Yakov Kogan dies

Yakov Kogan has died. He was one of those poets, or, if you prefer, bards, whose names, whether you like it or not, cannot be discarded from either the history of the singing art, nor from Russian poetry, nor from people's memories. Yakov Kogan has died, an unusually tough, closed, prickly, sharp and at the same time impossibly kind, vulnerable, naive, sincere and open person. In general, this is the way a real poet should be.

I first heard his name in the late 1970s, when as a boy I began to run around the editorial corridors with my verses. He was then 26 years old, he already had a reputation as an all-union scale poet, but at the same time, by this time he had quarreled with all the literary masters in Baku, Moscow, and in the capitals of half of the union republics, and because of this they would flatly refuse to publish him in magazines and newspapers.

These masters loved to crack jokes behind his back, carefully going over the flaws of some of his verses. It took me some time to understand, first, the fact that they remembered so many of his poems by heart, which means that this is real poetry, "clear poetry." And, secondly, it was not only about the nature of the quarrelsome Yashin, but about an elementary envy – all these people knew that they would never write that way.

And it was, again, not only about the  power of Kogan’s poetic talent – many of his detractors had the gift with no less force. But they did not have the main thing – his sincerity, his exposed nerves, and that was the essence of true poetry.

Yes, he was not published, but by this time his songs were already sung almost everywhere, in every youth company and at any of his concerts there was no place not only to sit, but sometimes to stand.

According to legend, Yakov Kogan wrote his first song when he was 14 years old. Then there was the participation in the same legendary Baku KVN team headed by Yuli Gusman, studying engineering at Azineftikhime and MEI, work at the Baku Youth Theatre, where he was not only an actor but also a songwriter for many productions, which – thanks largely to these songs – immediately became an event in the cultural life of Baku, and not only Baku.

The explanation is very simple: for whatever play he wrote any of these songs, of whatever age they were about, he wrote them about himself, expressing his own attitude, his credo, his epoch and, at the same time, responding to those who tried to discredit him and his poetry behind his back. That is why, for example, to listen breathlessly to his 'Minstrel', the scenery and the props of the play 'Robin Hood' are not necessary:

I do not hurry, do not kill,
Do not pull off the wall.
I am a minstrel. And, therefore,
Spawn of Satan.
Philistines are talking
My relatives are yelling.
The priest crosses secretly,
When seeing  me ...
... From morning to night, from night to day
I am caring poems.
And you, being deaf, no matter what you are putting on 
Remain deaf.
And you're blind, completely blind,
Though wearing  glasses -
And all are gaping emptiness
Bottomless pupils.
... .I am your enemy. But the time will come —
Despising solid earth,
I will ascend for the last time,
And it will be — death.
But I know: there is no death
For the one who is pure of heart,
And for someone to break out the light
Poetry saint.
Will break someone — in any day
Among all the land,
My vocation to be myself.
And the name of — Minstrel!

Many poems and songs of Kogan are inextricably linked to Baku – the city where he lived most of his life and which he loved to unconsciousness. For example, only a Baku citizen who hurried up at dawn in the morning to work or school can truly appreciate the poetic precision and beauty of lines like these:

The winds blew from the south side,
Their touch disturbing.
Their heat frosted the skin,
Their heat frosted the skin
And the door begin to ache to the convulsions.
Shadows sneak quietly along the wall,
Noise of the night sky lantern bullied.
The winds blew from the south side,
And it means — tomorrow came…

Not to forget a song written in precisely those days when the streets of Baku suddenly began to clear up the tram tracks:

When the trams no longer exist,
Replace them painlessly,
Not thinking about the change,
And peace be transferred.
But in a weary silence,
Blowing the air with ozone 
On wires shedding stars
He approaches me ...
Spilling his soft voice,
He to me sounds reveille.
Listen, my friend, wait, stay
The window on the pavement ...
And the finale is quite shrill:
... But I forgot — that's bad luck!
You run in circles always.
In a hard way — always!
And the frost creeps:
How like the trams we are!
We are more easily replaced ...

There was some higher psychological precision in his poems and that was causing many of them to try on-line at the following:

Who says "Men do not cry!" — it is not wise.
I still, God's sake, know better.
But no tears flow outward, but inward,
And this is much more painful.

Later, I met Kogan personally, and the first night we met, we were up all night, walking in Baku, reading poetry to each other and occasionally sipping wine from a bottle of 'Chinar'. Even then, I found out an  important thing about him: lanky and lean, he not only externally but also internally, like as his other famous poet namesake, was out at the corners and throw from one edge to another. Friends – this is what it means to be friends – hate - so hate to do something - so to the last cell of the body. But the important thing is that if I did not understand, and felt - there was not a grain of falsehood. And because there was not a grain of falsehood in his poems either, most of which are of the purest native poetic gold that can be. His poems and songs are reminiscent of the highest ideas about love, friendship, self-sacrifice, which is almost, especially in youth secretly aspire, but to which, unfortunately, very few people can get close. Perhaps that is why they caused such a response in Baku, Moscow, Kiev, Novosibirsk - in short, wherever Kogan  spoke. And because of this he had every right to say:

Once upon a time was my soul
And many it warmed.
And had nothing -
Such a thing.
She wanted to do everything.
It burned.
She wanted to sing.
And, by the way - singing.
... I was a little bit of
From ancestors voiced
She wanted to be a soul,
And not a little soul ...

And somehow after that immediately come to mind, poems, which I think will resonate with everyone:

Oh, my life — in a notebook lineup:
All white, only the letters lined up together.
I have not seen a penny of life —
And for the life of already pay need!
What to do — it is necessary to turn out his pockets.
Can small coins ring on the floor?
Pay for everything and get out of the fog.
That far-fetched, beautiful coquette ?!
I am sure - you will be all right!
Ah, nothing stands nerves and calm ...
And my destiny is written in the notebook
Something that is not very sorrowful that ...

There are many, very many great Kogan’s songs, which  will remain in the memory of many people, and I want to believe, not only of his generation. I'm talking about songs like "so you're wondering how Giles, as was ...", "Armand," "Song of Songs", "Dream of seven", "Marionette Theater" and others.

By the end of the 1980s, Jacob Kogan was twice a winner of Grushinskiy festival of art song, owner of numerous other awards, by and large, a living classic, and the master of the genre.

Repatriation to Israel was for him, as for many of us a painful and a natural step at a time. Painful - because, as it has  been said, he was associated with Baku thousands inseparable strands. Of course - as always acutely aware of their Jewishness, but rather, just the way it feels Jews living away from Israel. Not by chance he sometimes called himself "Eternal Jew", and eventually wrote a song about it:

An early dawn.
Forgot what day
I had a strange wanderer
Like me.
The same he was skinny,
And yellow as a lemon,
And the weakness of power
He dragged quietly.
... But tell legs
And dusty rags:
He is a citizen of the road,
He is her servant.
And he does not beg for mercy 
It is in any home.
In secret he carries himself,
Known only to him ...

His attitude towards Israel, of course, was ambiguous, and it was felt in his poetry. He then confessed in love for it, then splashed resentment for what many of his hopes have not been fulfilled. But in Israel, he released his first collection of poetry "Sky - above" , which is considered a rarity, and I think he appreciated it.

Today, many lines from this book are seen as a testament:

I wish you Godspeed!
My friends, my hope, faith.
No regrets open doors -
I wish you Godspeed!
I watered with water from a handful of
In moments of darkness, weakness and thirst,
And I was happy with you more than once -
I wish you Godspeed! ..

And I have no choice, as had been attributed by Kogan his lines to death of Karumidze:

I just do not understand when I said
And I do not understand now.
What do we stand with you at the station,
And the train leaves in an hour?
Do not let the Lord know you are leaving!
I have a bag full of them.
But I had not noticed in the past few years,
To train left on time ...

Everything is really that way. And I really want to talk and write about it all in a different way. But I remember how sharply Yasha reacted when someone ignored his personal opinion or request. And in that long, written more than thirty years ago, the song request was clear:

Rejoice, wanderers,
How purse ringing,
The fate of the crooked fingers
Put it on me.
Will flow sounds of hell,
Closed eyes.
Please do not ...
No, I said!

Okay, Yasha I will not continue. I would not want to hurt you for everything that is written here. After all, you if you are offended, then we will never manage to be friends again ...