string torn off by a bullet,
Didn't sound all the way.
Like a dress crumpled on a chair
Like two withered flowers.
And in those fatal moments,
Nobody thought about themselves.
And the lines of letters are beaten right through,
He will remember you.
And again grief lump in the throat.
Who burned my hope.
I pray to the Almighty for how long
But how to hear in silence?
Host: A military thunderstorm has shed its drops of tears and blood for a long time. For a long time already in the fields where hot battles took place, wheat is earing. But the people keep in memory the names of the heroes of the past war. The Great Patriotic War ... Our lesson is dedicated to those who fearlessly stepped into the glow of war, into the roar of cannonade, stepped and did not return, leaving a bright mark on the earth - their poems.
Presenter (Reads A. Ekimtsev's poem "Poets"):
Somewhere under the radiant obelisk,
From Moscow to distant lands,
The guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky sleeps,
Wrapped up in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cold birch,
What flickers in the lunar distance,
Sleeping Guardsman Nikolai Otrada
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July warms,
Sleeps without waking Pavel Kogan
It's been almost six decades now.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
And so it remained for centuries
The latest grenade
The very last line.
Poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
They should get up at dawn tomorrow,
To belated first books
Write prefaces in blood!
Host: Before the Great Patriotic War in the USSR there were 2186 writers and poets, 944 people went to the front, 417 did not return from the war.
Presenter: 48 poets died on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. The oldest of them - Samuil Rosin - was 49 years old, the youngest - Vsevolod Bagritsky, Leonid Rozenberg and Boris Smolensky - barely turned 20. As if foreseeing his own fate and the fate of many of his peers, eighteen-year-old Boris Smolensky wrote:
I'll be here all evening
Choking on tobacco smoke
Tormented by thoughts of some people
Died very young
Which at dawn or at night
Unexpectedly and ineptly
They died without writing uneven lines,
not liking,
without telling
didn't finish...
A year before the war, characterizing his generation, Nikolai Mayorov wrote about the same:
We were tall, fair-haired,
The melody "Holy War" sounds (music by A. Aleksandrov), two "poets" appear on the stage and read the lines.
Georgy Suvorov: We will not grieve in memories,
And for people.
Nikolai Mayorov: We know all the statutes by heart.
What is death to us? We are even higher than death.
In the graves we lined up in a detachment
And we are waiting for a new order. Let it go
Don't think the dead can't hear
When their descendants talk about them.
"Poets" sit down on extreme chairs.
Presenter: The poems of Joseph Utkin are imbued with deep lyricism. The poet during the Great Patriotic War was a war correspondent. Iosif Utkin died in a plane crash in 1944 while returning to Moscow from the front.
Joseph Utkin appears.
Iosif Utkin (reads the poem "Midnight on the street ..."):
It's midnight outside.
The candle burns out.
High stars are visible.
You are writing a letter to me my dear
To the blazing address of war.
How long have you been writing it dear
Finish and start again.
But I'm sure: to the front line
Such love will break through!
... We have been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
You can't see the war behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like at home - and in the smoke of war!
Warmer at the front from affectionate letters.
Reading, behind every line
You see your favorite
And you hear the Motherland
Like a voice behind a thin wall...
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And the time will come:
Sadness and separation will remain at the door.
And only joy will enter the house.
He lights a candle on the table and sits down on a chair.
Host: By the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Boris Bogatkov, who grew up in a family of teachers, was not yet 19 years old. From the very beginning of the war, he was in the army, was seriously shell-shocked and demobilized. The young patriot seeks to return to the army, and he is enrolled in the Siberian Volunteer Division. The commander of a platoon of submachine gunners, he writes poetry, creates the anthem of the division. Having raised soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for the Gnezdilovsky height (in the Smolensk-Yelnya region). Posthumously awarded the order Patriotic War I degree.
Boris Bogatkov appears on the stage.
Boris Bogatkov (reads the poem "Finally!"):
A new suitcase half a meter long,
Mug, spoon, knife, bowler...
I have all this in advance
To be on time as scheduled.
How I waited for her! Finally
Here it is, desired, in the hands! .. ...
Flew, noisy childhood
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth in girl's hands
hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
Flashed on the fronts now.
Youth to fight for everything dear
Led the guys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To my grown-up peers.
The "poet" lights a candle on the table and sits down on a chair. Sounds the melody of the song" Dark night"(music by N. Bogoslovsky, lyrics by V. Agatov).
Host: In the summer of 1936, in one of the Moscow houses on Leningradsky Prospekt, a song was sounded that has been the anthem of romantics for more than 60 years.
Pavel Kogan with a guitar and Mikhail Kulchitsky appear, sit on chairs. Pavel Kogan sings "Brigantine", Mikhail Kulchitsky sings along with him.
Presenter: Pavel Kogan, a future student of the Gorky Literary Institute, was the author of these lines. And in September 1942, the unit where Lieutenant Kogan served fought near Novorossiysk. On September 23, Pavel received an order: at the head of a group of scouts, get to the station and blow up the enemy's gas tanks ... A fascist bullet hit him in the chest. The poetry of Pavel Kogan is imbued with a deep love for the Motherland, pride in his generation and anxious forebodings of a military storm.
Pavel Kogan (reads an excerpt from the poem "Lyrical digression"):
We were all.
But, suffering
We understood that today
We have met such a fate
Let them envy.
They will invent us wise,
We will be strict and direct
They embellish and powder
And yet we'll get through!
But, to the people of the United Motherland,
They hardly understand
What a routine sometimes
Led us to live and die.
And let me seem narrow to them
And I will offend their omnipotence,
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air
I love the Russian land
I believe that nowhere in the world
Can't find another one like it
To smell like this at dawn,
So that the smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find
Birches, as in my land!
I would die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut paradise.
But we will still reach the Ganges,
But we will still die in battles,
So that from Japan to England
My Motherland shone.
Lights his candle.
Presenter: Under the walls of Stalingrad in January 1943, a talented poet, a student of the Literary Institute, a friend of Pavel Kogan, Mikhail Kulchitsky, died.
Mikhail Kulchitsky (reads the poem "Dreamer, dreamer, envious lazy person! .."):
Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the riders whistle past
Sabers spinning with propellers.
I used to think: lieutenant
Sounds like "pour us"
And, knowing the topography,
He stomps on the gravel.
War is not fireworks at all,
It's just hard work
When - black with sweat - up
The infantry glides through the plowing.
March!
And clay in the stomping stomp
To the marrow of the bones of frozen legs
Wraps up on chebots
The weight of bread in a monthly ration.
On fighters and buttons like
Scales of heavy orders,
Not for the order.
There would be a motherland
With daily Borodino.
Lights a candle, sits next to Pavel Kogan.
Presenter: History student and poet Nikolai Mayorov, political instructor of a machine-gun company, was killed in a battle near Smolensk on February 8, 1942. A friend of Nikolai Mayorov's student years, Daniil Danin, recalled him: "He did not recognize poetry without a flying poetic thought, but he was sure that it was precisely for a reliable flight that she needed heavy wings and a strong chest. So he himself tried to write his poems - earthly, strong fit for long distance flights.
Nikolai Mayorov (reads the poem "There is a sound of metal in my voice"):
There is a sound of metal in my voice.
I entered life heavy and direct.
Not everyone will die. Not everything will be included in the catalog.
But only let under my name
A descendant will distinguish in archival trash
A piece of hot, faithful land to us,
Where we've gone with charred mouths
And courage, like a banner, carried.
We were tall, fair-haired.
You will read in books like a myth,
About the people who left without loving,
Without finishing the last cigarette.
Lights a candle. The melody "At the Nameless Height" sounds (music by V. Basner, lyrics by M. Matusovsky).
Presenter: Lieutenant Vladimir Chugunov commanded a rifle company at the front. He died on the Kursk Bulge, raising fighters to attack. Friends wrote on a wooden obelisk: "Here is buried Vladimir Chugunov - a warrior - a poet - a citizen who fell on July 5, 1943."
Vladimir Chugunov appears and reads the poem "Before the attack".
Vladimir Chugunov:
If I'm on the battlefield,
Letting out a death groan
I will fall in the sunset fire
Shot down by an enemy bullet
If a raven, as if in a song,
The circle will close for me, -
I want my peer
He stepped forward over the corpse.
Lights a candle.
Presenter: A participant in the battles to break the blockade of Leningrad, the commander of a platoon of anti-tank rifles, Guard Lieutenant Georgy Suvorov was a talented poet. He died on February 13, 1944 while crossing the Narova River. The day before his heroic death, 25-year-old Georgy Suvorov wrote the purest in feeling and highly tragic lines.
Georgy Suvorov appears on the stage and reads the poem "Even in the mornings, black smoke swirls ...".
Georgy Suvorov:
Even in the morning black smoke swirls
Above your ruined dwelling.
And the charred bird falls
Overtaken by furious fire.
We still dream of white nights,
Like messengers of lost love
Living mountains of blue acacias
And in them enthusiastic nightingales.
Another war. But we firmly believe
What will be the day - we will drink the pain to the bottom.
The wide world will open the doors to us again,
Silence will rise with the new dawn.
Last enemy. Last good shot.
And the first glimpse of the morning, like glass.
My dear friend, but still, how quickly
How quickly our time has passed.
In memories we will not grieve,
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness, -
We lived our good age as people -
And for people.
Lights a candle. The melody of the song "We need one victory" sounds (music and lyrics by B. Okudzhava).
Host: 24-year-old senior sergeant Grigor Akopyan, tank commander, died in 1944 in the battles for the liberation of the Ukrainian city of Shpola. He was awarded two Orders of Glory, Orders of the Patriotic War I degree and the Red Star, two medals "For Courage". He was posthumously awarded the title of " Honorable Sir the city of Shpola".
Grigor Hakobyan appears on the stage.
Grigor Hakobyan (reads the poem "Mom, I'll be back from the war..."):
Mom, I'll be back from the war,
We, dear, will meet with you,
I will snuggle up in the middle of peaceful silence,
Like a child, against your cheek.
I will cling to your gentle hands
Hot, rough lips.
I will dispel sadness in your soul
Kind words and deeds.
Trust me, mom - he will come, our hour,
We will win the war holy and right.
And the world saved will give us
And an unfading crown, and glory!
Lights a candle. The melody of the song "Buchenwald alarm" sounds (music by V. Muradeli, lyrics by A. Sobolev).
Presenter: The poems of the famous Tatar poet, who died in the Nazi dungeon, Musa Jalil, who was posthumously awarded the title of Hero, are world famous Soviet Union.
Host: In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, the seriously wounded Musa Jalil fell into the hands of the enemy. In the poem "Forgive me, Motherland!" he wrote bitterly:
Forgive me, your private,
The smallest part of you.
I'm sorry that I didn't die
The death of a soldier in this battle.
Presenter: Neither terrible torture, nor the threatening danger of death could silence the poet, break the unbending character of this man. He threw angry words in the face of enemies. His songs were his only weapon in this unequal struggle, and they sounded like a guilty verdict on the stranglers of freedom, they sounded like faith in the victory of their people.
Musa Jalil appears.
Musa Jalil (reads the poem "To the Executioner"):
I will not bow my knees, executioner, before you,
Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison.
My hour will come - I will die. But know that I will die standing,
Although you will cut off my head, villain.
Alas, not a thousand, but only a hundred in battle
I could destroy such executioners.
For this, when I return, I will ask for forgiveness,
I bowed my knees, near my homeland.
It stands silently.
Host: Musa Jalil spent two years in the dungeons of the "stone bag" of Moabit. But the poet did not give up. He wrote poems full of burning hatred for enemies and ardent love for the Motherland. He always considered the word of the poet a weapon of struggle, a weapon of victory. And he always sang with inspiration, in a full voice, from the bottom of his heart. All your life path Musa Jalil dreamed of passing with songs "nourishing the earth", with songs similar to the sonorous songs of a spring, with songs from which blossom " human souls gardens". Love for the Motherland sounds like a song in the heart of the poet.
Musa Jalil (reads an excerpt from the poem "My Songs"):
Heart with the last breath of life
Fulfill your firm oath:
I always dedicated songs to my homeland,
Now I give my life to my fatherland.
I sang, smelling the spring freshness,
I sang, joining the battle for my homeland.
Here is the last song I write,
Seeing the executioner's ax above him.
The song taught me freedom
The song of a fighter tells me to die.
My life rang the song among the people,
My death will sound like a song of struggle.
He lights his candle and sits down on a chair.
Presenter: Jalil's philanthropic poetry is an accusation against fascism, its barbarity and inhumanity. 67 poems were written by the poet after he was sentenced to death. But all of them are devoted to life, in every word, in every line the living heart of the poet beats.
Musa Jalil (reads the poem "If life passes without a trace ..."):
If life passes without a trace
In baseness, in captivity, what an honor!
Only in the freedom of life is beauty!
Only in a brave heart is eternity!
If your blood was shed for the Motherland,
You will not die among the people, dzhigit,
The blood of a traitor flows into the dirt,
The blood of the brave burns in the hearts.
Dying, the hero will not die -
Courage will last forever.
Glorify your name with struggle,
So that it does not fall silent on the lips!
Presenter: After the Victory, the Belgian Andre Timmermans, a former prisoner of Moabit, handed over to Musa Jalil's homeland small, no larger than a palm, notebooks. On the leaves, like poppy seeds, letters that cannot be read without a magnifying glass.
Presenter: "Moabite Notebooks" is the most amazing literary monument of our era. For them, the poet Musa Jalil was posthumously awarded the Lenin Prize.
Host: Let there be a moment of silence. Eternal glory to the dead poets!
A moment of silence.
Presenter: They did not return from the battlefield... Young, strong, cheerful... Dissimilar to each other in particular, they were similar to each other in general. They dreamed of creative work, of hot and pure love, of a bright life on earth. The most honest of the most honest, they were the bravest of the bravest. They did not hesitate to join the fight against fascism. This is what is written about them:
They left, your peers,
Teeth without clenching, fate without cursing.
And the path was not to be short:
From the first battle to the eternal flame...
The song "Red Poppies" sounds (music by Y. Antonov, lyrics by G. Pozhenyan). While the song is playing, the "poets" stand up one by one, approach the table, each extinguish their own candle and leave the stage.
Leading: May there be silence in the world,
But the dead are on the line.
The war is not over
For those who fell in battle.
The dead, they remained to live; invisible, they are in the ranks. The poets are silent, the lines torn off by a bullet speak for them... Poems continue to live, love and fight for them today. "May these people always be close to you, like friends, like relatives, like yourself!" Julius Fucik said. I would like you to refer these words to all the dead poets, whose poems helped you learn something new, helped you discover the beautiful and bright, helped you look at the world with different eyes. The dead poets, like tens of thousands of their peers, who did so little in life and did so immeasurably much, giving their lives for their Motherland, will always be the conscience of all of us living.
People!
As long as hearts are beating
Remember!
At what cost
happiness won,
Please,
remember!
The melody of the song "Cranes" sounds (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov). The students leave the room to the music.
Back forward
Attention! The slide preview is for informational purposes only and may not represent the full extent of the presentation. If you are interested this work please download the full version.
Equipment: portraits of poets and their names; presentation.
The song "Cranes" sounds (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov) (Slide 1)
Leading: The military storm has been raging for a long time. For a long time already in the fields, where hot battles took place, thick rye is earing. But the people keep in memory the names of the heroes of the past war. The Great Patriotic War ... Our story is about those who fearlessly and proudly stepped into the glow of war, into the roar of cannonade, stepped and did not return, leaving a bright mark on the earth - their poems.
Reader ( reads A. Ekimtsev's poem "Poets") (Slide 2)
Somewhere under the radiant obelisk,
From Moscow to distant lands,
The guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky sleeps,
Wrapped up in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cold birch,
What flickers in the lunar distance,
Sleeping Guardsman Nikolai Otrada
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July warms,
Sleeps without waking Pavel Kogan
It's been almost six decades now.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
And so it remained for centuries
The latest grenade
The very last line.
Poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
They should get up at dawn tomorrow,
To belated first books
Write prefaces in blood!
Leading: Before the Great Patriotic War, there were 2186 writers and poets in the Soviet Union, 944 people went to the front, 417 did not return from the war. 48 poets died at the fronts. The oldest of them - Samuil Rosin - was 49 years old, the youngest - Vsevolod Bagritsky, Boris Smolensky - was barely 20. As if foreseeing his own fate and the fate of many of his peers, eighteen-year-old Boris Smolensky wrote (Slide 3):
Reader:
I'll be here all evening
Choking on tobacco smoke
Tormented by thoughts and some people,
Died very young
Which at dawn or at night
Unexpectedly and ineptly
They died without writing uneven lines,
Not dolyiv, not telling, not finishing ...
Leading: By the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Boris Bogatkov, who had grown up in a teacher's family, was not even 19 years old. (Slide 4). From the very beginning of the war, he was in the army, was seriously shell-shocked and demobilized. The young patriot seeks to return to the army, and he is enrolled in the Siberian Volunteer Division. The commander of a platoon of submachine gunners, he writes poetry, creates the anthem of the division. Having raised soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovsky heights (in the Smolensk-Yelnya region). He was posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st class.
Reader(reads a poem by B. Bogatkov “Finally”)
A new suitcase half a meter long,
Mug, spoon, knife, pot...
I have all this in advance
To be on time as scheduled.
How I waited for her! Finally
Here it is, desired, in the hands!
... Flew, noisy childhood
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth in girl's hands
hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
Flashed on the fronts now.
Youth to fight for everything dear
Led the guys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To my grown-up peers.
The reader lights a candle on the table and sits down on a chair.
Leading: The verses of Iosif Utkin are imbued with deep lyricism. The poet during the war years was a war correspondent. Iosif Utkin died in a plane crash in 1944 while returning to Moscow from the front.
Reader (reads a poem by I. Utkin “Midnight on the street... "(Slide 5)
It's midnight outside. The candle burns out.
High stars are visible.
You are writing a letter to me my dear
To the blazing address of war.
How long have you been writing it dear
Finish and start again.
But I'm sure: to the front line
Such love will break through!
... We have been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
You can't see the war behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like at home - and in the smoke of war!
Warmer at the front from affectionate letters.
Reading, behind every line
You see your beloved and hear your homeland,
Like a voice behind a thin wall...
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And the time will come:
Sadness and separation will remain at the door.
And only joy will enter the house.
The reader lights a candle and puts it on the table.
Leading: Under the walls of Stalingrad in January 1943, a talented poet, a student of a literary institute, Mikhail Kulchitsky, died. (Slide 6)
Reader(reads a poem by M. Kulchitsky "Dreamer, dreamer. Lazy-envy!")
Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the riders whistle past
Sabers spinning with propellers.
War is not fireworks at all,
Just hard work
When - black with sweat - up
The infantry glides through the plowing.
On fighters and buttons like
Scales of heavy orders,
Not for the order
There would be a motherland
With daily Borodino.
The reader lights a candle and sits down on a chair.
Leading: History student and poet Nikolai Mayorov, political instructor of a machine-gun company, was killed in action near Smolensk on February 8, 1942. A student friend of Nikolai Mayorov, Daniil Danin, recalled him: “He did not recognize poetry without a flying poetic thought, but he was sure that it was for a reliable flight that she needed heavy wings and a strong chest. So he himself tried to write his poems - earthly, durable.
The reader reads a poem by N. Mayorov “There is in my voice sound of metal"
There is a sound of metal in my voice,
I entered life heavy and direct.
Not everyone will die. Not everything will go into the catalog.
But only let under my name
A descendant will distinguish in archival trash
A piece of hot, faithful land to us.
Where we've gone with charred mouths
And courage, like a banner, carried.
We were tall, fair-haired.
You will read in books like a myth,
About the people who left without loving,
Without finishing the last cigarette.
The reader lights a candle.
Leading: World-famous are the poems of the famous Tatar poet, who died in the Nazi dungeon, Mussa Jalil, who was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, the seriously wounded Mussa Jalil fell into the hands of the enemy. In the poem "Forgive me, Motherland!" he wrote bitterly (Slide 8):
Forgive me, your private,
The smallest part of you.
I'm sorry that I didn't die
The death of a soldier in this battle.
Neither terrible torture, nor the threatening danger of death could silence the poet, break the unbending character of this man. He threw angry words in the face of enemies. His songs were the only weapon in this unequal struggle, and they sounded like a guilty verdict on the stranglers of freedom, sounded like faith in the victory of their people.
Reader (reads M. Jalil's poem "The Executioner")
I will not bow my knees, executioner, before you,
Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison.
When my time comes, I will die. But know that I will die standing,
Although you will cut off my head, villain.
Alas, not a thousand, but only a hundred in battle
I could destroy such executioners.
For this, when I return, I will ask for forgiveness,
On my knees, at my homeland.
Leading: Mussa Jalil spent two years in the dungeons of Moabit. But the poet did not give up. He wrote poems full of burning hatred for enemies and ardent love for the motherland. After the Victory, the Belgian Andre Timmermans, a former prisoner of Moabit, handed over to Moussa Jalil's homeland small, no larger than a palm, notebooks. There were letters on the leaves that could not be read without a magnifying glass.
Reader (reads a poem by M. Jalil “If life passes without a trace ...”)
If life passes without a trace
In baseness, in captivity, what an honor!
Only in the freedom of life is beauty!
Only in a brave heart is eternity!
If your blood was shed for the Motherland,
You will not die among the people, dzhigit,
The blood of a traitor flows into the dirt,
The blood of the brave burns in the hearts.
Dying, the hero will not die -
Courage will last forever.
Glorify your name with struggle,
So that it does not fall silent on the lips.
Leading: They didn't come back from the battle... Young, strong, lively... Unlike each other in particular, they were similar to each other in general. They dreamed of creative work, of hot and pure love, of a bright life on earth. They did not hesitate to join the fight against fascism. This is what is written about them:
They left, your peers,
Teeth without clenching, fate without cursing.
And the path was not to be short:
From the first battle to the eternal flame...
The song “At a Nameless Height” sounds (music by V. Basner, lyrics by M. Matusovsky) (Slide 9 ). While the song is playing, the readers take turns approaching the table, each extinguishing their candle and leaving..
Leading: The dead, they remained to live; invisible, they are in the ranks. The poets are silent, the lines torn off by a bullet speak for them... Poems continue to live, love and fight for them today.
May there be silence in the world
But the dead are on the line.
The war is not over
For those who fell in battle.
Literature:
- Holy war ... - M., 1966.
- Skolotneva L.E. Holidays at school. - St. Petersburg. Publishing House "Litera", 2002.
- Scenarios school holidays: advice, suggestions, recommendations. Vitebsk. 1994.
Competition methodological developments to the 70th anniversary of Victory in the Great Patriotic War
Scenario-summary of the class hour
"A string broken by a bullet"
Completed by: teacher of Russian language and literature MBOU secondary school No. 2
Klochkova T.V.
With. Alexandrov - Guy
2015
"A line broken by a bullet."
Age:
6th grade students
Targets and goals:
Introduce students to poets of the 40s; tell about their fate and creativity, about the significance of poetry during the Great Patriotic War;
To develop interest in the historical past of our country through the study of the poetry of the war years; build skills expressive reading.
To instill in students a sense of patriotism and civic duty, respect for the memory of the defenders of the Fatherland; to instill in students an interest in literature, music, art;
Equipment: exhibition of books and collections of poems by poets about the Great Patriotic War; multimedia presentation, computer, screen, media projector.
Characters: leaders, readers,
Event progress.
Video "Front-line poets"
Lead 1. The military storm has been raging for a long time. For a long time already in the fields, where hot battles took place, thick rye is earing. But the people keep in memory the names of the heroes of the past war.
Host 2: Our story today is about those who fearlessly and proudly stepped into the glow of war, into the roar of cannonade, stepped and did not return, leaving a bright mark on the earth - their poems. Our meeting is dedicated to the memory of front-line poets and their work and is called: “A line torn off by a bullet”
Reader 1. A. Ekimtsev "Poets"
Wrapped up in a gray overcoat.
What flickers in the lunar distance,
Sleeping Guardsman Nikolai Otrada
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July warms,
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
And so it remained for centuries
The latest grenade
The very last line.
Write prefaces in blood!
Presenter2: Frontline poets. And how many of them are very young ... They have not yet had time to declare themselves, but it cannot be said that no one knew them. They were known by classmates and classmates. They left school, student dormitories in June 1941, but not everyone is destined to return in May 1945.
(B. Okudzhava’s song “Ah, war, what have you done mean?” Sounds)
Presenter 1: . Lieutenant Pavel Kogan, a poet, was killed near Novorossiysk.
From the beginning of the war, despite the exemption from conscription for health reasons, he went to military translator courses and died leading a reconnaissance group.
Host 2: In 1942, he wrote: “It was only here at the front that I realized what a dazzling, what a charming thing life is. You understand this very well next to death… I believe in history, I believe in our strength… I know that we will win!”
1 reader excerpt from Pavel Kogan's poem "From an unfinished chapter"
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air
I love the Russian land
I believe that nowhere in the world
Can't find another one like it
What a smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find
Birches, as in my land!
In any coconut paradise.
Presenter 1: Paul lived poetry. In this word, he concluded his whole life, his attitude to the fate of the generation. The anthem of youth and students for many years was the song written by Pavel Kogan and his friend Georgy Lepsky - "Brigantine".
Host 2: The brigantine flies through the free and stormy seas of youthful imagination, and it seems that it is Pavel himself - "the captain of the unbuilt brigs, the chieftain of the uncreated freemen" - who is behind her helm.
Performance of a song to the words of P. Kogan "Brigantine"
"Brigantine"
Tired of talking and arguing
And love tired eyes...
The brigantine raises the sails...
Raise your glass to say goodbye
Golden tart wine.
For the despised penny comfort.
Flint's people sing a song.
In the filibuster far blue sea
The brigantine raises the sails...
Presenter 1: By the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Boris Bogatkov, who had grown up in a teacher's family, was not even 19 years old. From the very beginning of the war, he was in the army, was seriously shell-shocked and demobilized. The young patriot seeks to return to the army, and he is enrolled in the Siberian Volunteer Division.
Host 2: The commander of a platoon of submachine gunners, he writes poetry, creates the anthem of the division. Having raised soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovsky heights (in the Smolensk-Yelnya region). He was posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st class.
Reader
I have all this in advance
How I waited for her! Finally
Here it is, desired, in the hands!
... Flew, noisy childhood
Youth in girl's hands
hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
Flashed on the fronts now.
Led the guys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
Presenter 1: Iosif Utkin volunteered for the front in 1941. He was a military correspondent for a front-line newspaper. After being seriously wounded, he returned to the newspaper. In 1944, Utkin's last collection, About the Motherland. About friendship. About love".
Host 2: The poet died in a plane crash, returning from Western Front to Moscow. His poems about love warmed the hearts, chilled by the cold wind of trench life, did not let them become stale and empty.
Reader Iosif Utkin “Midnight outside. The candle is burning down.”
High stars are visible.
To the blazing address of war.
You can't see the war behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like at home - and in the smoke of war!
And the time will come too
And some evening with you,
Pressing against the shoulder,
Presenter 1: Under the walls of Stalingrad in January 1943, a talented poet, a student of a literary institute, Mikhail Kulchitsky, died..
Host 2: He liked to say about himself: “I am the happiest in the world!”
Reader : Mikhail Kulchitsky "Dreamer, dreamer. Lazy envious!"
War is not fireworks at all,
Just hard work
When - black with sweat - up
The infantry glides through the plowing.
On fighters and buttons like
Scales of heavy orders,
Not for the order
There would be a motherland
With daily Borodino.
Presenter 1: History student and poet Nikolai Mayorov, political instructor of a machine-gun company, was killed in action near Smolensk on February 8, 1942.
Host 2: Before the war, he was a student at the Faculty of History of Moscow State University, at the same time he attended a poetry seminar at the Literary Institute. Several of his poems appeared in the student newspaper Moscow University. Classmates and teachers of the poet testify that immediately before the war, Mayorov was considered one of the greatest lyrical talents. Presenter 1: In the summer of 1941, Nikolai, along with other Moscow students, digs anti-tank ditches near Yelnya. In October, his request for enlistment in the army was granted.
Host 2: He died without finishing the poem he started before the battle, without waiting for the book of his lyrics, without graduating from the university.
We were tall, fair-haired.
Presenter 1: Musa Jalil is a Tatar poet. On the first day of the war, he volunteered for the ranks of the army in the field. In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, he was seriously wounded and taken prisoner. In the concentration camp, he conducted active underground work, for which he was thrown into the fascist dungeon - the Moabit prison. In 1944 he was executed by Moabite executioners.
Host 2: Mussa Jalil spent two years in the dungeons of Moabit. But the poet did not give up. He wrote poems full of burning hatred for enemies and ardent love for the motherland. After the Victory, the Belgian Andre Timmermans, a former prisoner of Moabit, handed over to Moussa Jalil's homeland small, no larger than a palm, notebooks. There were letters on the leaves that could not be read without a magnifying glass.
Reader: M. Jalil "If life passes without a trace ..."
Only in the freedom of life is beauty!
Dying, the hero will not die -
Courage will last forever.
Glorify your name with struggle,
Presenter 1: Names... Names... Names... All young, talented, greedy for life, devoted to the motherland and poetry. After all, no matter the surname, no matter the line, it is a young, war-torn life. They fell, they are gone, but they live in poetry collections, their feelings and thoughts have found a voice...
Host 2: Let's remember with our silence
All those who remained in these meadows,
Along a small river with a beautiful name,
Grass sprouting in its banks.
Let's remember them! With sadness and love.
And we'll all shut up...
Presenter 1: And yet, the poet cannot die!
And the people who give birth to poets will not die!
The mind will rise to warm,
Evil and hatred in the blood will disappear.
And if you have to sacrifice yourself
To die is spiritually, from love!
Song "Cranes"
Bibliography:
1. Immortality. Poems of Soviet poets who died on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War, 1941-1945. Moscow, "Progress", 1978.
2. Kogan Pavel. Kulchitsky Mikhail. Mayorov Nikolay. Joy Nicholas. Through time.// V.A. Schweitzer. M., Soviet writer, 1964. - 216 p.
3. Savina E. Musa Jalil. Red chamomile. Kazan. Tatar book. Publishing house. 1981,
545 p.
4. Soviet poets who fell in the Great Patriotic War: Academic project, 2005. - 576 p.
Internet resources:
Application.
Reader1: A. Ekimtsev "Poets"
Somewhere under the radiant obelisk,
From Moscow to distant lands,
The guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky sleeps,
Wrapped up in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cold birch,
What flickers in the lunar distance,
Sleeping Guardsman Nikolai Otrada
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July warms,
Sleeps without waking Pavel Kogan
It's been almost six decades now.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
And so it remained for centuries
The latest grenade
The very last line.
Poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
They should get up at dawn tomorrow,
To belated first books
Write prefaces in blood!
Reader 2 : an excerpt from Pavel Kogan's poem "From an unfinished chapter"
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air
I love the Russian land
I believe that nowhere in the world
Can't find another one like it
To smell like this at dawn,
What a smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find
Birches, as in my land!
I would die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut paradise.
Reader 3 : Boris Bogatkov "Finally"
A new suitcase half a meter long,
Mug, spoon, knife, pot...
I have all this in advance
To be on time as scheduled.
How I waited for her! Finally
Here it is, desired, in the hands!
... Flew, noisy childhood
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth in girl's hands
hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
Flashed on the fronts now.
Youth to fight for everything dear
Led the guys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To my grown-up peers.
Reader 4: Iosif Utkin “Midnight on the street. Candle burns out."
It's midnight outside. The candle burns out.
High stars are visible.
You are writing a letter to me my dear
To the blazing address of war.
We've been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
You can't see the war behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like at home - and in the smoke of war!
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And the time will come too
Sadness and separation will remain outside the door,
And only joy will enter the house.
And one evening with you,
Pressing against the shoulder,
We will sit down and letters, like a chronicle of battle,
As a chronicle of feelings, let's reread ...
Reader 5: Mikhail Kulchitsky "Dreamer, dreamer. Lazy envious!"
Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the riders whistle past
Sabers spinning with propellers.
War is not fireworks at all,
Just hard work
When - black with sweat - up
The infantry glides through the plowing.
On fighters and buttons like
Scales of heavy orders,
Not for the order
There would be a motherland
With daily Borodino.
There is a sound of metal in my voice.
I entered life heavy and direct.
Not everyone will die. Not everything will be included in the catalog.
But only let under my name
A descendant will distinguish in archival trash
A piece of hot, faithful land to us,
Where we went with charred mouths
And courage, like a banner, carried.
We were tall, fair-haired.
You will read in books like a myth,
About the people who left without loving,
Without finishing the last cigarette.
Reader 7: M. Jalil "If life passes without a trace ..."
If life passes without a trace
In baseness, in captivity, what an honor!
Only in the freedom of life is beauty!
Only in a brave heart is eternity!
If your blood was shed for the Motherland,
You will not die among the people, dzhigit,
The blood of a traitor flows into the dirt,
The blood of the brave burns in the hearts.
Dying, the hero will not die -
Courage will last forever.
Glorify your name with struggle,
So that it does not fall silent on the lips.
"Brigantine"
Tired of talking and arguing
And love tired eyes...
In the filibuster far blue sea
The brigantine raises the sails...
Captain, weathered like rocks,
Went out to sea without waiting for the day...
Raise your glass to say goodbye
Golden tart wine.
We drink for the furious, for the recalcitrant,
For the despised penny comfort.
The jolly roger winds in the wind,
Flint's people sing a song.
In trouble, and in joy, and in sorrow
Just close your eyes a little.
In the filibuster far blue sea
The brigantine raises the sails...
Memorial of Glory
The human stream is flowing ... On the battlefield,
Frozen, Mother stands in mournful silence,
Listening in sensitive mornings
At night, without ceasing to wait:
The sons from hell are about to return.
Four long years without news!
To wait - and the highest award -
Their return from the war fields.
Years passed, the soldiers did not return ...
Only the heart does not want to understand
And the mother hopes that not all of them fell asleep -
She is ready to wait all her life!
... A stream of people flows on the battlefield -
Both old and young remained here to lie,
The forest covered them, blocking them with a wall,
The holy army fell asleep in eternal sleep.
The hearts of heroes are beating, ours echo.
She hears a clear and unified sound,
Unheard of for centuries in all history,
Hearts alarming irrepressible knock.
Oaks rustle calmly, proudly
And they sing to the fallen in silence -
Soldiers, partisans and commanders,
Telling the past to me.
The trees whisper, as if bequeathing,
Save forever in human memory
Those names who proudly dying,
Here he found peace forever.
And the mother looks with sad eyes,
And the pain is eternal, and the guard is eternal! -
It's like talking to us
And with those who stepped into immortality!
... I come here in blooming May,
Bringing you flowers with love.
Among thousands of stars I recognize your star -
You carry it in the granite of glory...
Memory
And the heart cherishes the memory,
Love does not cool down over the years ...
It remembers everything! Memory does not say
Forever say goodbye to fallen friends.
Tears cannot measure all the losses,
The scars on the heart will not be erased by time.
Tirelessly everyone is looking for them now
Years lost in thunderstorms, in the grip of the blockade.
The dream of meeting in the heart is hidden,
Finds only those who believe in happiness.
Let this song call like a lighthouse
Giving hope, measuring the pain of separation.
Not forget
I don't want the war to rage again
A heavy and terrible burden fell on our shoulders.
Like a black storm she rushed in
Many destinies of people on earth are crippled.
Do not forget us all the bitterness of the terrible years -
There is nothing in the world stronger than human suffering,
How the land lost its best sons,
And expectation aged mother untimely ...
Yes! They expect more sons
What kind of homeland fell on the paths of the military ...
What could be more sacred than the tears of mothers?!.
Memory, memory, remain faithful to them forever!
Hope
(Grandmother N.P. Kozhinova)
And she walked, barely touching the ground,
Weightless gait - so easy
There was a fragile barefoot figure,
And the silence around the piercing call.
And suddenly stumbled on the edge of a fork -
In the distance, the forest turns black,
Fritz breathes heavily into the back of her head,
And keeps the machine at the ready ...
... Deaf dead end. Sheds sheltered
A shot rang out far around:
The gaze of the monster pierced her with a needle -
Suddenly she darted like a wounded bird.
And slowly settling along the wall,
She shook her head quietly, quietly.
Nothing escaped the executioner,
Like a woman, suddenly turning gray,
She opened her wonderful eyes,
Looking up at the heavens with proud eyes,
And he was suddenly afraid of this force,
And the depths of heaven in her eyes.
* * *
White stone - an obelisk ...
On the edge of the forest
As if holding hands
Maples for each other.
Someone with a good hand
The line marked the line;
"Here the soldier found peace"
Only the wind whispers a song.
Sailboat of memory
(To pilot Shestakov, village of Stary Saltov)
Like a sailboat in a vast ocean,
With thunder and wind tirelessly arguing,
Floats, floats in the centuries that island-memory
On the sea plowed by an angry storm.
And the past is sacred... So close:
Traces in the plowing - here is the battlefield.
Do not smooth them to the ground - they lead to the hero,
Attracts a beacon-star over an obelisk.
When the seedlings turn green in spring,
Blossoms, the dawn of a scarlet flame,
Spreading the tent, an apple tree above it,
Mourning the fiery years.
The grass is rustling, and bursting into song,
Dewy birds chirp in the morning...
Thanks for the future peer -
And the memory of the past will not be forgotten.
* * *
(to the poet Pavel Reznikov)
A man looks slyly from a portrait,
A kind smile in the squint of the eyes,
Welcoming everyone who enters, so welcoming,
From the threshold, as a living one meets us.
And neatly stacked awards,
On the shelf where the stacks of his books are.
A bouquet of gentle forget-me-nots nearby,
Blue to mourning.
You walked, soldier, on steep roads
Through the flames of battles, difficult battles smoke.
Whether swamps or forests are deaf -
He was relentless and invincible.
I congratulate the warrior soldier
With a victory song through the verge of years,
Who once stood in the forty-third,
And he brought us all the echoes of victories.
Today, in this hour of victory, sonorous,
We remember our comrades...
And the voice trembled, like an ice floe edge -
Again you look for their faces among the living.
* * *
(frontline writers)
Lines torn off by a bullet -
Burning trail of life
Strict memory returned
The roar of hard victories.
The song, frozen in mid-word,
In the battles of the harsh spring,
Suddenly resurrected the heroes
Fallen on the paths of war.
These sacred lines
Gunpowder and blood on the sheets
Eternal will be in the world -
Proud to sound them for centuries!
There are no obelisks in the sea
There are no obelisks in the sea, but I'm going to the pier,
I bow low to the sea, remembering the nice guys.
Wake up my memory: storms of thunder and flames
Ship banner and landing squad.
Machine-gun line, my memory rumbles
And again, a menacing war enters my memory.
Machine guns do not rattle, but soldiers fell here,
And the sea jackets were carried deep into the wave.
Only the winds moan here, thunderstorms will drop downpours,
And the old cliff remembers how the water boiled.
And in the momentary calm, the cries of seagulls are not heard.
The surface of the sea is motionless - there is no trace left.
There are no obelisks in the sea ... Obelisks are mountains
Vessels are greeted in the white foamy expanse.
Where forever remained those with whom we fraternized,
Save, promising brotherhood then forever!
And the dawn, blazing, as if reddened with blood
Those who do not spare life, chest to death stood.
And at the old moorings the oath sounded again
Those who fought with menacing lava in these parts
Independence Square
Native square, how I love you,
You shine brightly in the glow of lights.
I walk on the cobblestones with pride,
Everything shines with you in my soul.
... Here the enemy passed, insidious and arrogant,
And the crusader tanks crawled through.
They crushed everything that is so sacred to us,
It seemed that they could erase life.
... Gosprom is on fire. And bubbling far away
Not silent, echo - deafen us
Volley guns. And a dashing gunner
Weathered does not take his eyes off the target.
…As if I feel the melting of metal
And the weight of all-ramming armor -
But you did not moan under their heel,
You endured all the hardships of war:
And gallows gnawed knitting needles,
Bloody ashes on your land
Severe unsubdued faces -
And the appearance of terrible days is resurrected.
... The enemy was expelled. You healed the wounds
Squares were erected at the place of execution.
And, waking up early with the country,
Washed with dew, blossomed again.
Fragrant lindens are beautifully framed,
Their branches seem to reach for the dawn,
And bright bouquets of worship
We carry, believing in happiness on earth.
Yes, you live, proud and majestic,
And you are grateful for your fate.
And, as always, multiply the glory a hundredfold,
And my heart smiles at you.
You, square, meet your sons -
We won! Bowing to you
Let's sing our sacred, majestic anthem,
Fireworks of the stars in the sky are thundering!
Ballad of Mary
(Dedicated to the dead
in Kharkov)
Mary has been gone for a long time
She was killed at dawn
I managed to scream with pain only: "Farewell!" -
The scream drowned out the shepherd's angry barking.
There were many, doomed women,
Around - a convoy of enemy pincers,
Shouting and crying through the city went,
They could not believe in their hour of death,
Confusedly approached a huge pit,
Which they recently dug themselves,
Bullets lashed at them from all sides,
A terrible female moan shook the neighborhood.
And the sky burned the future flame,
And the sky blazed like a banner,
Calling for a formidable, right fight,
To cover up all the innocent.
... Nothing will cover that day with oblivion,
And the cry of Mary has been with me for many years,
I can't forget that bloody dawn
The pain of the heart does not subside for so many years ...
Maria looks at me from the portrait,
The whole world saved for her is responsible.
And photographs faded color -
A reminder of those bitter years.
Do not smooth over the bitterness of memory for years,
The past does not fade before my eyes,
No, we will never forget the fallen:
We people must be vigilant.
/To soldiers - liberators of Kharkov/
SIP of water
(August twenty-third)
We rushed to Kharkov and drove the Germans,
And the roar was heard outside the village;
The enemy carts hastily retreated,
The shells exploded heavily.
By dawn, everything calmed down gradually ...
Only an enemy soldier hesitated
One moment could save him.
Eyes filled with blood, do not look.
Jumping into the yard, he drove the girl out into the field,
To show him how to get away.
But suddenly jumped to the side like a cat -
And I didn't have time to say anything.
Above it, as in a fairy tale, the horses prancing.
Bent over, smiling, to her fighter.
Confused answering: “The name is Galya,”
And she repeated: “Where is our father?”
The villagers welcomed
Native liberators of their:
Served boiled potatoes
Us, long-awaited, faithful, dear.
Exhausted, tired to the point of pain,
Dreamed of a break to rest:
I wanted only one unbearable -
Just take a sip of water.
And how did the girl and her brother manage?
Arrow to the well and quickly back,
Among the soldiers, like birds, they flew again,
The children's eyes shone with the sun.
In soaked salty tunics,
From the sweat that turned white on the shoulders,
With lips parched bucket
We drank in one gulp. And in the rays
Summer rang, the morning broke out,
And it was good at that moment,
What for a second even seemed
As if eternal peace reigned.
And we all called: “Girl, some water!” -
After all, I so wanted to drink that moisture,
That by noon the spring that saved us
They managed to devastate everything.
The water was cold, with sand -
Krinichnaya water of the native land,
But everyone got a sip
And with renewed vigor, they went further into battle.
Victory Avenue
Named our avenue
The bright name is loudly "Victory" -
In it love and recognition delight.
Washed away by the storm
Unprecedented rampage escapes
Illuminate the prospect space.
They overwhelmed
A wave of chestnut trees
Majestically running distance.
And now, as then,
The victory was crowned in the spring,
But there is sadness in my heart.
We are again today
Let's remember all the friends of our youth,
Those that were found in the roar of battle ...
Reclaimed world
Fills us with great happiness -
And ringing in the bright sky of the earth!
On Poklonnaya Hill
The sacred alarm sounds, hearts beat louder
Swearing an oath of struggle to the world.
The blessed memory of the fallen are faithful to the end,
We bow our heads low.
On Poklonnaya Hill we swore forever
Protect the world from fire tirelessly.
Our pain and all the anger weaved together -
Friendship has become a reliable force.
And at the mass grave of unknown soldiers
The torch of unity shines.
Multiplying the union of all the banners a hundred times,
We entrust the victory monument.
Like a crown of triumph, proudly splashes over him,
A majestic crimson banner.
And the eyewitness story to his descendants
He will resurrect everyone, and again they are with us.
FROM highest point Poklonnaya mountain we can see
Triumphal arch of the capital.
And the anxiety of the peoples for happiness is heard -
Let's not let the war break out again!
The whole planet - a huge and sunny house
We will build beautiful and kind.
They will surely dream for us later,
And they will understand how expensive the world is!
(On the Shaumyan pass) /
The sword flew up to the sky proudly,
Illuminating the sky with the brilliance of steel, -
The monument is severe silent,
Monument to the heroes of the pass.
He stood as an eternal guard over the grave,
Aiming at the blue sky
A monument to our proud strength
And a reminder of the fight.
He straightened his hilt like his shoulders.
Like a hero, he is straight and slender.
Here, among the mountains, he will stand forever,
Sword smashing, Nart sword of heroes.
... And the flowers lie at the pedestal -
The gift of the living to the irretrievably dead...
Glory to you who fell on the pass,
Glory to our heroic rati!
Reviews
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Place of work, position: - MOU » SOSH with. Brykovka, Dukhovnitsky district Saratov region» teacher of Russian language and literature
Region: — Saratov region
Characteristics of the lesson (class) Level of education: - secondary (complete) general education
Target audience: – Teacher (teacher)
Class(es): – Grade 11
Subject(s): — Literature
The purpose of the lesson: - to introduce students to the poets of the 40s; tell about their fate and creativity, about the significance of poetry during the Great Patriotic War; -to develop interest in the historical past of our country through the study of the poetry of the war years; develop expressive reading skills. - to instill in students a sense of patriotism and civic duty, respect for the memory of the defenders of the Fatherland; to instill in students an interest in literature, music, art;
Lesson type: - Combined lesson
Equipment used: -
:exhibition of books and collections of poems by poets about the Great Patriotic War; multimedia presentation, computer, screen, media projector.
Short description: - The 11th grade program allocates a minimum number of lessons for a review study of the topic “Literature of the period of the Great Patriotic War”. The teacher faces a difficult task: to briefly describe the literature of this period in such a way as to arouse interest in the history of the country, to preserve the memory of the events of the war period that changed the course of history. The form extracurricular activities"Literary Lounge" provides an opportunity to meet with young poets of the Great Patriotic War, to talk about the exploits of poets, about poetry, scorched by the war; to acquaint and keep in memory the events of the war time.
Explanatory note.
The Great Patriotic War was a huge tragedy and a great feat of all our people. War with Nazi Germany started unexpectedly and ruthlessly. Despite the fact that, it would seem, there is no time for art in the war, without it, a person could not live either at the front or in the rear, and poetry was the most popular genre.
Military lyrics reflect both civil and personal motives. Poets wrote about the horrors of war, about soldiers and home front workers, about partisans, women and children, wrote about the Motherland and about themselves, sang the courage and great feat of our people in the name of the Motherland, freedom and peace.
The 11th grade program allocates a minimum number of lessons for an overview study of the topic “Literature of the period of the Great Patriotic War”. The teacher faces a difficult task: to briefly describe the literature of this period in such a way as to arouse interest in the history of the country, to preserve the memory of the events of the war period that changed the course of history. The form of the extra-curricular event "Literary Lounge" provides an opportunity to meet with young poets of the Great Patriotic War, talk about the exploits of poets, about poetry, scorched by the war; to acquaint and keep in memory the events of the war time.
Extracurricular activity:
Literary drawing room "A line torn off by a bullet".
11th grade students.
Targets and goals:
Introduce students to poets of the 40s; tell about their fate and creativity, about the significance of poetry during the Great Patriotic War;
To develop interest in the historical past of our country through the study of the poetry of the war years; develop expressive reading skills.
To instill in students a sense of patriotism and civic duty, respect for the memory of the defenders of the Fatherland; to instill in students an interest in literature, music, art;
Equipment: exhibition of books and collections of poems by poets about the Great Patriotic War; multimedia presentation, computer, screen, media projector.
Characters: presenters, readers, storytellers.
Event progress.
1 host. A long time ago there was a war,
Long ago she passed
For those who lived, she was once...
The Great Patriotic War.
2 led. We invite you to the literary living room (1 slide) "A line torn off by a bullet", where you will meet poets of the 40s who fell on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. “The Killed Generation,” Vasil Bykov called them. It suffered the greatest losses in the war.
2 slide. (Sounds "Pre-war waltz"). Against the background of the song:
1 led. June… The sunset was fading into the evening.
And the sea overflowed during the white night,
And the sonorous laughter of the guys was heard,
Not knowing, not knowing grief.
Early June 1941. The country lived a peaceful life: a peaceful sky, happy faces are still alive ...
2 led. June ... Then we did not know yet,
Walking from school evenings
That tomorrow will be the first day of the war,
And it will end only in the forty-fifth, in May.
3 slide. (The song "Holy War" sounds.) Against the background of the song:
1 led. Everything breathed such silence,
That the whole Earth was still asleep, it seemed.
Who knew that between peace and war
Only five minutes left!
Peaceful life was interrupted in one of the most long days in a year. This day began not with a quiet dewy dawn, but with the roar of bombs, the whistle of bullets and the grinding of steel.
4 slide. (Video "Invasion")
2 led. Motorcycles are rushing with desperate firing, thousands of gray tanks with crosses on board are rushing. Planes bombard cities, trenches, villages, roads. Blood, death...
5 slide. (Declaration of war)
6 slide. 1 led. On this day, the writers of Moscow gathered as if on alert for a rally.
7 slide. 2 led. Alexander Fadeev said: “The writers of the Soviet country know their place in this decisive battle. Many of us will fight with weapons in our hands, many will fight with a pen.”
8 slide. 1 led. From the appeal of the writers of Siberia on June 24, 1941: “In our country, the pen is equated to a piece. We directed its edge against the enemy, glorifying our sacred land. And if necessary, our lives will be given in the battle for the Motherland.
9 slide. 2 led. Poetry put on a front-line overcoat and stepped into battle.
War and poetry. It would seem that there are no more contradictory concepts. But contrary to the old saying: "When the guns speak, the muses are silent",
(10 slide) during the years of trials, the muses were not silent, they fought, they became a weapon that smashed enemies. The word in the war cost lives and sounded more weighty than ever.
1 led. But how little we know about the people who fought against the Nazis and fell in the struggle for the freedom and independence of our Motherland. Do we know, do we remember the poets whose talent was killed by the fascist bullet?
11 slide. 2 led. Frontline poets. And how many of them are very young ... They have not yet had time to declare themselves, but it cannot be said that no one knew them. They were known by classmates and classmates. They left school, student dormitories in June 1941, but not everyone is destined to return in May 1945.
(B. Okudzhava’s song “Ah, war, what have you done mean?” Sounds)
12 slide.1 narrator. Lieutenant Pavel Kogan, a poet, was killed near Novorossiysk.
"... The 4th year student Pavel Davidovich Kogan is on vacation until he returns from the Red Army." Calculate on vacation...
1. Since the beginning of the war, despite the exemption from conscription for health reasons, he went to military translator courses and died leading a reconnaissance group.
2. In 1942, he wrote: “Only here at the front, I realized what a dazzling, what a charming thing life is. You understand this very well next to death… I believe in history, I believe in our strength… I know that we will win!”
1 reader (an excerpt from P. Kogan's poem "From an unfinished chapter")
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air
I love the Russian land
I believe that nowhere in the world
Can't find another one like it
To smell like this at dawn,
What a smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find
Birches, as in my land!
I would die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut paradise.
1. Paul lived by poetry. In this word, he concluded his whole life, his attitude to the fate of the generation. The anthem of youth and students for many years was the song written by Pavel Kogan and his friend Georgy Lepsky - "Brigantine". The brigantine flies through the free and stormy seas of youthful imagination, and it seems that it is Pavel himself - “the captain of the unbuilt brigs, the chieftain of the uncreated freemen” - who is behind her helm.
(Performance of a song to the words of P. Kogan "Brigantine") (Appendix 1)
13 slide. 3 narrator. The twenty-year-old "son of the poet is a poet himself" Vsevolod Bagritsky died on February 26, 1942 in the small village of Dubovka, Leningrad Region, while writing down the story of a political instructor. Started writing at early childhood. From the first days of the war, he rushed to the front.
14 slide. 4. In a letter to his mother on July 18, 1941, he wrote: “The war caught me playing a peaceful game of volleyball on the seashore. And on June 27, I left for Moscow ... I went with two comrades to the district committee of the Komsomol, we were sent to a driving school.
2 readers. (V. Bagritsky's poem "Goodbye, dear, I'm leaving for the war")
Goodbye darling, I'm leaving for the war
When I'll be back, I don't know.
to the home side.
Dry leaves will fall, there will be blizzards and rains,
I will return to you, dear, do not be sad,
3. He nevertheless achieved, despite poor eyesight, being sent to the front. On the eve of 1942 he was appointed to the newspaper Second shock army, which from the south went to the rescue of the besieged Leningrad.
15 slide 4. On February 16, 1942, he wrote: “My work is very difficult and dangerous, but also very interesting. I went to work in the army press voluntarily and have no regrets. I will see and have already seen what I will never have to experience again. Our victory will free the world from the worst atrocity of war."
On February 3, 27, the dead body of the young poet was brought. In his pocket was found a thin brown notebook of front-line poems, pierced by a fragment that killed the young man.
16 slide 3 reader. (V. Bagritsky's poem "Waiting")
We spent two days in the snow.
No one said: "I'm cold, I can't."
We saw - and the blood boiled -
The Germans were sitting around the hot fires.
But when you win, you have to be able to
Wait, indignant, wait and endure.
The dawn rose through the black trees,
A haze descended through the black trees ...
But lie still, since there is no order,
The moment of battle has not yet come.
Heard (snow melted in a fist)
Foreign words in a foreign language.
I know that everyone in these hours
Remembered all the songs that I knew
I remembered my son, since the son is at home,
I counted the February stars.
The rocket floats up and the dusk breaks.
Now do not wait, comrade! Forward!
We surrounded their dugouts,
We took half alive ...
And you, corporal, where are you running?!
The bullet will take your heart.
The fight is over. Now rest
Reply to letters ... And again on the road!
17 slide. 5 narrator. In the battles near Stalingrad in January 1943, Mikhail Kulchitsky died. He was a resilient man, the greatest optimist. He liked to say about himself: “I am the happiest in the world!”
4 dude. (poem by M. Kulchitsky “Dreamer, visionary, lazy-envy! ...”)
Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious! What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops? And the riders rush by with the whistle of sabers spinning propellers. I used to think: “lieutenant” It sounds like this: “Pour us a drink!” And knowing the topography, he stomps on the gravel. War is not fireworks at all, But simply hard work, When, black with sweat, the infantry slides up the plowing. March! And the clay in the champing stomp To the marrow of the bones of frozen feet Wraps up on the boots With the weight of bread in a monthly ration. On the fighters and buttons like yeshuya heavy orders. Not for the order. Would Motherland With daily Borodino!
His name is carved in gold in the Pantheon of Glory on the Mamaev Kurgan, as if at the top of the century.
18 slide. 6 narrator. Georgy Suvorov died in battle while crossing the Narva River on February 13, 1944. He came to the front from distant Khakassia, from Abakan, and forever retained the character of a taiga hunter. open face, blue intelligent eyes, a cheerful sly smile disposed to themselves. He began to write poetry as a child and wrote before his last day. He was obsessed with poetry. In a letter from the front, he wrote: “I did not stop writing poetry for a minute. He wrote in the trenches. I wrote on the train going to the front. I wrote in the hospital. He wrote about the bombings under the fierce bombings. He wrote everywhere. He wrote about everything. And now I'm writing. War is the ground on which I now walk. Poems are my sighs.
19 -21 slides 5 readers. (poem by G. Suvorov)
Even in the morning black smoke swirls
Above your ruined dwelling.
And the charred bird falls
Caught in furious fire.
We still dream of white at night,
Like messengers of lost love
Living mountains of blue acacias
And in them enthusiastic nightingales.
Another war. But we firmly believe
What will be the day, we will drink the pain to the bottom.
The wide world will open the doors to us again,
With the new dawn, silence will rise ...
In memories, we will not grieve.
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness?
We lived our good age as people -
And for people.
6. The poet dreamed of holding a book of his poems in his hands. At first he wanted to call it "Warpath", and then he titled it strictly and simply - "The Word of a Soldier". Under this name, she came out ... .. Already after the death of the poet.
22 slide 7 narrator. The political instructor of the machine-gun company Nikolai Mayorov died in the battles near Smolensk on February 8, 1942. Before the war, he was a student at the Faculty of History of Moscow State University, at the same time he attended a poetry seminar at the Literary Institute. Several of his poems appeared in the student newspaper Moscow University. Classmates and teachers of the poet testify that immediately before the war, Mayorov was considered one of the greatest lyrical talents. In the summer of 1941, Nikolai, along with other Moscow students, digs anti-tank ditches near Yelnya. In October, his request for enlistment in the army was granted.
He died without finishing the poem he started before the battle, without waiting for the book of his lyrics, without graduating from the university.
6 readers. (Poem by N. Mayorov)
We are not allowed to quietly rot in the grave -
Lie on the hood - and, opening the coffins,
We hear the thunder of early morning firing,
Summon a hoarse regimental trumpet
From the big roads we walked.
We know all the statutes by heart.
What is death to us? We are even higher than death.
In the grave we lined up in a detachment.
And we are waiting for a new order. Let it go
They don't think the dead can't hear
When their descendants talk about them.
23 slide. 8 narrator. Musa Jalil is a Tatar poet. On the first day of the war, he volunteered for the ranks of the army in the field. In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, he was seriously wounded and taken prisoner. In the concentration camp, he conducted active underground work, for which he was thrown into the fascist dungeon - the Moabit prison. In 1944 he was executed by Moabite executioners.
9. In our country, he was considered missing in action. Only after the war did the news spread around the world about his (24 slide) two small notebooks, thickly written in small beaded handwriting. These are 115 poems written in captivity. He wanted to print them.
25 slide 8. The poetry of Musa Jalil is the poetry of deep thought, passionate feelings, indomitable will. The poem "My Songs" is the key to the verses of the Moabit notebooks, their generalization.
7 readers. (M. Jalil's poem "My songs")
Songs, in my soul I have grown your seedlings,
Now bloom in the warmth of the homeland.
How much fire and freedom have been given to you,
So much has been given to you to live on earth!
I trusted you with my inspiration,
Hot feelings disappeared cleanliness.
If you die, I will die in oblivion,
If you live, I will find life with you.
In the song I lit the fire, performing
Hearts order and the people order.
A friend was cherished by a simple song.
The song of the enemy won more than once.
Low joys, petty happiness
I reject, laugh at them.
The song is full of passion and truth -
For what I live and fight.
The heart is the last breath of life
Fulfill your firm oath:
I always dedicated songs to my fatherland,
Now I give my life to the fatherland.
I sang, smelling the spring freshness,
I sang, entering the battle for the Motherland.
Here is the last song I write,
Seeing the executioner's ax above him.
The song taught me freedom
The song of a fighter tells me to die.
My life rang the song among the people,
My death will sound like a song of struggle.
9. Musa Jalil was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
26 slide. 10. Iosif Utkin volunteered for the front in 1941. He was a military correspondent for a front-line newspaper. After being seriously wounded, he returned to the newspaper. In 1944, Utkin's last collection, About the Motherland. About friendship. About love.” The poet died in a plane crash, returning from the Western Front to Moscow. His poems about love warmed the hearts, chilled by the cold wind of trench life, did not let them become stale and empty.
27 slide 8 reader. (Poem by I. Utkin. “It's midnight on the street. The candle is burning down.)
It's midnight outside. The candle burns out.
High stars are visible.
You are writing a letter to me my dear
To the blazing address of war.
We've been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
You can't see the war behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like at home - and in the smoke of war!
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And the time will come too
Sadness and separation will remain outside the door,
And only joy will enter the house.
And somehow in the evening with you,
Pressing against the shoulder,
We will sit down and letters, like a chronicle of battle,
As a chronicle of feelings, let's reread ...
28 slide. 11. Semyon Gudzenko, a student at the Moscow Institute of Philosophy, Literature and Art, volunteered for the front. AT notebooks soldier's record: "Wounded. In the stomach. I lose consciousness for a minute. Most of all he was afraid of a wound in the stomach. Let it be in the arm, leg, shoulder. I can't walk. They're on sleighs."
One of his first poems read to the writer Ilya Ehrenburg was the poem "When they go to their death, they sing."
9 dude. (poem by S. Gudzenko "Before the attack")
When they go to their death, they sing,
And before that, you can cry -
After all, the worst hour in the battle -
Waiting time for an attack.
Snow mines pitted around.
And blackened from mine dust.
Gap - and a friend dies
And so death passes by.
Now it's your turn
The infantry follows me alone
Curse the forty-first year
You, infantry frozen in the snow!
I feel like I'm a magnet
That I attract mines.
Gap - and the lieutenant wheezes.
And death passes by again.
But we can't wait anymore
And leads us through the trenches
simmering enmity,
Bayoneted holey neck.
The fight was short. And then
They drowned out the icy vodka,
And cut with a knife
From under the claws I am someone else's blood.
29 slide. 10. Shortly before the victory, the young poet wrote: “Recently I came under heavy bombing at the crossing over the Morava ... I lay there for a long time and wearily. I really don’t want to die in 1945.” In 1946, his following lines will appear: "We will not die of old age - we will die of old wounds." This is exactly what happened to him in February 1953.
10 dude. (Excerpt from S. Gudzenko's poem "My Generation")
We are not destined to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone,
We are clean before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God.
The living were cut from the blood and clay overcoats,
Blue flowers bloomed on the graves of the dead.
Blossomed and fell off ... The fourth autumn passes.
Our mothers are crying, and our peers are silently sad.
We did not know love, did not see the happiness of crafts,
We got to share the hard fate of the soldiers.
My weather has no wives, no poetry, no peace,
Only strength and youth. And when we return from the war,
We will love everything in full and write, peer, such
That sons will be proud of their fathers-soldiers.
Who will return - will love? Not! The heart is not enough
and the dead do not need the living to love for them.
There is no man in the family - no children, no owner in the hut.
Can the sobs of the living help such grief?
We do not need to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone.
Who went on the attack, who shared the last piece,
He will understand this truth - it is to us in the trenches and cracks
came to argue in a grumbling, hoarse bass voice.
Let the living remember and let the generations know
This harsh truth of the soldiers, taken with battle.
And your crutches, and a mortal wound through,
And graves over the Volga, where thousands of young people lie,
This is our destiny, it was with her that we swore and sang,
They went on the attack and tore bridges over the Bug.
... We do not need to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone,
We are clean before our Russia and in difficult times.
30 slide 1 led. Frontline poetry is the poetry of high citizenship. She was a teacher of life and learned from life. She helped to see the sun through the overhanging clouds, not to lose faith in the triumph of goodness and justice. About those who did not live to see the Victory, one can say in the words of the veteran poet Georgy Suvorov: “We lived our good life as people, and for people.”
2 led. And the poem of the poet Nikolai Mayorov became a confession of the people of his generation, who, for the sake of life on earth, went into battle, not sparing themselves ...
(an excerpt from N. Mayorov's poem "We were tall, fair-haired")
31 slide. We were tall, fair-haired,
You will read in books like a myth,
About the people who left without loving,
Without finishing the last cigarette ...
A descendant will distinguish in archival trash
A piece of hot, faithful land to us,
Where we've gone with charred mouths
And courage, like a banner, carried.
32 slide (V. Vysotsky's song "He did not return from the battle")
1 leading Names... Names... Names... All young, talented, greedy for life, devoted to the Motherland and poetry. After all, no matter the surname, no matter the line, it is a young, war-torn life. They fell, they are gone, but they live in poetry collections, their feelings and thoughts have found a voice...
33 slide. 2 led. Let's remember with our silence
All those who remained in these meadows,
Along a small river with a beautiful name,
Grass sprouting in its banks.
Let's remember them! With sadness and love.
And we will all be silent ... (metronome beats)
(Moment of silence)
34 slide. 1 led. And yet, the poet cannot die!
And the people who give birth to poets will not die!
The mind will rise to warm,
Evil and hatred in the blood will disappear.
And if you have to sacrifice yourself
To die is spiritually, from love!
(V. Vysotsky's song "On mass graves do not put up crosses)
35 slide. 2 led. K. Simonov wrote: “There is high historical justice in the fact that the country again and again remembers the feat of its sons. The world would be different if the Soviet people had not survived, had not survived these four years.
1 Vedas. In the middle of spring, when birds sing joyfully, and the earth smokes with the greens of young bread, a holy day for our Motherland comes - (36 slide) May 9. We remember those who paid an exorbitant price in the name of our Victory.
37 slide. (Everyone sings the song "Victory Day") (Appendix 2)
Used Books:
1. Until the last breath. Collection of poems, Moscow., 1985
2. Jalil M. Bonfire over the cliff: Poems. Letters. Moscow: Pravda, 1987
3. Kogan. A. Poems and Fates. Front theme.
4. Poetry of the Great Patriotic War. - M., "Book", 1988.
5. A line broken by a bullet: Collection of articles. M.: Moscow worker, 1985
6. Phonograms can be found here: www.sovmusic.ru.
Attachment 1
(Lyrics of the song "Brigantine")
Tired of talking and arguing
And love tired eyes...
The brigantine raises the sails...
Captain, weathered like rocks,
Went out to sea without waiting for the day...
Raise your glass to say goodbye
Golden tart wine.
We drink for the furious, for the recalcitrant,
For the despised penny comfort.
The jolly roger is blowing in the wind,
Flint's people sing a song.
In trouble, and in joy, and in sorrow
Just close your eyes a little.
In the filibuster far blue sea
The brigantine raises the sails...
Annex 2
(Lyrics of the song by David Tukhmanov)
Victory Day, how far it was from us
As an ember melted in an extinct fire
There were miles, charred, in the dust
This Victory Day
smell of gunpowder
This is a holiday
With gray hair at the temples
It's joy
With tears in his eyes
Days and nights at open-hearth furnaces
Our homeland did not close its eyes
Days and nights they fought a difficult battle
We made this day as close as we could
This Victory Day
smell of gunpowder
This is a holiday
With gray hair at the temples
It's joy
With tears in his eyes
Victory Day, Victory Day, Victory Day!
Hello mom, we're not all back
Barefoot to run through the dew
Half of Europe walked, half of the Earth
We made this day as close as we could
This Victory Day
smell of gunpowder
This is a holiday
With gray hair at the temples
It's joy
With tears in his eyes
Victory Day, Victory Day, Victory Day!
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