Attention! The site administration site is not responsible for the content methodological developments, as well as for compliance with the development of the Federal State Educational Standard.

This scenario designed to hold a festival of poems, poets who died in the war. Not many unfortunately in our time can say who wrote this or that poem. All the poets of our front were people of duty and the highest courage. This is the pride of all our people! 400 poets did not return from the fields of war. The legendary generation of front-line soldiers who did not come ...

The purpose of the festival: the formation of an active civic position among the younger generation, education in the spirit of patriotism and love for the motherland.

Festival objectives:

• propaganda and popularization of civil and patriotic direction in the creative activity of youth.
• the formation and education of artistic taste, positive social attitudes and interests of the younger generation, the introduction of the greatest possible number of children, adolescents and youth to the best cultural traditions.

Form of organization of children's activities: poetry festival.

Scenario of the city festival "A line broken by a bullet ..."

Track 1. SLIDE 1

The music of the war years sounds, the screen saver “Line, torn off by a bullet... ". After that, the lights go out everywhere, a video appears on the memorial - a film survey.

SLIDE 2

Video - film-survey (opening remarks):

On the eve of the 70th anniversary of the Victory in the Great Patriotic War, we decided to make a report about those who did not live, did not love. They gave their lives, for the lives of the current generation, for our future. About the poets who died in the war ... We must know them, appreciate and remember them!

Video clip.

Music sounds (lyrical) - Track 2, a girl enters the stage. The screen saver "A line broken by a bullet ..." is displayed on the memorial. -

SLIDE 3

Young woman: Woe to the man who loses his memory! It is a crime if they deprive him of his memory, but deprive him ... Before our eyes ...

Genrikh Borovik in New York, opposite the UNPO building, somehow tried to ask passers-by, mostly young guys, what they know about the Second World War. He asked: “How many Soviet people died?” - did not know. To the question: “Who died more, Russians or Americans?” – more than half answered that they were Americans. Many could not even tell who fought against whom! In truth, not famous war… Just think about it! To know nothing about a war in which sixty-one states were involved! Over 80% of the population the globe. About the war, the fire of which blazed for 2194 days and nights! About a war that claimed fifty million human lives.

He descends from the stage, the lights go out on the stage, a collage (portraits of poets) is highlighted on the memorial.

SLIDE 4

I have a book in my hands, it is called "Immortality". On its pages are printed poems by those young poets who died in the war. I leafed through the pages of this book and felt a lump rise up in my throat. After all, no matter the surname, no matter the line ... a young life cut short by the deadly metal of war, fused into songs! Thirty-three names! Thirty-three human fates! Thirty-three lives of those striving to express themselves in a sounding word, but crushed by the damp deafness of mass graves.

And among them are well-known Soviet poets, such as the handsome man, lyricist, idol of Moscow girls, Joseph Utkin ... And the young Pavel Kogan, Nikolai Mayorov, Vasily Kubanev, Mikhail Kulchitsky, who have barely begun their journey ... These names are the sacrifice that Soviet literature brought to the Motherland! In my difficult, tragic moment ...

The light goes out. The girl quietly leaves, another girl appears on the stage. The light turns on. On the screen is a portrait of Y. Drunina.

SLIDE 5

Young woman:(reads a poem by Yulia Drunina "Country of Youth")

Give, or something, Wells' car -
On the move to Youth, I machan:
Neither by air nor by rail
Do not return to that country.
There, in a stooped dugout
(Unkilled! My God!),
War Veterans (Guys,
Did not finish the tenth)
Before the fight they scribble home.
There Valerka fries canned food,
There Sergey is playing the harmonica.
Why is this before the fight
Is the sky crazy blue?
Oh boy, I miss you
Twenty years, twenty years!
Youth, youth! In a country like this
As you know, there is no return.
What of it? Forever and ever
I am faithful to its rules.
It's not a problem for me, it's a problem
'Cause I'm at war
Because it's following me
Those killed boys are a platoon.

The light goes out. The girl leaves.

SLIDE 6

The music of the bombing sounds - Track 4, then (SLIDE 7) the recording of Levitan's voice - Track 5. The light turns on. On the screen is a poster “The motherland is calling” - SLIDE 8. The music “A huge country is rising” is playing - Track 6, guys and girls, soldiers, nurses begin to leave the backstage from the hall. The last to go is a young guy, dressed in a shirt, trousers, a conscript's backpack over his shoulder. Stops near the memorial and reads a poem.

A portrait of Boris Bogatkov and F.I. appears on the screen.

SLIDE 9

Guy:(Boris Bogatkov “Everything in the morning goes on as usual ...”)

Everything in the morning goes on as usual.
Everyday, autumn day capital -
Nice day of hard work.
Noise of trolleybuses, calls of trams,
The call of beeps comes from the outskirts,
Hurried crowds, as always.
But today and passers-by in the face,
And on the buildings of the native capital
I look with special feelings,
And I give the fighters a brotherly smile:
The last time I'm in civilian clothes
Under the military sky I pass.

After the poem, he also leaves behind the memorial. The light goes out everywhere. Track 7

Voice behind the scene: Boris Bogatkov.Boris Bogatkov was born in 1922 in Achinsk. Since childhood, he has been fond of poetry. He knew well the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, Mayakovsky, Bagritsky. From the age of twenty-two, Bogatkov was at the front, he was enrolled in the 22nd Siberian Volunteer Division as the commander of a platoon of submachine gunners. In August 1943, in the battle for Smolensk, Bogatkov, with a song, raised machine gunners to attack and, at the head of them, burst into enemy trenches. In this battle, Boris Bogatkov died a heroic death.

A portrait of Alexei Lebedev and F.I. appears on the screen.

SLIDE 10

track 8

Voice behind the scene: Alexey Lebedev. Alexei Lebedev was born in 1912 in Suzdal. At twenty-nine, he went to the front. Poems began to write early. On the eve of the war he graduated military school, and was appointed submarine navigator. In November 1941, the submarine, on which Alexei Lebedev served, ran into a mine while performing a combat mission in the Gulf of Finland. The poet perished along with his ship.

A guy appears on the stage and reads a poem, a line-by-line presentation is displayed on the memorial.

Guy:(Alexey Lebedev)

Either remember or forget - SLIDE 11
The smell of wind, water and pine,
Pillar of rays of pierced dust
On the mean roads of spring?..
Or it is already impossible to remember - SLIDE 12
Like visions of a distant dream
Behind the railway platform
Only pines, sand, silence.
Firmament crystal bowl - SLIDE 13
Edges of gold from the sun.
This is your pure youth,
This is my tenderness.

The light goes out. A portrait of Vsevolod Bagritsky and F.I. appears on the screen.

SLIDE 14. Track 9

Voice behind the scene: Vsevolod Bagritsky: Vsevolod Bagritsky was born in 1922 in Odessa, in the family of the famous Soviet poet Eduard Bagritsky. He began to write poetry in early childhood. From the first days of the war, he rushes to the front. On the eve of 1942, Bagritsky, together with the poet Shubin, was appointed to the newspaper Second shock army. He died in February 1942 while performing a combat mission.

Literary and musical composition: Track 10.

Two young men dressed in military uniforms appear on the stage with machine guns in their hands.

The first:(Vsevolod Bagritsky “I hate to live ...”)

I hate to live without undressing,
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
To forget the tired hunger.
Chilling, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
From home do not receive an answer,
Change junk for black bread.
Consider yourself dead twice a day
Confuse plans, numbers and paths,
Rejoice that he lived in the world less than ... Twenty.

He sits on the edge of the stage and, as it were, begins to clean the rifle.

Second:(Vsevolod Bagritsky "Waiting") - Track 11

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 indignantly, 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!

Freeze in position with weapons ready for battle. The lights go out in the hall. An excerpt from the film “We are from the Future” is played on the screen: For the Motherland! For Stalin!-

SLIDE 15

At the end of the excerpt where the mine explodes, the lights on the stage flicker, the young people sit down on one knee. A nurse appears on the scene (military uniform)

SLIDE 16. Track 12

Nurse:

The fight is over. Now rest
Reply to letters ... And again on the road!
You will live Commander Abakov, the journey is not over yet!
You will live Commander Abakov!

(Vsevolod Bagritsky "The Ballad of Friendship")

If you are wounded in mortal combat,
In a fierce battle.
Your friend will tear his shirt.
Your friend will bandage your wound.
Your friend will help you.

The light is flashing. The sound of a mine exploding. – Track 13

Commander Abakov was wounded in battle
Fascist bullet stray.
And the wind blew away the clouds
And the sun swayed on the edges of the bayonets...
Commander Abakov was wounded in battle.
A messenger hurried to help him
Comrade and friend - Kvashnin.
He bandaged the wound with a shirt.
Then crawling downhill.
The earth hummed, pounded in the temples.
Through smoke and fire in dead hands
He carried his friendship.
Already in the distance battle smoke.
It smelled of grass and forest wind.

The singing of larks begins to sound in the background. – Track 14

The larks sing:

"Take my rifle, brother.
Take my rifle.
Take a rifle, my friend and brother.
Hit the enemy without a miss..."
Perhaps they saw then
In the dying moment.
How trouble flaps its black wings.
As water burns in black blood.
How doom overtook them.

The light goes out. The guys leave the stage. The portrait of Mirza Gelovani and F.I. -

SLIDE 17. Track 15

Voice behind the scene: Mirza Gelovani. Mirza Gelovani was born in 1917. He began writing poetry at a young age. In the second half of the thirties, Gelovani systematically published in magazines. From 1939 to 1944 he served in the Red Army. He is a member of the Great Patriotic War from her first days. Mirza Gelovani died in 1944. He was 27 years old.

Lights are off everywhere. A girl in a black dress appears on the stage with a candle in her hands.

Track 16

Young woman:(Mirza Gelovani: "You")

Do you remember,
mines burst every now and then
And all the land around was black?
Do you remember the bullet flew past
But did she meet the heart of a friend?
He lay at the fence of the church of the former
In an overcoat of exorbitant width,
Not knowing happiness yet
not loved,
A week did not live up to spring.
The blast wave was flattened and bent
His beat-up machine gun…
And you said that the main thing -
don't flinch
From grief, trials and loss.
We're going to fight...
Slow meters!
In the eyes of the dead - evil conflagrations of copper ...
Nothing can save us from death
If we fail to overcome death.

A portrait of Musa Jalil and F.I. appears on the screen. -

SLIDE 18. Track 17

Voice behind the scene: Musa Jalil. Musa Jalil was born in 1906 in the Orenburg village. He worked in the Tatar-Bashkir Bureau of the Central Committee of the Komsomol, edited children's magazines and headed the Writers' Union of Tataria. On the very first day of the war, Musa Jalil joined the ranks of the army. And in June 1942, on the Volkhov front, a seriously wounded man was taken prisoner. In the concentration camp, he conducted active underground work, for which he was exiled to prison. In 1944 the poet was executed. Musa Jalil was posthumously awarded the title of Hero Soviet Union.

An image of the manuscript appears on the screen. -

SLIDE 19

The guy comes out.

Guy:(Musa Jalil: "My songs")

Songs, in my soul I have grown your seedlings,
Now in the fatherland bloom in warmth.
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 and tears of purity.
If you die, I will die in oblivion,
If you live, I will live with you.
In the song I lit the fire, performing
The order of the heart and the order of the people.
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 truth and passion -
For what I live and fight.
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.

The guy leaves, a portrait and F.I. Musa Jalil. -

SLIDE 20

A girl appears on the stage, dressed in a military uniform.

Young woman:(Musa Jalil "Death of a Girl")

One hundred wounded she saved alone
And took it out of the firestorm,
She gave them water to drink
And she bandaged their wounds.
Under a shower of hot lead
She crawled, crawled without stopping
And, having picked up a wounded fighter,
Don't forget about his rifle.
But for the hundred and first time, for the last time
She was struck down by a fragment of a fierce mine ...
The silk banners bowed in a sad hour,
And her blood burned in them as if.
Here is a girl lying on a stretcher.
The wind plays with a golden strand.
Like a cloud that the sun is in a hurry to hide,
Eyelashes shaded a radiant gaze.
A calm smile on her
Lips, eyebrows arched calmly.
She seemed to have fallen into oblivion.
The conversation ended in mid-sentence.
A hundred lives young life lit
And suddenly she went out in the bloody hour.
But a hundred hearts for good deeds
Her posthumous will be inspired by glory.
It went out, not having time to bloom, spring.
But, as the dawn gives birth to the day, burning down,
Bringing death to the enemy, she
She remained immortal, dying.

The girl leaves. The light goes out. A portrait and F.I. appear on the screen. Pavel Kogan. –

SLIDE 21. Track 18

Voice behind the scene: Pavel Kogan. Pavel Kogan was born in 1918 in Kyiv. He began to write poetry early, but still belonged to the number of the most gifted young poets. In the spring of 1941, Kogan set off for Armenia as part of a geological expedition. Here the Patriotic War found him. He was 19 years old. In September 1942, Lieutenant Pavel Kogan, who led the reconnaissance group, was killed near Novorossiysk.

To lyrical music, a girl appears on the stage and reads a verse. -
Track 19

Young woman:(Pavel Kogan "Star")

My bright star.
My pain is old.
Gar is brought by trains
Far, wormwood.
From your alien steppes,
Where is the beginning now
All my beginnings and days
And longing moorings.
How many letters carried September
How many bright letters ...
Okay - earlier, but at least
Now hurry up.
In the field of darkness, in the field of horror -
Autumn over Russia.
I rise. fit
To dark blue windows.
Darkness. Deaf. Darkness. Silence.
Old anxiety.
teach me to carry
Courage on the road
teach me always
The goal is to see through the distance.
Satisfy my star
All my sorrows
Darkness. Deaf. Trains
Gar is carried by wormwood.
My motherland. Star.
My pain is old.

The music intensifies (the girl leaves).

The screen displays a portrait of Elena Shirman and F.I. -

SLIDE 22. Track 20

Voice behind the scene: Elena Shirman. Elena Shirman was born in 1908 in Rostov-on-Don. At 33, she went to the front. From childhood, she composed poetry, was fond of drawing, went in for sports, was a pioneer of one of the first Rostov detachments. From the beginning of the war, Elena Shirman was the editor of the propaganda newspaper Direct Fire, where her battle poems were published. In July 1942, as part of the visiting editorial office of the Rostov newspaper, she went to one of the districts of the region. She was captured by the Nazis with all the editorial materials ... and died heroically.

Literary and musical composition: Track 21.

First girl:(Elena Shirman "The Way Through the Pines")

I love thinking about you
When the dew blooms on the leaves
Sunset through the pines is getting colder
And weightless as an idea
The fog over the river turns gray.
I love thinking about you
When drunker than the smell of wine,
Now suddenly jerky, then long,
Both voluptuous and innocent
A nightingale whistle will be heard.
I love thinking about you.
A stream, murmuring, flows into the darkness.
And bridge. And night. And the voice of a bird.
And I'm going. And my path wanders
A twenty page letter.
I love thinking about you.

Second girl:(Elena Shirman "Arrival") - Track 22

The composition, panting, will fly under the arch,
Towards rush and windows, and hubbub,
And cold, and laughter. And someone sobbing
Will cry. And it will all be familiar
As in childhood, in a fever.
After all, it’s so kind
Written to me according to an old sign -
And the fact that I will not find you again,
And the fact that you will not meet me again.
And faces. And backs. And a bright platform.
And someone pushes me. loud
Locomotive whistle. And this is not a dream
That you don't exist. And my visit is in vain.
Rolling and spinning, the station will roll,
Glittering halls and dark corridors.
And the area is empty. And the lantern, like a fuse,
Blink, setting fire to the abandoned city.

Third girl:(Elena Shirman "Return") - Track 23

It will, I know...
Not soon, perhaps -
You will enter bearded, round-shouldered, different.
Your kind lips will become drier and stricter,
Scorched by time and war.
But the smile remains.
One way or another,
I understand it's you.
Not in poetry, not in a dream.
I'll run, I'll run.
And I'll probably cry
As once, buried in a damp overcoat ...
You lift my head.
Say "Hi..."
You will run an unusual hand on your cheek.
I will go blind from tears, from eyelashes and from happiness.
It will not be soon.
But you will come.

Each girl reads a poem against a certain music. The third girl appears from the hall. After reading the poem, a soldier appears in the hall. Scene "Return" and freeze frame. The light goes out.

A portrait and F.I. appear on the screen. Nikolai Mayorov. -

SLIDE 23. Track 24

Voice behind the scene: Nikolai Mayorov. Nikolai Mayorov was born in 1919. Early began to write poetry, which he read at school evenings and published in the wall newspaper. In the summer of 1941 Mayorov, together with other Moscow students, digs anti-tank ditches near Yelnya. In October, his request for enlistment in the army was granted. He was 22 years old. Political instructor Nikolai Mayorov was killed in the Smolensk region in February 1942.

Young woman:(Nikolai Mayorov "What does it mean to love")

Go through the blizzard ahead.
Crawl. Run blind.
Go and fall. beat with a forehead
and yet love her - such!
Forget about home and sleep
about what
your insults are innumerable,
that past the morning mail
carried someone else's happiness.
Forget the last loss
station light,
forgive her
and somehow to the old door,
almost without remembering, kindly.
Enter as new conception of dramas.
Feel the walls, the cold of the plates...
Throw your coat on the light switch
forgetting where the hanger hangs.
And turn on the light. And move the curtain
seditious darkness. Then again
get envelopes from the far shelves,
parse letters line by line.
Look up words by comparing numbers.
Don't remember dreams. Although screaming,
reach the meaning at any cost,
understand and start again.
Do not sleep at night, drive silence from the rooms,
move the tables, take the last redoubt,
and women who do not remember
call back and know that they will not come.
Do not sleep at night, miss the letters,
do not honor promises, arguments, praises
and see those unseen heights,
which before the eye did not reach, -
find the eternal foundations of things.
Suddenly remember life.
Recognize her by sight.
Come to you and without saying a word
leave, forget and come back again,
my love, my power.
The light goes out. The screen shows a portrait and F.I. Fatih Karim.–

SLIDE 24. Track 25

Voice behind the scene: Fatih Karim. Fatih Karim was born in 1909 in a Bashkir village. At the beginning of the 30s, Fatih Karim, being in active service in the ranks of the Red Army, actively participates in the work of the Komsomolets newspaper. In 1941, he went to the front as an ordinary soldier - a sapper. Fatih Karim died a heroic death two days before the victory over Nazi Germany.

The girl comes out.

Young woman:(Fatih Karim "Wild Geese")

Blue sky paths
From the sea where they lived in winter
Again the geese fly over the trenches,
Returning home in the spring.
Here we have lakes in abundance.
How many backwaters in the thicket of the forest!
And lilies bloom on them
Surprising with its whiteness.
Over meadows and misty thickets
Flying in the spring days
A silky arrow as a gift to me,
Wild goose, drop it on the fly.
I'll take your gray feather
I will plunge into the splendor of the spring dawn,
A ringing song with fiery faith
I will write about my native country.
Not the first time on the battlefield
In a formidable fight, in a bloody battle,
My people are like the spring sun,
You warm my soul.
Let me die, but the songs will remain -
They are my love and hope.
... Again wild geese stretch
A string to their native lands.

The light goes out, a portrait appears on the screen and F.I. Vladislav Zanadvorov.–

SLIDE 25. Track 26

Voice behind the scene: Vladislav Zanadvorov was born in 1914 in Perm. In February 1942, Zanadvorov was drafted into the ranks Soviet army. He was a participant in the great battle on the Volga and died a heroic death in the November battles of 1942.

Young woman:(Vladislav Zanadvorov "A piece of native land)

A piece of land, it is all soaked in blood.
The dense frozen snow blackened from the smoke.
Even accustomed to verbosity,
Here a person gets used to silence.
Ahead lie gentle heights,
And below - fallen to its knees forest.
Frowning foreheads, enemy bunkers
We got up, like the night, across.
The crumpled parapet. Broken bed.
Dugout corner. The shells swept away everyone.
Death danced here, but we love everything
Bloodied piece of foreign land.
Step by step exactly three weeks
We crawled up, not knowing barriers.
Even the dead did not want to leave
This lightning-scorched hell.
Let at any cost, but just to get there,
Though drilling snow, but only to crawl,
So that in silence it’s scary and cruel to fight,
Everything as it is, sweeping away in its path.
A company lingered under mounted fire,
But the comrade stepped forward. ..
Breast fell on the embrasure of the pillbox -
Immediately the machine gun choked with blood!
We forgot everything... We fought mercilessly.
We carried our anger on the blades of bayonets,
Sparing no life to take back
A broken piece of native land.

The light goes out, a portrait appears on the screen and F.I. Leonid Vilkomir. -

SLIDE 26. Track 27

Voice behind the scene: Leonid Vilkomir. Leonid Vilkomir was born in 1912 in Old Bukhara. In the 31st year, Leonid, together with a group of comrades, went to Nizhny Tagil and became an employee of the local newspaper. So the theme of the Urals entered his work. Since the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Leonid Vilkomir has been at the front, flying combat aircraft, and is a member of tank crews. In July 1942, while performing a combat mission, Vilkomir's plane was shot down and fell on the territory occupied by the enemy. He did not return to the unit. He was 30 years old.

Young woman:(Leonid Vilkomir "We will win!")

We will win. My words,
Mine is blue over the world,
Mine are trees and bushes
My doubts and dreams.
Let the earth rear up
Screams, and rages, and drives -
Won't bend me to your feet
Like a ship's mast in a storm.
I will live how I want:
I'll fly like a free bird
I will open my eyes to the height,
I will grow grass at my feet,
In the deserts I will spill water,
In the seas I will tremble with a star,
In the mountains, I will run a road.
I am a man, I can do anything!

Lights go out everywhere. All readers go to the screen and stand in a wedge.

The clip "Cranes" is turned on on the screen.–

SLIDE 27

SLIDE 28

Young woman: All the poets of our front were people of duty and the highest courage. No, believe me, these are not only words of exemplary respect, this is pride! The pride of all our people! 21 writers were awarded the title Hero of the Soviet Union. 400 poets did not return from the fields of war. The legendary generation of front-line soldiers who did not come ... -

SLIDE 29

The metronome sounds. – Track 28

A moment of silence.

SLIDE 30

Young woman: Dedicated to the memory of the poets who died in the war ...

Readers sit down

SLIDE 31

Music sounds, children come out - Track 29

No matter how many years pass, the descendants will always cherish the memory of their fathers and grandfathers and thank them for defending the world in the name of our bright life!

Song - Track 30

Victory in the Great Patriotic War is the result of the heroism and courage of all our people. We should be proud of this victory and preserve the grateful memory of those who won this victory in fierce battles.

Happy holiday to you Dear guests!
Happiness, peace, health to you!

To the sound of music, everyone leaves the hall. – Track 31

literary lounge.

The event is held in the auditorium. On the stage there is a "memorial plaque" with the names of the dead poets, which will be discussed; above it - in large letters the theme, 9 chairs, which will be filled with gradually appearing "poets" in military uniform; in the center - a small table with 9 candles that will be lit; in front of the stage - a table for presenters, on it is a tape recorder. The song "Cranes" sounds (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov).

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.

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!

Leading.
Before the Great Patriotic War, there were 2186 writers and poets in the USSR, 944 people went to the front, 417 did not return from the war.

Leading.
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
without finishing...
A year before the war, characterizing his generation, Nikolai Mayorov wrote about the same:
We were tall, fair-haired,

About the people who left without loving,

The melody "Holy War" sounds (music by A. Alexandrov), two "poets" appear on the stage and read the lines.

George Suvorov.
In memories we will not grieve,


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 on the extreme chairs.

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. From the very beginning of the war, he was in the army, was seriously shell-shocked and demobilized. The young patriot strives 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.

Boris Bogatkov appears on the stage.

Boris Bogatkov (reads the poem "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 she is, desired, in her 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 native
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. The melody of the song "Dark Night" sounds (music by N. Bogoslovsky, lyrics by V. Agatov).

Leading.
The verses of Iosif 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.

Joseph Utkin (reads the poem "It's 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. Pavel Kogan with a guitar and Mikhail Kulchitsky appear, sit on chairs.

Leading.
In the summer of 1936, a song was sounded in one of the Moscow houses on Leningradsky Prospekt, which for more than 60 years has been the anthem of the romantics.

Pavel Kogan sings "Brigantine", Mikhail Kulchitsky sings along with him.

Leading.
The author of these lines was a future student of the Gorky Literary Institute Pavel Kogan. 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 Nazi 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.

Leading.
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, visionary, lazy-envy! ..").

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.
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, suitable for long-distance flights.

Nikolai Mayorov reads the poem "There is a sound of metal in my voice."

Nikolai Mayorov.
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 a Nameless Height” sounds (music by V. Basner, lyrics by M. Matusovsky).

Leading.
Lieutenant Vladimir Chugunov commanded a rifle company at the front. He died on the Kursk Bulge, raising fighters to attack. On a wooden obelisk, friends wrote: “Vladimir Chugunov, a warrior, a poet, a citizen, who fell on July 5, 1943, is buried here.”

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.

Leading.

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 ...".

George 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).

Leading.
24-year-old senior sergeant Grigor Akopyan, a 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 "Honorary Citizen 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).

Leading.
World-famous are the poems of the famous Tatar poet, who died in the Nazi dungeon, Musa Jalil, who was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.

Leading.
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.

Leading.

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, 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.

Leading.

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 that “nourish the earth”, with songs like the sonorous songs of a spring, with songs that make them blossom” human souls gardens." Love for the Motherland sounds like a song in the poet's heart.

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.

Leading.
The philanthropic poetry of Jalil is an accusation against fascism, its barbarism 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!

Leading.
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.

Leading.
"Moabite Notebooks" is the most amazing literary monument of our era. For them, the poet Musa Jalil was posthumously awarded the Lenin Prize.

Leading.
Let there be a moment of silence. Eternal glory to the dead poets!

A moment of silence.

Leading.

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 price is 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.

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 the 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 Hill is visible to us
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

The daily audience of the Potihi.ru portal is about 200 thousand visitors, who total amount view more than two million pages according to the traffic counter, which is located to the right of this text. Each column contains two numbers: the number of views and the number of visitors.

1 of 21

Presentation on the topic: A string broken by a bullet

slide number 1

Description of the slide:

slide number 2

Description of the slide:

The memory is alive ... "When the guns rumble, the muses are silent" - it was customary to say before the Great Patriotic War. But the war showed that the poetic word did not stop. Born in the fire of battles, it was unsurpassed in its strength and became the property of the people fighting against the invaders. A whole generation of poets perished in the war. They died, and their poems still sound, striking with their purity and sincerity. In the ranks of the fighting poets went to battle, not hoping for immortality and posthumous recognition, something else was important for them. They defended their homeland. They left without having finished smoking their last cigarette. Their line was cut off by a bullet. It is sad to realize these losses. Although more than six decades have passed since their death, the wound does not heal. And at the same time, the heart is filled with pride for those who have earned immortality with their whole lives.

slide number 3

Description of the slide:

Poetry was the most operational, the most popular genre of the war years. It was poetry that expressed people's need for truth, without which a sense of responsibility for their country is impossible. On the very first day of the war, writers and poets of Moscow gathered for a rally. A. Fadeev, V. Lebedev-Kumach, A. Zharov spoke. Fadeev declared: “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.”

slide number 4

Description of the slide:

slide number 5

Description of the slide:

Poetry put on a military overcoat from the very first days of the war. Already on the third day, a song to the verses of V.I. Lebedev-Kumach “Holy War”. The verses of this song express the whole gamut of feelings of people who have experienced the shock of a sudden outbreak of war, pain, grief, anxiety, hope.

slide number 6

Description of the slide:

slide number 7

Description of the slide:

We are not allowed to rot quietly in the grave - To lie at attention and open the coffins - We hear the thunder of pre-morning firing, The call of the hoarse regimental trumpet From the big roads that we walked. We know all the charters 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. And let them not think that the dead do not hear when their descendants speak of them. Nikolai Mayorov

slide number 8

Description of the slide:

Yulia Drunina Poetess Yulia Drunina, who belongs to a generation whose youth was tested for maturity on the front roads of the Second World War, went through the whole war as a nurse. As a 17-year-old graduate of one of the Moscow schools, she, like many of her peers, in 1941 volunteered to go to the front as a soldier in a sanitary platoon.

slide number 9

Description of the slide:

In the infantry echelon, in the sanitary platoon. I left my childhood in a dirty car, I listened to distant breaks and did not hear To everything I got used to, the 41st year. So she said about herself in 1942. And later in her poems this motive of leaving childhood into the fire of war will sound, from which she will not return even after years and decades. In the war, Yulia was a nurse, a nurse in the infantry, the most disadvantaged branch of the army, and not somewhere in a hospital, but on the front line, in hell, where, under fire, with weak girlish hands, the seriously wounded had to be pulled out. Mortal danger and hard work. “She was seriously wounded, a fragment interrupted the carotid artery - it passed literally two millimeters. But, barely recovering, she again rushed to the front line. Only after the second wound she was completely written off, then she came to the Literary Institute, ”recalled N. Starshinov. From the last days of the Patriotic War until her last days, Yulia could not tear herself away from the war. And in verses, even in landscape or love ones, many details of the war days appeared in her every now and then. She was constantly drawn to those places where she happened to stomp in soldier's boots with a sanitary bag along snowy and broken roads.

slide number 10

Description of the slide:

slide number 11

Description of the slide:

Vsevolod Bagritsky was born in 1922 in Odessa. In the family of a famous Soviet poet. He began writing poetry at an early age. AT school years he put them in a handwritten journal, in 1938-1939 he worked as a literary consultant for Pionerskaya Pravda. In the winter of 1939-1940, Vsevolod joined the creative team of the youth theater, led by A. Arbuzov and V. Pluchek. From the first days of the war, he rushed to the front. On the eve of 1942, V. Bagritsky, together with the poet P. Shubin, was appointed to the newspaper of the Second Shock Army, which came from the south to the rescue of the besieged Leningrad. He died on February 26, 1942 in the small village of Dubovik, Leningrad Region, while writing down the story of a political instructor.

slide number 12

Description of the slide:

slide number 13

Description of the slide:

Mikhail Kulchitsky was born in 1919 in Kharkov. His father, a professional writer, died in 1942 in a German dungeon. Kulchitsky began writing and publishing early. The first poem was published in 1935 in the Pioneer magazine. At the Literary Institute, he immediately drew attention to himself by the scale of his talent, poetic maturity, and independent thinking. Teachers and comrades saw in Kulchitsky an established poet and pinned great hopes on him. From the first days of the Great Patriotic War, Kulchitsky was in the army. In December 1942, he graduated from the machine gun and mortar school and left for the front with the rank of second lieutenant. Mikhail Kulchitsky died near Stalingrad in January 1943.

slide number 14

Description of the slide:

slide number 15

Description of the slide:

Pavel Kogan knew that he would be not only a witness, but also a participant in a merciless battle with people hostile to his dream, his aspirations and hopes. He knew that he would have to go in the forefront of his generation, defending our Motherland with arms in hand. And so it happened. When the war began, Pavel tries to get into the army, but is refused, as he was deregistered for health reasons. Then he enters the courses of military translators, after graduating from which he goes to the front. Here he was appointed translator, then assistant chief of staff of a rifle regiment for intelligence. At the forefront, Pavel met the last day of his life. It happened on September 23, 1942, near Novorossiysk, when he led the search for intelligence officers. And Paul was only 24 years old! In growth he went to the bullets, just as in growth he went through life. After all, his whole life was an internal preparation for a feat.

Description of the slide:

Alexey Lebedev was born in 1912 in the city of Suzdal, now the Vladimir region, into a family of employees. In 1936, he entered the Frunze Leningrad Higher Naval School. Red Banner Baltic Fleet. He served on the submarine "L-2" ("Leninets"). Having started writing back in school years, they first appeared in the naval newspaper Krasny Baltic Fleet". And in 1939 his first book, Kronstadt, was published. In the same year, Lebedev was accepted as a member of the Writers' Union of the USSR. In 1940, the poet's second book, Lyrics of the Sea, was published. In November 1941, the submarine on which Lebedev served , when performing a combat mission in the Gulf of Finland, she ran into a mine.The poet died with his entire ship.

slide number 18

Description of the slide:

slide number 19

Description of the slide:

Georgy Suvorov was born in 1919 in Khakassia. He graduated from the seven-year school and the teacher's college in Abakan, studied at the Krasnoyarsk Pedagogical Institute. In 1939 he was drafted into the Red Army. Since the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, at the front. He served in the famous Panfilov division. In the battle near Yelnya he was wounded. After the hospital, in the spring of 1942, he ended up on the Leningrad Front, and from the end of 1943 he commanded a platoon of armor-piercers. He began to write poetry while still at the Pedagogical School. He was published in Krasnoyarsk newspapers, and from the beginning of the war - in the magazines Siberian Lights, Zvezda and Leningrad. He died during the offensive of the troops of the Leningrad Front, while crossing the Narva River, on February 13, 1944, with the rank of lieutenant of the guard.

slide number 20

Description of the slide:

slide number 21

Description of the slide:

In 1933, after graduating from the literary department of the Rostov Pedagogical Institute, she began working in the library, collecting folklore and continuing literary activity. In 1937 she entered the Literary Institute. A. M. Gorky to the seminar of Ilya Selvinsky. At the same time, she collaborated with a number of Rostov publications, led a children's literary group, and was a literary consultant for the Pionerskaya Pravda newspaper. With the outbreak of World War II, she headed the Direct Guide newspaper published in Rostov-on-Don, in which her satirical poems were published. In July 1942, she went on a business trip to the area of ​​the village of Repair. There she was captured by the Nazis. In front of her eyes, they shot her parents, and the next day, having torn off her clothes, they forced her to dig her own grave. About how she died, it became known only after 20 years.

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; 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;

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. The war with Nazi Germany began unexpectedly and mercilessly. 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. He began writing at an early age. 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 of the Second Shock Army, which went to the rescue of the besieged Leningrad from the south.

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 Western front to Moscow. His poems about love warmed the hearts, chilled in the cold wind of trench life, did not let them get 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 most terrible hour in 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 bombardment 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 happen to live to see the Victory, one can say in the words of the front-line soldier, poet Georgy Suvorov: “We lived our good age, like 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...

Appendix 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!

Files:
File size: 4427264 bytes.