbled for their swords. The essence of a patriot is to rebel in the name of freedom.

Petrashevtsy

The Semyonovsky parade ground smells like Senate Square: Petrashevites are being executed. Hoods are pulled over the eyes. But one of those executed sees the whole of Russia through the hood: how Rogozhin is rampaging through it, Myshkin is rushing about, Alyosha Karamazov is wandering. But the executioners see nothing of the kind.

Chernyshevsky

Fair in Simbirsk

Russia is not a drunken woman, she was not born for slavery, and she will not be trampled into the dirt.

Bratsk hydroelectric power station turns to the pyramid

The pyramid answers that Lenin is an idealist. Only cynicism does not deceive. People are slaves. It's elementary.

But the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station replies that it will show another alphabet - the alphabet of revolution. Here is teacher Elkina at the front in 1919, teaching Red Army soldiers how to read and write. So the orphan Sonya, having escaped from Zybkov’s fist, comes to Magnitogorsk and becomes a red digger. She has a patched padded jacket, tattered supports, but together with her beloved Petka they put

Concrete of socialism

The Bratsk hydroelectric power station roars over eternity: “Communists will never be slaves!” And, thinking, the Egyptian pyramid disappears.

First echelon

Ah, the Trans-Siberian highway! Do you remember how cars with bars flew at you? There were a lot of scary things, but don’t worry about it. Now there is an inscription on the carriages: “The Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station is coming!” A girl is coming from Sretenka: in the first year her pigtails will freeze to the folding bed, but she will stand, like everyone else.

The Bratsk hydroelectric power station will come up, and Alyosha Marchuk will answer questions about it in New York.

Frying

Nyushka

I am a concrete worker, Nyushka Burtova. I was raised and educated by the village of Great Mud, because I was left an orphan, then I was a housekeeper, worked as a dishwasher. Those around me lied and stole, but while working in the dining car, I recognized the real Russia... Finally, I ended up working on the construction of the Bratsk hydroelectric power station. She became a concrete worker and gained social influence. Fell in love with one proud Muscovite. When a new life awoke in me, that Muscovite did not recognize paternity. The unfinished dam prevented me from committing suicide. My son Trofim was born and became a construction worker’s son, just as I was a village daughter. He and I were together at the opening of the dam. So let the grandchildren remember that they got the light from Ilyich and a little from me.

Bratskaya hydroelectric station author. Encyclopedia of Literary Works

Evgeniy Aleksandrovich Evtushenko b. 1933

Evgeniy Yevtushenko
BRATSKAYA HPP
Poem

PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM

PROLOGUE

MONOLOGUE OF THE EGYPTIAN PYRAMID

SONG OF THE OVERVIEWS

SONG OF THE SLAVES

MONOLOGUE OF THE BRATSK HPP

Prologue

Monologue of the Egyptian pyramid

Monologue of the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station

Execution of Stenka Razin

Decembrists

Petrashevtsy

Chernyshevsky

Fair in Simbirsk

Concrete of socialism

First echelon

Frying

Nyushka

Bolshevik

Shadows of our loved ones

Mayakovsky

Poetry Night

Bratskaya hydroelectric station author. Encyclopedia of Literary Works

Evgeniy Aleksandrovich Evtushenko b. 1933

Evgeniy Yevtushenko BRATSKAYA HPP Poem

PRAYER BEFORE THE POEM

PROLOGUE

MONOLOGUE OF THE EGYPTIAN PYRAMID

SONG OF THE OVERVIEWS

SONG OF THE SLAVES

MONOLOGUE OF THE BRATSK HPP

Prologue

Monologue of the Egyptian pyramid

Monologue of the Bratsk Hydroelectric Power Station

Execution of Stenka Razin

Decembrists

Petrashevtsy

Chernyshevsky

Fair in Simbirsk

Concrete of socialism

First echelon

Frying

Nyushka

Bolshevik

Shadows of our loved ones

Mayakovsky

Poetry Night

Evgeniy Yevtushenko
BRATSKAYA HPP
Poem