I received a call from a literary friend
late some evening in the ‘70s –
I forget the year and the day – to tell me
Yevtushenko would be reading his poems,
the following evening, in Lecture Room 35
at Liverpool Polytechnic.
It was confidential. If they knew,
Zionists would protest
on behalf of the refuseniks.
I thought of his ‘Babi Yar’ –
‘I see myself an ancient Israelite…
And that is why I call myself a Russian!’
Either way, I took no action.