Music teacher MOU secondary school No. 37 p. Balakirevo -
Scenario of the literary and musical evening dedicated to
Victory in the Great Patriotic War.
(There should be two hosts of the evening. They conduct a dialogue with each other on the topic of the Great Patriotic War. Poems are read each in turn, one stanza at a time. At the very beginning, the presenters in ordinary clothes sit at a school desk with a history textbook, reading a paragraph about the Great Patriotic War.)
- WAR is such a short and such a terrible word.
- It contains blood, tears and suffering, and even life! Over 20 million human lives!
What do we know about the war?
I never heard a shot
And I did not have to see the explosions ...
According to books, yes, according to films, according to stories -
I know very little about the war.
I can hear the sound of crutches.
I see a woman standing stooping
The monument to the fallen is covered in snow.
And behind the wall the old woman often cries,
And my father groans in a disturbing dream...
I understand what it all means
I know very little about the war.
- Our evening is dedicated to the Great Patriotic War. This war will never leave the memory of generations, and we must remember the feat of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers.
- A feat is a great, disinterested impulse of the soul, in which a person gives himself to people, sacrificing everything, even his own life.
- There is a feat of one person, hundreds, thousands. And there is a feat of the People. When the People rises to defend the Fatherland, its honor, dignity and freedom.
- Such a feat was accomplished by the Soviet People during the Great Patriotic War. With all its great state, the fate of everyone and everyone, the Russian People stood up to fight against the treacherous enemy, the blackest power XX century - fascism.
Not burned by the forties,
Hearts rooted in silence
Of course, we look through different eyes
To your sick war.
We know from confused, difficult stories
About the bitter victorious path,
Therefore, at least our mind must
Expensive suffering to pass.
And we have to figure it out ourselves
In the pain that the world has endured.
Of course, we look with different eyes
The same, full of tears.
- Today we will try to go a part of the path that our people went through during that terrible war.
(Leaders leave and change into military uniform during the Great Patriotic War, at the end of Levitan's words, they come out and are already standing until the end of the evening, occasionally moving from one end of the stage to the other.)
(Levitan's message about the beginning of the war sounds)
- The border guards were the first to defend the Motherland.
- They, like people, keep the memory of everything that was on this earth.
“They remember the bloody dawn of the first morning of the war.
-June 22, 1941 at dawn, the Nazi invaders unleashed a flurry of gunfire on the fortress. They were sure that the suddenness of the attack would allow them to take the fortress on the move.
- But the enemy miscalculated! Faithful to duty and oath, the garrison did not flinch ... Until the twentieth of July, the last defenders of the fortress fought in the rear of the enemy.
NO, IT DID NOT SURRENDER, THE FORTRESS DID NOT FALL, IT bled out.
We are from there, from Brest!
Where the earth has turned into a semi-liquid mess!
We are from there, from Brest!
Where the war is burning! Where shells have no place
Only bodies and bodies...
We are from there, from Brest! The war took us all!
(Sounds of the song Holy War))
- With this song at the stations of Moscow, relatives and friends escorted the soldiers to the mortal battle with fascism. The soulful words and majestic melody of the song sounded almost like a military oath.
- In the song "Holy War" one can hear the voice of people's anger and that rightness, before which a cruel enemy is powerless.
This song has become like a national anthem. Words calling for battle were repeated both at the front and in the rear.
- Yes, and now, the "Holy War" is known to everyone and is a symbol of our Victory.
- War and song: what can be common?
- It would seem that the hardships and sufferings of wartime leave no room for songs ...
- And, nevertheless, the song always accompanied the soldier on a campaign and at a halt, and sometimes in battle.
The song was heartbreaking:
She led to a mortal battle,
To smash the enemy to this song,
Defending the Motherland.
(The song “Birds don’t sing here!”)
- B. Okudzhava wrote this song after the war for the film "Belarusian Station", but it conveys the spirit of that time very well.
- Another heroic milestone of the war - Leningrad ...
- A hero-city, whose people were subjected to continuous bombing for 900 days and nights, froze, starved, died ...
-Together with the residents of suburban areas, 2 million 887 thousand people, including about 400 thousand children, found themselves in the blockade ring.
Oh yes - they couldn't
neither those fighters, nor those drivers,
when the trucks were driving
across the lake to the hungry city.
The cold steady light of the moon
the snows are shining brightly
and from the glass height
clearly visible to the enemy
columns below.
And the sky howls, howls,
and the air whistles, and gnashes,
breaking under bombs, ice,
and the lake splashes into funnels.
But enemy bombing is worse
even more painful and angrier -
forty degree cold,
dominating the earth.
It seemed that the sun would not rise.
Forever night in frozen stars
forever lunar snow and ice,
and blue whistling air.
It seemed like the end of the earth...
But through the cooled planet
cars went to Leningrad:
he is still alive. He's around somewhere.
To Leningrad, to Leningrad!
There's bread left for two days,
there mothers under dark skies
crowd at the bakery stand,
and tremble, and are silent, and wait,
listen anxiously:
- By dawn, they said they would bring ...
- Citizens, you can hold on ... -
And it was like this: all the way
rear car settled.
The driver jumped up, the driver on the ice.
- Well, it is - the motor is stuck.
Repair for five minutes, a trifle.
This breakdown is not a threat,
yes, do not unbend your hands in any way:
they were frozen on the steering wheel.
Slightly razognesh - again reduce.
Stand? What about bread? Wait for others?
And bread - two tons? He will save
sixteen thousand Leningraders.-
And now - in the gasoline of his hand
moistened, set fire to them from the motor,
and the repair went fast.
in the burning hands of the driver.
Forward! How the blisters ache
frozen to the mittens of the palm.
But he will deliver the bread, bring
sixteen thousand mothers
rations will be received at dawn -
one hundred twenty five blockade grams
with fire and blood in half.
... Oh, we knew in December -
not for nothing called the "sacred gift"
ordinary bread, and grave sin -
at least throw a crumb to the ground:
with such human suffering,
such big love fraternal
sanctified for us from now on,
our daily bread, Leningrad.
- In besieged Leningrad, near Moscow and Stalingrad, and on the Kursk Bulge, the battle song did not stop, because it strengthened army cohesion and front-line friendship.
(The song "Let's smoke" is performed)
- The Battle of Moscow is the first victorious battle of the Great Patriotic War.
- It was at the walls of Moscow that the Germans lost their " lightning war", a Soviet army, having survived in the most difficult battles, began its offensive against such a distant Berlin.
- Here in the harsh snows of the Moscow region on the 20th kilometer of the Minsk highway in November 1941, the song "In the dugout" was born. Its author, Alexander Surkov, did not write songs on purpose, he simply wrote a letter, told his wife where he was.
(The song "In the dugout" is performed)
- The dugout was a home for a fighter. Our soldiers never succumbed to despondency. And in the intervals between battles, on halts, in dugouts, songs and jokes sounded.
A light smokes in a tin,
Smoke shag pillar ...
Five fighters are sitting in a dugout
And who dream about what.
In silence and at rest
Dreaming is not a sin.
Here is one fighter with longing,
Squinting his eyes, he said: "Eh!"
And fell silent, the second swung,
Suppressed a long sigh
Tasty smoke dragged on
And with a smile he said: "Oh!"
"Yes," replied the third, taking
For mending a shoe
And the fourth, dreaming,
Bassed in response: "Aha!"
"I can't sleep, no urine! -
The fifth said the soldier. -
Well, what are you, brothers, by the night
Talking about the girls!"
(Eduard Asadov)
- The song “Spark”, written by Mikhail Blanter to the verses of Mikhail Isakovsky in 1943, became truly folk, filled with the nagging sadness of a fighter.
- The poetic image of the "light" on the window has turned into a huge and inspirational symbol - our light has not gone out, it will never go out.
(The song "Spark" is performed)
- The Battle of Kursk occupies a special place in the Great Patriotic War. It lasted 50 days and nights, from July 5 to August 23, 1943.
- In its bitterness and perseverance, this battle is unparalleled.
- More than 4 million people, 69 thousand guns and mortars, more than 13 thousand tanks, about 12 thousand combat aircraft took part in it from both sides.
- The crushing defeat of the Nazi troops on the Kursk Bulge and the subsequent exit Soviet troops to the Dnieper completed a radical change during the Great Patriotic War.
- People knew that war is an abyss, it is death ...
- But mothers, wives, sisters were waiting for their veterans.
- They waited, even if the "funeral" came.
- Waited, hoped and wrote letters.
(Here a girl enters the stage, sits down at a desk and begins to write a letter on a piece of paper, and one of the presenters reads the poem below. When the poem is read, the girl gets up, folds the letter with an airplane and releases it into the hall to the audience. At this time, the presenters can move across the stage to another location.)
This little white leaf
I send to the dugout to you,
So that these lines could
Often think about me in battle,
Showing no mercy to the enemy
So that, sometimes being in a dugout,
I knew: I save your love,
I remember you every hour.
I know that you despise death
For the sake of our love with you,
And I want to take a look
To your dear features.
But, darling, the war is roaring,
The enemy prowls through the expanses of his native,
And our love, our destiny
Tested in the smoke of war...
Do not grieve, dear hero!
This is what I want to say:
You are far away, but in my heart with you,
I see dear eyes...
The wind will blow my song
To help you in battle.
Remember: the girl believes and waits
And love, and your victory!
- Poems are simple, naive, but how much hope and love are in them!
- Such letters were necessary for the soldier.
- It is no coincidence that the girl Katyusha from the song by Matvey Blanter to the verses of Mikhail Isakovsky became a symbol of loyalty and hope.
(The song "Katyusha" is performed)
- This song was written in the late 30s, when no one thought about the war.
- Spring, flowering gardens, love and fidelity ...
- "Katyusha" personified all the best in life - all that the merciless fascist was trying to destroy.
- Because this song during the war became so popular, and not only in our country. Melody "Katyusha" became the anthem Italian partisans!
- With a song about Katyusha, a Russian soldier stood up from the trench with a rifle in his hands - and immediately fell down, struck down by an enemy bullet.
- But the soldier's friends picked up the song and carried it to the attack. It was near Ponyri, on the Kursk Bulge.
- The soldier, who did not finish singing the song, remained lying, covered with earth from the explosion, and lay in the trench for 54 years.
- In the summer of 1997, his remains were found and solemnly buried in mass grave at an artillery gun in the village of Teploe.
The soldier got up, but the soldier did not step:
Old mother in a village hut
For a long time it will be bitter tears to shed,
In heavy grief, tear gray whiskey,
Wait and walk around the neighborhood ...
The dead stayed young
No matter how long we live.
- Let's not forget that in the days of the war, the soldiers called the Guards multi-barreled mortar "Katyusha" - a formidable weapon that the enemies were afraid of in panic!
- No less popular among the front-line soldiers was Nikita Bogoslovsky's song to the verses of V. Agatov "Dark Night". It usually sounded during rest hours: someone was dozing, someone was quietly starting a song ...
(The song " Dark night»)
- Frontline songs sounded not only at the front line, but also in the rear, uniting the country into a united front. The song, as it were, stretched a thread between the front and rear, between the front line and home.
- The text of the song "In the forest near the front" belongs to Mikhail Isakovsky, and the music was written by Matvey Blanter.
(The song "In the forest near the front" is performed)
- And when the war ended, the Victory was celebrated with song, and dance, and with what else they could! ..
- Peacetime - what happiness, what joy!
(The song "Victory Day" is performed)
- But Victory is not only joy, but also sorrow.
- How many mothers cried for their sons, how many wives did not wait for their husbands who fell for the freedom and honor of their native land.
- We know at what cost the Victory was won, and we will always remember those who gave their lives for their Motherland.
Not a stone of sorrow, not a stone of glory
not replace a dead soldier.
May the memory of the heroes be eternal.
Remember!
Through the centuries, through the years, -
remember!
About those,
who will never come,
remember!..
Meet the vibrant spring
people of the earth.
Kill the war
curse the war
people of the earth!
Carry the dream through the years
and fill it with life!
But about those
who will never come,
I conjure -
remember!
(The metronome counts down a minute of silence.)
(The song "Cranes" is performed)
Literary Evening: "Poems Scorched by War"
Purpose: to introduce the work of poets who took part in the hostilities of the Great Patriotic War and told us about the war in their poems, as a great feat of the entire Soviet people - the winner.
Equipment: portraits of poets M. Dudin, G. Pozhenyan, S. Gudzenko, Y. Voronov, V. Loboda, Y. Drunina, V. Subbotin, M. Jalil, N. Denisenko, V. Zanadvorov, K. Simonov
Host: The poets, whose poems will be heard at our evening today, fought themselves. On the first day of the war, a division entered the battle, where Mikhail Dudin served as a scout. Mariner Grigory Pozhenyan participated in the defense of Odessa and Sevastopol. Semyon Gudzenko fought with the enemy near Moscow, on the banks of the Volga, crossed the Dnieper, entered Budapest, liberated by our troops.
As a teenager, Yury Voronov went through the hunger and cold of the Leningrad blockade.
Artilleryman Vsevolod Loboda died in battle.
The tank of Lieutenant Sergei Orlov was heading towards the enemy, nurse Yulia Drunina was hurrying under fire to the wounded, Vasily Subbotin stormed the Reichstag, the famous Tatar poet M.M. Zalilov (Musa Jalil) fought with the Nazis on the Volkhov front.
AT hard days in the summer of 1941, the journalist and poet - partisan N.F. Denisenko and his unit are surrounded near Krichev. Few escaped the ring. Sick Denisenko returns to his native village of Mink in the Chernihiv region. Here he joins the ranks of the partisans. On their instructions, Denisenko goes "to the service" of the invaders and becomes the secretary of the Chernihiv district police. From May 1943 he was a liaison officer of the Pobeda partisan detachment. Work in the enemy's lair required great willpower from a patriot. June 5, 1943 He was captured by the Nazis. Having withstood the torture, the underground partisan did not say anything to the enemy. In prison, he writes his last poem, dedicated to young children, prisoners of the fascist dungeon. July 5, 1943
Listen to his latest poem "The Neighbor"
Behind my camera window
Maple stands, barely grimacing.
I'll snuggle closer to the grate,
I will listen to my neighbor's talk.
What will he say, my pointed one?
What does he hear, leaning against the tynu?
Maybe - I'll soon break out home,
Maybe - soon will I perish forever?
The ill-fated wind blew
And entangled and bent the poor fellow.
I stubbornly, passionately wanted to live,
Therefore, in the grave, I will surely lie down.
Maple stands, staggering and creaking,
Maple rustles and whispers, whispers deafly
As if to tell me in a hurry,
So that a stranger does not touch the hearing:
I got wet in the rain today
And battered by the hurricane wind.
You, like me, are lonely today,
You are entangled with vicious enemies.
Do not grieve, buddy, do not be sad:
There is an end to everything in this world -
I can't move in my life
You won't walk after death
If I survive your age
Children grow up - your joy,
Be sure, kind person,
I will tell them the whole truth about you.
And shut up. The sheet does not move.
Quiet - quiet. Nice summer day...
Know, people: I was pure in heart,
And in the eyes ... Oh, do not look, passerby! ...
(The poem ends here)
Host: Tatar poet Mussa Jalil in the spring of 1943. He was sent to the Wustrow camp (Germany). There, with a group of prisoners of war, he was preparing an uprising, but, according to the denunciation of the right-winger, on the night of August 12, 1943, he was arrested. Together with other comrades, Mussa Jalil was taken to the Moabit prison in Berlin, where in March 1944 the Military Court sentenced him to death. At the end of 1944, the sentence was carried out. Friends of the brave patriot saved three notebooks, where the poet wrote down his poems written in camps and prisons. The poet-patriot was posthumously awarded the title of Hero Soviet Union. His work was marked by the Lenin Prize.
We hug at the train.
sincere and big
Your sunny eyes
Suddenly sadness fades.
Loved to the nails
Familiar hands clasping
I'll say goodbye:
"Honey, I'll be back.
I have to go back, but if...
If this happens,
What can I see more
Harsh native country, -
One request to you, friend:
Your heart is simple
Give it to an honest guy
Back from the war."
Boris Bogatkov (1922 - 1943)
Presenter: Poets - warriors told us about the war as a great feat of the entire Soviet people - the winner.
Pupils read poems.
Konstantin Simonov
motherland
Touching the three great oceans,
She lies, spreading the cities,
Covered with a network of meridians,
Invincible, wide, proud.
But at the hour when the last grenade
Already in your hand
And in a short moment it is necessary to remember at once
All that we have left in the distance,
You remember not a big country,
What did you travel and find out
Do you remember the Motherland - such,
How did you see her as a child?
A piece of land, crouched against three birches,
A long road behind the woods
A river with a creaky ferry,
Sandy shore with low willows.
This is where we were lucky to be born
Where for life, until death, we found
That handful of earth that is good,
To see in it signs of the whole earth.
Yes, you can survive in the heat, in a thunderstorm, in frost,
Yes, you can be hungry and cold
Go to death ... But these three birches
You can't give it to anyone while you're alive.
Alexey Nedogonov
machine gunner
Winter consisted of little things:
Snow, frost and winds bark.
Exactly fifteen thousand minutes
Sometimes all day long
Lightning slashed at the enemy
Russian easel machine gun
Near Millerovo in the snow.
Getting out of strength on the third tape,
Rumbled intermittently, but then
The machine gunner asked for a drink
With his sparrow's hard mouth...
So he fought to the death here.
So he worked in the order of things
Exactly fifteen thousand minutes
Eleven days and ten nights
Under the blizzard.
And every half hour a man moved the machine gun forward
One painful turn of the machine-gun wheel.
He made his way to the holes of strangers,
Fire squeezed the garrison in a vise:
What was under the power of three -
Hell of a deal - he's out of his hands!
He knew that the winds would rustle in the spring,
Cranes fly, poplars bloom,
Walk through Millerovo trains,
Pioneers go to school in the morning...
He was a very young person
But somehow young in an adult way;
For a machine gun, he lay down as a youth,
He got up a man with a beard.
And then it suddenly seemed to him,
That he is already the oldest soldier,
And that the land that I took back
Will not let go of hardened hands.
Grigory Pozhenyan
Wind from the sea (excerpt from a poem)
In memory of Dmitry Glukhov.
There was an order to break through to Eldigen
During the day, through the formation of the German barrier.
The commander said that we were lucky
And congratulated us
Whipping into foam
The sea roared. On the berths
Piles swayed from the rolling waves.
The commander said that it happens, -
And the signalman raised the flag on the halyards ...
On this day, we did not swear on the road,
Leaving, things were not bequeathed.
The commander said: "Let's get back to tea!"
And he ordered us to send our letters.
He was wounded after the first outbreaks.
Slowly on wet raglan
Blood glass under your feet
I heard him order: - Go ramming!
On the breaks, on the forehead, crashing in formation! -
... There were eight Germans, three of ours.
The Germans went on the small, we are on the full.
The Germans followed the wind, we went through the waves...
Shot! And pieces of armor fly like cotton wool,
Shot! And, swaying angularly, the bridge is broken into two,
The head sent to visit the fish ...
Sergei Orlov
mountain village
Clouds of smoke in the sky,
The flames rustled.
None, when recaptured,
We were not welcomed by the soul.
By gloomy and deserted,
In the ensuing silence
Opening hatches in cars
We then went through it.
And I would just forget it
I am a village - on a hillock,
If it didn't happen to me
Burn behind the village.
Red kochet above the tower
The flames went up...
As I crawled through the snowy arable land
To the outskirts hut,
Grabbing with a scorched mouth
Rusty chunks of snow
Gun not releasing
From a smoking hand,
Can't tell in this song
Yes, and there’s nothing ... Then
For me guys honestly
We got even there with the enemy.
And didn't get burned
Village along the hill
On the land of the liberated
The name of the mountain.
Semyon Gudzenko
***
After the first rolls of thunder
Brick dust settles.
Five steps to the next house -
It's like fifteen miles.
Only we do not fight for the first time
In the lanes for every meter.
And a stubborn Stalingrader
Does not take death on the Danube.
Does not take a gun barrage
And a grenade from around the corner.
Us in all attics and basements
Courage audacious spent.
We are butts and knives
We talked to the enemy.
We are dawns and nights
They stormed the cursed house.
... Well, what if a stray bullet
my path and military labor will end,
not in my guard of honor,
and friends will remember in the attack!
Window opening. Slid down on the pavement
A shadow that has been accumulating for a long time in the yard.
The guns were placed in a straight line,
And the house in the wasteland trembles.
Dangerous settling zone.
Only one step left to take.
Angry commander on the phone.
Shells gnawed at the Reichstag.
The parade ground is littered with debris and slag,
The ends of torn wires hung.
This time for the last attack
Fighters jump from dark windows.
Mikhail Dudin
Winner
Nearly four years
A terrible war was raging.
And again Russian nature
Full of lively excitement.
Where we took blood, with a fight
anti-tank ditches,
Flowers sprinkled with dew
Get up swinging from the grass.
Where is the night from bright lightning went blind
Water boiled in the creeks,
From stone, rubble and from ashes
Hometowns rise.
And on the way back
Forever invincible,
There is a accomplished feat of arms,
Great Russian man.
He did everything. He is quiet and modest.
He saved the world from an honest death.
And the world, beautiful and huge,
He is greeted now.
And behind the dark graves
Enemies on the far shore
About our valor and strength
Reminder to the enemy.
Yulia Drunina.
Soldier days.
Just got back from the front line
Wet, cold and angry
And there is no one in the dugout,
And, of course, the stove goes out
So tired - do not raise your hands,
No time for firewood, I'll keep warm under my overcoat,
I lay down, but I hear that again
They are hitting our trenches with shrapnel.
I run out of the dugout into the night,
And a flame rushed to meet me.
To meet me - those who help
I must calm hands.
And for the fact that again until the morning
Death crawl with me will be near,
In passing: "Well done, sister!" —
Comrades will shout to me as a reward.
Yes, a shining battalion commander
Hands will stretch out to me after the fight:
- Sergeant, dear! How glad I am
That you are alive again.
Presenter: So our literary evening has come to an end, dedicated to the day victory. Victory Day is a special holiday. He is both happy and sad. Joyful because our people have won a victory over an insidious and powerful enemy. Sad because a lot of people died in this war.
A moment of silence.
"Poets about the Great Patriotic War"
Hello!
We dedicate our speech to those who were in that war. Those who won and those who did not return.
Back in 1941, on June 22, the most terrible and bloody war of the 20th century began at dawn. The Great Patriotic War. The whole country, young and old, rose up to fight the fascist invaders.
Get up The country is huge,
Get up for a fight to the death.
With dark fascist power,
With the damned horde...
Volunteers left for the front from the school bench. Created partisan detachments. Underground work was carried out behind enemy lines. It was scary. The war has no female face. Hunger, death, tears, pain of separation are wars. And it would seem not to poetry, not to songs. "When the guns speak, the muses are silent!". No, they are not silent. During the Great Patriotic War, a lot of songs, poems, and poems were written. Front-line poets gave us a lot of bright beautiful works.
Moussa Jalil
- Tatar poet. Now, unfortunately, he is little known. In 1941 he went to the front as a volunteer. In 1942 he was wounded and taken prisoner and was in the Spandau concentration camp. 791 days of humiliation, exhausting interrogations in the dungeons of the Gestapo, and a struggle that does not stop for a day or an hour.
^
And this is the country of the great Heine?
And this is the exuberant Schiller's house!?
It's here that I'm under escort
The fascist drove and called a slave ...
M. Jalil was transferred to the Moabit prison. There he wrote a whole series of poems. He was executed in Berlin on August 25, 1944 for underground work and organizing prisoner escapes.
Friends in captivity sent more than 100 of his poems to their homeland. These verses constituted the cycle of the Moabite Notebooks. One of the main advantages of the Moabite cycle is the feeling of the authenticity of feelings. Reading them, we feel the icy breath of death standing behind him. Longing for the motherland, for will, the acute pain of separation, contempt for death and hatred for the enemy - recreated with soul-shaking power.
M. Jalil was posthumously awarded the title Hero of the Soviet Union.
I will read you one of M. Jalil's poems "Barbarism"
.
^
They drove the mothers with the children
And they forced to dig a hole, and they themselves
They stood, a bunch of savages,
And they laughed in hoarse voices.
Lined up at the edge of the abyss
Powerless women, thin guys.
Came drunk major and copper eyes
^ He threw the doomed... Muddy rain
Buzzed in the foliage of neighboring groves
And in the fields, dressed in mist,
And the clouds fell over the earth
Chasing each other with rage...
No, I won't forget this day
I will never forget, forever!
I saw rivers crying like children,
And mother earth wept in rage.
I saw with my own eyes,
Like the mournful sun, washed with tears,
Through the cloud went out to the fields,
Kissed the children for the last time
Last time...
Noisy autumn forest. It seemed like now
He went crazy. raged angrily
Its foliage. Darkness thickened around.
I heard: a powerful oak fell suddenly,
He fell, letting out a heavy sigh.
The children were suddenly frightened,
They clung to their mothers, clinging to the skirts.
And a sharp sound was heard from the shot,
Breaking the curse
What escaped from a woman alone.
Child, sick little boy,
He hid his head in the folds of the dress
Not yet an old woman. She is
I looked full of horror.
How not to lose her mind!
I understood everything, the little one understood everything.
- Hide, mommy, me! Do not die!
He cries and, like a leaf, cannot hold back the trembling.
Child, which is dearest to her,
Bending down, she raised her mother with both hands,
Pressed to the heart, against the muzzle directly ...
- I, mother, want to live. Don't, mom!
Let me go, let me go! What are you waiting for?
And the child wants to escape from the hands,
And the cry is terrible, and the voice is thin,
And it pierces the heart like a knife.
- Do not be afraid, my boy. Now you can take a breath.
Close your eyes but don't hide your head
So that the executioner does not bury you alive.
Be patient, son, be patient. Now it won't hurt.
And he closed his eyes. And reddened the blood
On the neck with a red ribbon wriggling.
Two lives fall to the ground, merging,
Two lives and one love!
Thunder boomed. The wind whistled through the clouds.
The earth wept in deaf anguish,
Oh, how many tears, hot and combustible!
My land, tell me what's wrong with you?
You often saw human grief,
You bloomed for us for millions of years,
But have you ever experienced
Such a shame and barbarism?
My country, enemies threaten you,
But raise the banner of great truth higher,
Wash his lands with bloody tears,
And let its rays pierce
^
Let them destroy mercilessly
Those barbarians, those savages,
That the blood of children is swallowed greedily,
The blood of our mothers...
Seventeen-year-old graduate of the Moscow school Julia Drunina
, like many of her peers, in 1941 she voluntarily went to the front as a soldier in a sanitary platoon.
^
I left my childhood in a dirty car.
In the infantry echelon, in the sanitary platoon.
She said about herself in 1942. And later, in her poems, the motive of leaving childhood into the fire of war will sound, in words that will be dictated by a memory scorched by war.
It was the strength of her character that allowed her to seek and find the only right words that were understandable not only to the front-line soldier, but also to the young Citizen of the Motherland, who had not known the hardships of war. And she achieved her goal by being able to convey in a word the truth of shock, the truth of insight and the perceived measure of the truth of human relations.
^
I've only seen melee once.
Once - in reality. And a thousand - in a dream.
Who says that war is not scary,
He knows nothing about the war.
Julia Drunina was a very consistent and courageous person. After a serious wound - a fragment almost broke the carotid artery, passed two millimeters - she again went to the front as a volunteer.
Rereading her poems today, especially military ones, it is clear that a good dozen of them have stood the test of time - they still excite, are remembered. They resonate in the hearts of readers.
They will decorate any military anthology. They can be attributed to the highest achievements of our military poetry.
Crimean astronomers Nikolai and Lyudmila Chernykh discovered a new minor planet in 1969 and named it after Yulia Drunina.
ZINKA
In memory of fellow soldier - Hero of the Soviet Union, Zina Samsonova
We lay down by the broken spruce.
Waiting for the light to start.
Warmer under the overcoat
On cold, rotten ground.
–
But today it doesn't count.
At home, in the apple outback,
Mom, my mom lives.
Do you have friends, love?
I have only one of her.
Spring is brewing outside.
It seems old: every bush
A restless daughter is waiting ...
You know, Yulia, I am against sadness,
But today it doesn't count.
We barely warmed up.
Suddenly the order: "Come forward!"
Again next, in a damp overcoat
The light-haired soldier is coming.
Every day it got worse.
They marched without rallies and banners.
Surrounded by Orsha
Our battered battalion.
Zinka led us on the attack.
We made our way through the black rye,
Through funnels and gullies
Through the frontiers of death.
We didn't expect posthumous fame. -
We wanted to live with glory...
Why in bloody bandages
The light-haired soldier lies?
Her body with her overcoat
I hid, clenching my teeth ...
Belarusian winds sang
About Ryazan deaf gardens.
– You know, Zinka, I'm against sadness,
But today it doesn't count.
Somewhere, in the apple outback,
Mom, your mom lives.
I have friends, my love
She had you alone.
It smells of kneading and smoke in the hut,
Spring is on the threshold.
And an old woman in a flowery dress
I lit a candle at the icon ...
I don't know how to write to her
Why isn't she waiting for you?
1944
Robert Rozhdestvensky does not apply to front-line poets. When the war began, he was only 9 years old. His military childhood was not much different from what his peers, boys and girls of that time, experienced: hunger, cold, waiting for letters from the front, fear for the parents who fought. Robert transferred his first nine-ruble fee to the defense fund.
R. Rozhdestvensky published a lot and was very popular. Listen to one of his poems "Ballad of anti-aircraft gunners"
.
How to see through the days
trace is unclear?
I want to close to my heart
this trail...
On battery
were entirely
girls.
And the eldest was
eighteen years.
Dashing bangs
over a cunning squint,
bravura contempt for war...
That morning
tanks came out
straight to Khimki.
The very ones.
With crosses on the armor.
And the eldest
really getting old
as if shielding from a nightmare with a hand,
commanded subtly:
- Battery-ah-ah!
(Oh mommy!
Oh dear!..)
Fire! -
AND -
volley!
And here they
voted,
girls.
They whined to their heart's content.
Ostensibly
all the woman's pain
Russia
in these girls
suddenly called back.
The sky swirled
snowy,
pockmarked.
There was a wind
piping hot.
epic cry
hung over the battlefield
he was more audible than the breaks,
this cry!
To him -
lingering -
the earth listened
stopping at the edge of death.
- Oh, mommy!
- Oh, I'm scared!
- Oh, mom! .. -
And again:
- Battery-ah-ah! -
And already
in front of them
in the middle the globe,
to the left of the nameless mound
burned
unbelievably hot
four black
tank fires.
Echoed over the fields
the battle bled slowly ...
Anti-aircraft gunners shouted
and they shot
smearing tears down her cheeks.
And they fell.
And they got up again.
For the first time protecting in reality
and your honor
(literally!).
And the Motherland.
And mom.
And Moscow.
Spring spring branches.
Solemnity
wedding table.
Unheard:
"You are mine - forever! .."
Unsaid:
"Iwaited for you…"
And my husband's lips.
And his palms.
funny mumbling
in a dream.
And then to scream
in maternity
home:
“Oh, mommy!
Oh, mom, I'm scared!!"
And a swallow.
And the rain over the Arbat.
And feeling
complete silence...
... It came to them after.
At forty-five.
Of course, to those
who has come
from the war. 
The victory came at a terrible price. The 21st century is also very disturbing. But... If you asked your mother whether there would be a war or not, there would never be a war. If lovers were asked whether there would be a war or not, there would never be a war. If the dead had been asked whether there would be a war or not, there would never have been a war...
I ask you all to honor the memory of those who did not return from the fields of the Great Patriotic War with a moment of silence...
Happy holiday to you, happy life without war!
· For more high level restore previously acquired knowledge and deepen it;
· arouse interest in the personality and work of front-line poets Simonov, Tvardovsky, Samoilov, Gudzenko and others;
· expand ideas about the meaning and role of poetry during the Great Patriotic War in the spiritual life of contemporaries, cultural heritage of the past;
· develop Creative skills schoolchildren and the desire for independent creative activity;
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Scenario of the poetic hour "Poems born of war"
Targets and goals:
- At a higher level, restore previously acquired knowledge and deepen it;
- arouse interest in the personality and work of front-line poets Simonov, Tvardovsky, Samoilov, Gudzenko and others;
- expand ideas about the meaning and role of poetry during the Great Patriotic War in the spiritual life of contemporaries, the cultural heritage of the past;
- to develop the creative abilities of schoolchildren and the desire for independent creative activity;
- develop respect for historical heritage our country.
Event progress
Sounds like a calm melody
Again - "war", again "blockade" ....
Can we forget about them?
I hear sometimes: don't
There is no need to open wounds.
It's true that we're tired
We are from stories of war,
And read about the blockade
The lyrics are enough.
So that again on the earthly planet
That winter did not happen again, We need our children
This was remembered, as we are!
I don't need to worry
So that the war is not forgotten.
After all, this is memory, our conscience,
She's the strength we need...
Host: The heroic and tragic years of the Great Patriotic War are farther and farther away from us. Our people are already celebrating the seventieth anniversary of the Victory over Nazi Germany. It's been over half a century! Our poetry evening today is dedicated to this topic.
Host: They say that when the cannons rumble, the muses are silent. But from the first to last day the voice of poets did not stop during the war. And cannon cannonade could not drown it out. Readers have never listened so sensitively to the voice of poets. The well-known English journalist Alexander Werth testified: "Russia is also, perhaps, the only country where millions of people read poetry, and literally everyone read such poets as Simonov and Surkov during the war."
Poems are not written - they happen,
Like feelings or like a sunset.
The soul is a blind accomplice.
Did not write - it happened.
Host: Even before the war, the writer Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov said: “If the enemy attacks our country, we writers will lay down our pen and take up another weapon. Having defeated the enemy, we will write books about how we beat these enemies!
In the very first days of the war, about a thousand writers went to the front as fighters, commanders, correspondents. For some, this was not the first war: for Nikolai Tikhonov it was the fourth, for Alexander Surkov - the third, for Konstantin Simonov - the second.
“From the first days of the bitter year, in the difficult hour of the native land,” our writers stood in the ranks of fighters for a brave cause, sharing its fate with their people. Through the song short story, a lyrical poem they told the main truth about the war, about the people who fought.
Moderator: Yes, time moves inexorably forward, but at the same time it has no power over the memory of the people.
Hot on the heels of the war, they created their works, wearing military uniforms. These are Konstantin Simonov, Alexander Tvardovsky, Semyon Gudzenko, Olga Berggolts, Rasul Gamzatov, Musa Jalil, Mikhail Dudin, Alexander Zatsepa and many, many others... The poetry of the front-line generation has become one of the brightest and most significant literary phenomena. But that was already after the Victory... Let's turn over the heroic pages with you...
Forgive me that the letter, in a hurry,
breaking away, carelessly
I write like a boy
a diary
And as a navigator - a magazine ...
Here it starts again...
Hear, in the pitch darkness
Rushing with third speed
Fire filled metal?
You don't know my friend
what is war...
It's not a smoky field at all
battles,
It's not even death and courage. She is
In every drop finds its own
reflection.
It's only from day to day
dugout sand
Yes blinding flashes of the night
shelling
This is a headache that hurts
temple,
This is my youth in the trenches
decayed.
Host: In the first days and months of the war, as well as in the summer of 1942, the front-line situation was not in our favor. Cities and villages were left to the enemy. Under such conditions, more than ever, the role of poetic word who instilled confidence in victory. “I went through that war, and it went through me,” says the poet of the front-line generation David Samuilovich Kaufman, whose pseudonym is David Samoilov. He went through the war in the infantry as a brave and cheerful machine gunner.
Presenter: The war in Samoilov's poems is the incredible scale of the whole and the relief clarity of the private, everyday and winged romance. His poetry only begins with the war, only repels from it, leaving for distant expanses and heights... With his company, Samoilov fought to the bitter end, liberated Poland, participated in the battles for the Vistula in January 1945 and met victory in Berlin... Perhaps , you asked yourself the question - how do poets become? Reading the lines of Samoilov's poems, you understand that poets are born.
forties, fatal,
military and frontline
Where are the funeral notices
And echelon interchanges.
Rolled rails hum.
Spacious. Cold. High.
And fire victims, fire victims
Wandering from west to east...
And this is me at the station
In your dirty earflap,
Where the asterisk is not authorized,
And cut out of a can.
Yes, this is me in the world,
Skinny, funny and playful.
And I have tobacco in a pouch,
And I have a mouthpiece.
forties, fatal,
Lead, powder.
War walks in Russia,
And we are so young!
Host: Each front-line poet has his own perception of reality. Everyone has their own poems - passionate, sincere, and therefore tenacious. Semyon Gudzenko knew what it was like to climb out of a trench, what it was like to hear the hateful whistle of bullets. He looked with dignity, like a man, into the eyes of death, although he knew that life could end at any moment. Everything written by Gudzenko at that time is a lyrical diary young soldier Great Patriotic. The poet writes about what he saw, what he experienced himself, about "icy cold" and "flames of fires", about "trench patience" and "blind fury" of attacks.
First death
You know,
first death
Classmate, friend...
We were waiting for the scouts in a hot hut,
were silent
And the pipe was smoked in a circle.
Potatoes were steaming in a large iron.
I filled the phone
And gave it to a neighbor.
You know,
There is a commandment in war:
wait for reconnaissance
And have lunch together.
"Well, how are the guys? ..
Will they come back? .. "-
each of us repeated this phrase.
He entered.
The sergeant gave the gun.
"Serezha is dead...
To the head...
Straightaway..."
And if you
Friends at the front
understand this truth
I was waiting for him to come in
such,
How he lived in the forests of the Moscow region,
always wrapped in machine-gun belt.
I was waiting for him in the morning.
There was a blizzard.
He must come.
I brewed concentrates.
But somewhere
In deep
Smolensk snows
frozen body
Army brother.
You know,
Is in our soldier's destiny
first death...
They talked in circles
and all about one
Nothing about myself.
Only about revenge
About revenge
For a friend.
"I was infantry in a clean field ..."
I was infantry in a clean field,
in trench mud and on fire.
I became an army journalist
in Last year in that war.
But if we fight again...
This is the law:
let me send again
to the infantry battalion.
Be under the command of the elders
at least a third of the way
then I can from those peaks
get into poetry.
"Before Attack"
When they go to death - they sing,
and before that
You can cry.
After all, the worst hour in battle -
hour of attack.
Snow mines dug all around
and turned black from mine dust.
Gap -
And a friend dies.
And that means death passes by.
Now it's my turn
Behind me alone
There is a hunt.
Damn you
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 already
Unable to wait.
And leads us through the trenches
petrified enmity,
bayonet holed neck.
The fight was short.
And then
jammed ice cold vodka,
and cut with a knife
from under the nails
I am someone else's blood.
Host: Poets wrote about many things during the war years. Mikhail Vasilyevich Isakovsky - the author of the famous songs "Katyusha", "Spark", "In the forest near the front" - the same age as the century, the poet of the people, natural. It is no coincidence that dozens of his poems have become amazing songs that have disappeared in the memory of the people.
The song sounds on the verses of M. Isakovsky, music. M. Blanter "Katyusha".
Host: Konstantin Simonov, even before the forty-first year, introduced a certain premonition of war into literature, turning to the theme of courage, heroism, human involvement in the events of the era. During the war, Simonov's poems became textbooks for the whole country of love, fidelity, hatred of the enemy. Front-line songs based on his poems sounded not only at the front line, but also in the rear, uniting the country into a united front.
Love lyrics unexpectedly took an important place in poetry then, began to enjoy extraordinary popularity. Simonov's poems were based on a confidential appeal to very close person- to your wife, beloved, friend or in a heart-to-heart conversation with an interlocutor who understands you well. We do not find pathos in them, because in such works it is inappropriate, impossible, false ...
Host: When it comes to the best lyrical works of poetry of the war years, we do not hesitate to call "Dugout" by Alexei Surkov and "Wait for me" by Konstantin Simonov. Tvardovsky, a strict and even captious connoisseur of poetry, said that "it is these verses that are about the most important thing, they are the" candid diary of the soul.
Against the background of music, a recording of the poem “Wait for me and I will return” sounds
Wait for me and I will come back.
Just wait a lot.
Wait for sadness
Yellow rain.
Wait for the snow to come
Wait when it's hot
Wait when others are not expected
Forgetting yesterday.
Wait when from distant places
Letters will not come
Wait until you get bored
To all who are waiting together.
Wait for me and I will come back,
don't wish well
To everyone who knows by heart
It's time to forget.
Let the son and mother believe
That there is no me
Let friends get tired of waiting
They sit by the fire
They will drink bitter wine in memory
souls...
Wait and drink along with them
do not rush.
Wait for me and I will come back
All deaths out of spite.
Who did not wait for me, let him
Say: "Lucky!"
Do not understand those who did not wait for them,
Like in the middle of a fire
Waiting for your
You saved me
How I survived, we will know
Only you and I
You just knew how to wait
Like no one else.
Host: Many unforgettable lines were created during the Great Patriotic War. In this mighty choir, the author of the poem "Vasily Terkin" Alexander Tvardovsky has his own unique voice. Tvardovsky knew how to peer into a person, to see his essence, to notice the most important thing. Therefore, the poet managed to feel and convey in the image of Vasily Terkin the spirit of truly folk hero, his true features. This is the greatest merit of the poet before the national literature.
The path to the heights of literature Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky went through the hardest roads of the war, rising to the comprehension of the epic character of the national hero. Such work turned out to be up to the poet only thanks to life and military experience, thanks to the power of talent. Therefore, Vasily Terkin is dear to all soldiers who endured the hardships of the war and did not lose their inexhaustible optimism and faith in the Victory.
From the first days of the bitter year,
In the difficult hour of the native land,
Not joking, Vasily Terkin,
We made friends with you.
I have no right to forget
What do you owe to your glory,
How and where did you help me.
Cause time, hour of fun,
Dear Terkin at war.
The second soldier (the image of Vasily Terkin):
Soldiers followed us
Leaving the captive region.
I have one political conversation
Repeated:
- Do not be upset!
Let's not get carried away, let's break through
We will live - we will not die.
The time will come, we will return back,
What we have given, we will return.
I would be asked myself
Exactly as much I knew
What is where it is, Russia,
What is your own line?
Presenter: The feat of the Russian people in the Patriotic War is confirmed and fixed in our minds by means of a truthful artistic word. "War is not fireworks at all," Mikhail Kulchitsky wrote, objecting to those who hoped to win "with little bloodshed." War, even the most just, is terrible, because the unnatural is committed in it - the killing of people.
The day it ended
war
And all the trunks fired into account
salute,
At that hour there was one at the celebration
A special moment for our souls.
At the end of the road, on the far side
Under the thunder of firing we said goodbye
first
With all those who died in the war,
How to say goodbye to the dead
alive.
Until then, in the depths of my soul
We didn't say goodbye
irrevocably.
We were with them, as it were, on an equal footing,
And only a leaf separated us
accounting.
We walked the roads of war with them
In a single military brotherhood
before the deadline.
Their harsh glory is illuminated,
From their fate is always close.
And only here in this harsh
moment,
Filled with majesty and sorrow,
We separated forever from them,
These volleys separated us from them.
Host: On hundreds of monuments and obelisks you will not see names, only the number of those buried, among whom were writers and poets-front-line soldiers. They fell for the freedom and independence of our Motherland...
moment of silence
Immortal is the feat of Musa Jalil, who did not lay down his weapon - a poetic word in Hitler's dungeons. Vsevolod Bagritsky died near Leningrad, Boris Bogatkov and Nikolai Mayorov were killed in the battles near Smolensk. Boris Lapin died near Kyiv. In the battles near Stalingrad - Mikhail Kulchitsky ... Recognized and aspiring poets of different ages, nationalities - all of them at the time of difficult trials were at the forefront of the struggle. They fell, they are gone, but they live in poetry collections, their feelings and thoughts have found a voice...
"Victory"
A bluish fog rises from the ground,
Tanks rumble, stretched out in a row.
Like brave falcons, winged,
Red flags hover over the roof.
The old woman hugged the fighter by the neck,
She cried with joy
And smiling fresh trophies
The strict foreman counts.
Like a shadow of the fate of Nazi Germany,
In all directions, wherever you look,
On the glacier torn and slimy
The corpses of enemy soldiers turn black.
Presenter: The generation of soldiers of the Great Patriotic War suffered huge losses. It was estimated that out of every hundred who fought, only three survived. Once again, look at the faces of those who went to war. The faces are simple and spiritual, young and wise beyond their years, with a clear look. Heroic generation of winners. How does it appear to us, young contemporaries?
Presenter: During the Great Patriotic War, Olga Berggolts, remaining in hometown all900 days blockade , worked at the Leningrad radio. Often, exhausted from hunger, she spent the night in the studio, but she never lost her spirit, supporting her appeals to Leningraders with confidential and courageous verses. During the war, O. Bergholz created her best poetic works dedicated to the heroism of the defenders of the city.
"Scout"
We're on the smoking trail
three days they ran after the enemies.
The last city is visible to us,
guarded by gardens.
The enemy retreated.
But if he
managed to open the cylinders,
How are the veins?
And now the scout is equipped
another half day shift.
And this is me.
And I now
I enter the city, the wind is cleaner ...
I sniff the air like a beast
on human ashes.
And I can only do one thing -
run by signaling:
"Infected,
infected"...
And the regiment will begin to prepare.
Then I'll lie down calmly
the end of the war is imminent...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And in an hour
friends will enter
to the last infected city.
Host: Surkov worked as a war correspondent from 1939 to 1945. He was a correspondent for the newspapers Krasnaya Zvezda and Combat Onslaught. Surkov took part in campaigns in Western Belarus, participated in Finnish war, was on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. He was a member of the defense of Moscow. Near Rzhev, he wrote several poems. Aleksey Surkov wrote many popular military songs, such as "Fire beats in a cramped stove ...", as well as many other famous songs.
"Morning of Victory"
Where the grass is damp from dew and from blood,
Where the pupils of machine guns glare fiercely,
In full growth, above the trench of the front edge,
The victorious soldier rose.
The heart beat against the ribs intermittently, often.
Silence ... Silence ... Not in a dream - in reality.
And the infantryman said: - Get rid of it! Basta!-
And noticed a snowdrop in a moat.
And in the soul yearning for light and affection,
The joy of the former melodious stream came to life.
And the soldier bent down and to the shot helmet
Carefully adjusted the flower.
Came to life again in memory were alive -
Moscow suburbs in the snow and on fire Stalingrad.
For the first time in four unthinkable years,
Like a child, the soldier cried.
So stood the infantryman, laughing and sobbing,
With a boot trampling a prickly wattle fence.
Behind the shoulders was a young dawn,
Foreshadowing a sunny day.
Rasul Gamzatov "They say that posthumously ..."
Mikhail Dudin "Nightingales"
Bombing over the city
Sirens long howl.
... And there lies a potato,
Close to the front!
Good potato!
Lies and waits
When will Alyoshka visit her?
Will it crawl through the snow?
And it seems to Alyoshka,
What seems like yesterday
He is a song about potatoes
Bawling at the fire
I went on a campaign with a detachment,
Made a halt…
And all about the blockade
Nobody knew then.
It's getting dark outside the window
December dawn.
There is not a crumb in the apartment.
Alyosha knows: no.
We ate yesterday.
Now wait until tomorrow.
And there - after all, they did not have time
Remove potatoes!
A potato lies
At the Pulkovo Heights
Alyoshka is crawling in the snow,
Crawls with the ground.
Shells whistle over him.
Don't go astray!
Alyosha really needs
Bring potatoes.
Mom will come from the factory,
light up the flame,
Potatoes, the most delicious,
See the kettle!
In the workshop she shells
Sharpened day and night
And I need it, I really need it
Fight to help her.
winding path
Aleshkin trace lay.
Crawling, crawling Alyoshka
And pulls the kettle.
Enemies of what to fear! ..
Maybe they don't get killed.
Here are ours, if you run into,
Will return immediately!
They have orders for this:
Don't let the boys in!
Worthless to any shkets
Dive under the bullets.
Obviously, it's bad.
It is clear that the ban.
But there is something you need too!
And there are no crumbs at home.
The earth is still like a stone!
Frozen - just horror!
Try it with your hands
Such a pick!
But he lies, digs
Under the roar of cannonades.
And Hitler scolds
And all his soldiers.
... Alyoshka you, Alyoshka!
We remember this year.
And frozen potatoes
And proud: "Forward!"
The Lenfront went west.
Straight to victory!
May you not be a soldier
You were a front-line soldier!
Alexander Zatsepa "Letter to God"
Listen to God... Never before in my life
I didn't talk to you, but today
I want to greet you!
You know... since childhood I've always been told
That there is no You, and I, a fool, believed.
I have never beheld your creations.
And so tonight I watched
From the crater that knocked out a grenade
To the starry sky: what was above me.
I suddenly realized, admiring the flicker,
How cruel deceit can be.
I don't know, God, will you give me your hand?
But I will tell you, and you will understand me!
Isn't it strange that in the midst of the most terrible hell,
I suddenly opened the light and I saw You!
And besides that, I have nothing to say
It's just that I'm glad I got to know you.
At midnight we are scheduled to attack.
But I'm not afraid, You look at us.
Signal... Well, well, I must go...
I felt good with you...
I also want to say
That, as you know, the battle will be evil,
And maybe at night I will knock on You.
And even though until now I have not been Your friend,
Will You let me in when I come?!
But I think I'm crying, my God, you see
What happened to me is that now I have seen the light.
Farewell, my God... I'm going... And I'm unlikely to return.
How strange - but now I'm not afraid of death.
Host: The generation of future winners grew up in harsh conditions.
Host: This hardening has become the basis of stamina and hope - to withstand the fight against the enemy, not to break.
Host: The people survived and won. But the specter of war has not sunk into oblivion.
Host: How to resist him? Where to find support points? Think about this...
The song sounds: "Cranes"
Host: We wish everyone a peaceful sky over their heads.
Literary drawing room dedicated to the work of Robert Rozhdestvensky.
The voice of Robert Rozhdestvensky was heard immediately, as soon as the magazine "October" published in 1955 his youthful poem "My Love". The young poet clearly and simply spoke about things close to many. The trusting, open intonation of this voice bribed ...
The poem began in the chest
Threatening to break the chest.
Now her
How not to twist
Do not write
It is forbidden.
I raved about her at night
Take care of her like life.
I rocked her in my arms
And he repeated:
Write!
Write!
I demanded
But me
Answered a bunch of lines:
Wait!
Have you been on fire?
Whether kneaded
Road dust?
Have you met death in attack?
Are you used to holding on?
And do you know life
To dare
Tell others about her?
What was behind the "heap of lines" of this first, still largely imperfect, but very sincere poem?
Military Siberian childhood, trains, slow, like queues for bread... School of Music, pioneer concerts in the Omsk hospital, when seriously wounded soldiers and commanders listen to you, a stuttering twelve-year-old cadet ...
Robert Ivanovich Rozhdestvensky was born in the Altai village of Kosikha in 1932, in the family of an OGPU-NKVD worker, Stanislav Nikodimovich Petkevich. Surname and patronymic of Rozhdestvensky - after his stepfather. Rozhdestvensky himself remembers little about his father: his father scolded his work, then he drank heavily. In 1937, the parents separated. After the divorce, the poet's father managed to leave the authorities, in 1939 he participated in the Soviet-Finnish war, in 1941 he volunteered for the front and soon died there.
Mother worked in Kosikha as a school director. Just before the start of the war, she graduated from the Omsk Medical Institute. And when the war broke out, which caught Rozhdestvensky in Omsk, the parents of the future poet went to the front. The boy was brought up during the war, first by his grandmother, and then by his aunt. The milestones of education were the Danilovsky Orphanage (in Moscow) and the Third Moscow Military Music School for pupils of the Workers 'and Peasants' Red Army. “And I,” he recalls, “shocked by everything that happened, wrote a poem, and our school teacher took this poem to the newspaper. It was published there... The first publication of Rozhdestvensky's poems appeared in July 1941 in the Omskaya Pravda newspaper.
Many years later, Rozhdestvensky wrote:
I was born in the village of Kosikha.
Rainy summer.
In Altai.
And outside the village
blue field
And it smelled
overripe downpour...
Not!
I was born much later.
Then.
In June.
At forty-one.
Levitan
Was my lullaby.
Me
The war took over.
I am her son.
I am full of it...
In 1950, the poet entered the Faculty of History and Philology of the Karelian-Finnish (now Petrozavodsk) University, from where a year later he moved to the Literary Institute named after A.M. Gorky, who graduated in 1956. At the Literary Institute, he met Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who studied a year earlier, Rasul Gamzatov, Grigory Pozhenyan, Grigory Baklanov, Chingiz Aitmatov, entered literature together with Bella Akhmadulina, Andrei Voznesensky, Vladimir Tsybin.
The lyrics of Rozhdestvensky quickly gained public resonance. Reflecting on the nature of this success, Konstantin Simonov wrote: “I especially appreciate in Robert Rozhdestvensky the enviable ability to raise difficult questions and reflect on them in front of the reader, to seek and find answers to them, although not obligatory for any of us, but invariably causing respect purity, honesty, the conviction of the search. Of course, poetry is not only alive with problems, but poetry without problems is dead…” See how much philosophy, reflections on the hours of life in his poem "Hours".
Hours go by...
Do you think -
Discovery!
Correct, so...
Has gained -
Wear…
I'm not talking about that!
Look outside:
On the morning earth
The clock is coming!
Inaudibly, the minutes are rushing,
the clock is running
They knock on my window.
The hours go by
And get past them
Don't meet them
Living is not given ...
Hours of a short life of a person,
See -
I will outsmart you!
I will run into the house.
I will close the door firmly.
Now knock -
I won't open!
Bury yourself
close up
You won't let me in
You will spoil your gift watch,
Forget the time
And forget your friends
And shut up
And you won't remember anything.
Proud of the cozy silence of the apartment
And with my own cunning
beaming,
Quicker
Barricade the doors!
But the hour
Will come!
The inevitable hour.
It will come at any time of the year
On the thought
For lazy dreams.
The hour will come
On the heart and throat...
And, in fear for myself,
You wake up!..
And break the window
Wet wind.
And the leaves are falling
In drops of dew...
Hear:
The clock strikes!
And after that
Feel
Backhand
Bute
Watch!
Since the childhood of Rozhdestvensky fell on the military hard times. I had to go through a lot, so the theme of the Great Patriotic War is far from the last place in the poet's work.
Forty hard years.
Omsk hospital ...
The corridors are dry and easily soiled.
The old nanny whispers:
"God!..
What are the artists
Little…”
We walk in long wards.
We almost melt into them
with balalaikas,
With mandolins
And big stacks of books...
The program includes reading
A couple of songs
Military, correct ...
We are in the ward for the seriously wounded
We enter with trepidation and reverence ...
Two are here.
Major of artillery
With an amputated leg
in a crazy fight
Under Yelnya
Taking on the fire.
He looks at the aliens cheerfully ...
And another -
Bandaged up to the eyebrows, -
Captain,
Rammed "Messer"
Three weeks ago
Near Rostov...
We entered.
We stand in silence...
Suddenly
Breaking falsetto
Abrikosov Grishka desperately
Announces the beginning of the concert.
And behind him
Not quite perfect
But listening with might and main,
About the folk sings
Oh sacred
So,
How do we understand it...
In it, Chapaev fights again,
Red Star tanks are racing.
Our
in the attack,
And the Nazis are dropping dead.
In it, someone else's iron melts,
In it, even death must recede.
To be honest,
Like
Us
Such a war...
We sing…
Is distributed.
And in it - a reproach:
"Wait...
Hold on guys...
Wait...
Died
Major…”
The balalaika burst out mournfully.
hastily,
Like crazy...
That's all
About the concert in the hospital
In that year.
(A song sounds to the words of R. Rozhdestvensky “For that guy ...”)
And the most famous was the poem "Requiem", dedicated to the memory of the fallen on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. In its ten chapters, ten verse melodies sound - spells, songs and laments, where the voice of the poet comes into contact with the voice of a mother who did not wait for her son, with the voices of dead soldiers.
Oh why are you
The sun is red
You're all leaving
Don't say goodbye?
Oh why
From the joyless war
Son,
Are you not coming back?
I will save you from trouble
I'll fly
Eagle fast.
Respond, my blood!
Small.
The only one…
A large place in the work of Robert Rozhdestvensky is occupied by love lyrics. His hero is whole here, as in other manifestations of his character. This does not mean at all that, entering the zone of feelings, he does not experience dramatic contradictions and conflicts. On the contrary, all Rozhdestvensky's poems about love are filled with disturbing heart movement. The path to the beloved for the poet is always a difficult path; it is, in essence, the search for the meaning of life, the one and only happiness, the path to oneself.
“Everything begins with love” is the poet’s program poem. This is the name of one of the best collections released in 1977.
Everything starts with love...
They say:
"At first
It was
Word…"
And I proclaim again:
Everything starts
With love!..
Everything starts with love:
And illumination
And work
The eyes of flowers, the eyes of a child
Everything starts with love.
Everything starts with love.
With love!
I know it for sure.
All,
Even hatred -
native
And eternal
Sister of love.
Everything starts with love:
Dream and fear
Wine and gunpowder.
Tragedy,
Yearning
And the feat
Everything starts with love...
Spring whispers to you:
"Live..."
And you shake from a whisper.
And straighten up.
And you will begin.
Everything starts with love!
And further…
Please be
Weaker.
Be
please.
And then I will give you
miracle
Easy.
And then I'll fly out -
I'll grow up
I'll be special.
I'll take it out of the burning house
You
Sleepy.
I'll venture into all the unknown
For everything reckless,
I'll throw myself into the sea
thick,
ominous -
And I will save you!
This will
My heart told me
Commanded by the heart...
But you are
Stronger than me
stronger
and more confident!
Are you ready to save others?
From heavy despondency.
You yourself are not afraid
Not the whistle of a blizzard
no crackling fire.
Don't get lost
Don't drown
you won't accumulate evil.
You won't cry
And you won't groan
if you want.
Become smooth
And become windy
if you want.
Me with you -
so sure-
difficult
Highly.
Even on purpose
At least for a moment -
I ask,
Robey -
Help me believe in myself
become
Weaker.
(A song sounds on the verses of R. Rozhdestvensky “Echo of Love”)
Robert Rozhdestvensky published more than thirty books in a quarter of a century of poetic work, many of which have been translated into different languages peace. Songs based on his poems are sung in our country by millions. The words of his poems fall on the music naturally, as if they did not exist without it. Here are some of them: “For that guy”, “Comrade Song”, “Great sky”, “Moments”, “Song of a distant homeland”, “Call me, call”.
(The song "Call me, call" sounds)
