Poetry festival in kindergarten script. How to hold a children's party on World Poetry Day. Scenario for the holiday World Poetry Day for Children
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1. 1st presenter. A poet in Russia is more than a poet... “Poetry is not needed or, on the contrary, necessary. You can argue until you're hoarse about this. You can ban poets or come up with insignia for them. Poetry does not pay attention to all this. She was, is and will always be where human feelings live, and the brightest and most beautiful ones. Where the Soul speaks."
2nd presenter. It is not in vain that the wonderful month of spring was chosen to celebrate the wonderful, romantic Poetry Day. After all, March is the month that represents the beginning of spring, the rebirth and awakening of nature. Poetry has always glorified mood and warmth, the birth of life, new feelings and hopes.
2. Slide 3. Video about the history of World Poetry Day (not all).
3. Slide 4.
1st presenter
How many names come to mind!
Yesenin, Pushkin, Blok and Fet,
Akhmatova, Barto, Tvardovsky...
In Russia, if you are a poet -
You must be bright and catchy.
To know, with a word I must ignite,
And heal the soul with words.
Don't you know this?
A poet living next to us?
Poetry is a great gift!
Who managed to ride Pegasus,
He will never be old
Rhyming thoughts hourly.
(Elena Kozlova-Gyra)
And how many brilliant lines were signed by these names! Where did these terms come from and where do they go, leaving a mark on our souls? This is a great mystery, which, however, no one wants to solve - it’s just that some want to write poetry, while others want to read them and find a response to their feelings in them.
4. 2nd presenter. It seems to me that writing poetry is like being able to fly like a bird. This cannot be learned, but everyone can learn to understand poetry. The real hostess of this evening will be poetry, and poetry will be the long-awaited guests.
5. Slide 5.
1st presenter
We have not forgotten what was shone
Only a word among earthly anxieties,
And in the Gospel of John
It is said that the Word is God.
A word born of pain...
A word that wounds mortally...
The word is with the tenderest love...
The word is like a cross...
The word that shines in the darkness
A word that warms you in bad weather...
The word is like a sign of Time -
The word is a reward and happiness!
World poetry carefully preserves the names of those who found and told people the right words in time - sometimes cheerful and kind, and sometimes bitter or ironic - and said it in such a way that people wanted to believe him. Poets are always living witnesses of time. And we, people of the 21st century, in our stormy, tense and demanding life, want to believe the poet when he reveals his innermost feelings...
6. Slide 6.
2nd presenter. The light of a candle has long become a symbol of poetic evenings. I invite all of us, following a long-standing tradition, to light our hearth of a poetic evening - these candles.
7. Slide 7. Romance “A Candle Was Burning on the Table” based on poems by Boris Pasternak, performed by Irina Skazina.
2nd presenter. Poetry comes into our lives in very early childhood. We may not yet be able to read and write, but we already remember well simple lines from the poems of Agnia Barto and remember them, oddly enough, all our lives: “Our Tanya is crying loudly...” or “They dropped the bear on the floor...”. This is lyrics illuminated by a smile. The cycle of poems “Toys” (1936), addressed to little ones, turned out to be read by people of all ages.
A word to the girls of group 24.
Dropped the teddy bear on the floor
They tore off the bear's paw.
I still won’t leave him -
Because he's good.
The bull is walking, swaying,
Sighs as he walks:
- Oh, the board is ending,
Now I'm going to fall!
The owner abandoned the bunny -
A bunny was left in the rain.
I couldn't get off the bench,
I was completely wet.
Truck
No, we shouldn't have decided
Ride a cat in a car:
The cat is not used to riding -
The truck overturned.
Time to sleep! The bull fell asleep
He lay down on his side in the box.
The sleepy bear went to bed,
Only the elephant doesn't want to sleep.
The elephant nods its head
He bows to the elephant.
Ship
Tarpaulin,
Rope in hand
I'm pulling the boat
Along the fast river
And the frogs jump
On my heels
And they ask me:
- Take it for a ride, captain!
8. 1st presenter. At school we all learned poems and then recited them at the board for evaluation. Love for poetry is in everyone, only for some it dies at the bottom of the soul in the bud, and for others it reaches such strength that it easily breaks through the thick skin acquired over the years. And in your free moment, you re-read the pages of Pyotr Pavlovich Ershov’s wonderful fairy tale “The Little Humpbacked Horse,” written by him after reading Pushkin’s fairy tales that had just appeared. The words with which Alexander Sergeevich rewarded the author of “The Little Humpbacked Horse” are known: “Now I can leave this type of writing to me.”
9. Word to Anna Vladimirovna Portnykh, history teacher.
Slide 9 – 10.
Behind the mountains, behind the forests,
Across the wide seas
Against the sky - on the ground
An old man lived in a village.
The old lady has three sons:
The eldest was a smart kid,
Middle son and this way and that,
The younger one was completely stupid.
The brothers sowed wheat
Yes, they took us to the capital city:
You know, that was the capital
Not far from the village.
They sold wheat there
Money was accepted by invoice
And with a full bag
We were returning home.
In a long time al soon
Misfortune befell them:
Someone started walking in the field
And stir the wheat.
Men are so sad
Haven't seen them since birth;
They began to think and guess -
How to spy a thief;
Finally they realized
To stand on guard,
Save the bread at night,
To waylay the evil thief.
Just as it was getting dark,
The elder brother began to get ready,
Took out a pitchfork and an ax
And he went on patrol.
A stormy night has arrived;
Fear attacked him...
(before the words: How much time has passed or how little has passed since this night)
10. 1st presenter. Over the centuries, a feeling of love for one’s land, for the land of ancestors, arose. And while a person did not have this feeling, humanity did not know its past, was not proud of it, and did not think about the future. Years, centuries, millennia passed. Everything disappeared into dead oblivion. And only the feeling of the Motherland gave and gives a person historical memory.
11. Slide 11. Video of the girl Lyuba’s dream from the opening of the Olympics in Sochi - 2014. (An excerpt about the letters of the Russian alphabet, about the history of the homeland; before the words: “A new phase of sleep is opening - a dream about Russia.)
12. Valery Dukhanin. What is Russia? Reading by Artyom Lyusov, student of group No. 24
What is Russia? It's a hot summer
When there are many flowers in a green meadow,
When the splashes on the sea are pearl-colored,
When the bread ripens and the grass is cut.
What is Russia? It's a wonderful autumn
When cranes fly in the sky, curling,
When ripe cones fall from the pines,
When the leaves swirl all the way to the ground.
What is Russia? This is a winter's fairy tale
When silver snow lies on the ground,
When the boys rush down the mountain on sleds,
When the pattern on the window glass is visible.
What is Russia? It's full of life
Happiness, vigor, joy, light spring,
When cool rain suddenly splashes on the ground,
When the forest rustles, waking up from sleep.
When the wind stirs the young grass,
When the birds sing again in our land.
I am my Russia, my native land,
This is such a simple one, I love it very dearly!
13. Slide 12.
1st presenter. The 19th century in our literature was rightly called the Golden Age of Russian poetry. With this name, the thought of a national Russian poet immediately dawns on him. He was born in Moscow, in the heart of Russia, and himself became the heart of Russian literature. He was born in the wonderful spring month on the day of the Ascension - and his entire life and creative path showed a constant ascent to the ideal of Perfection, unattainable on earth, which in his understanding was the triple image of Truth, Goodness and Beauty. It is no coincidence that his last dying words - “higher, let's go higher” - called to strive for heights. The pistol shot that killed Pushkin awakened Lermontov's soul. His poem “The Death of a Poet” shocked Russia. Lermontov exposed the conspiracy around Pushkin, he pointed to the masterminds of the vile murder. This rebel who burst into Russian literature had the courage to say a lot without embellishment or mercy.
14. Slide 13. M.Yu. Lermontov’s poem “The Death of a Poet” is read by Ilya Petrovich Kryukov, teacher of special disciplines.
15. 2nd presenter. And on April 23, 1840, the highest order was published. Lieutenant Lermontov was exiled to the North Caucasus under Chechen bullets. At the Karamzins' house he said goodbye to his literary friends. Standing at the window and looking at the clouds creeping over the Summer Garden and the Neva, I sketched the poem “Clouds.” He looked at everyone with a sad look and read:
Heavenly clouds, eternal wanderers!
The azure steppe, the pearl chain
You rush as if like me, exiles
From the sweet north to the south.
The trio was waiting at the entrance. From here he set off from the lovely north towards the south.
16. 1st presenter. On his way to the Caucasus, he stopped in Moscow and attended Gogol’s name day. Lermontov was asked to read new poems. He agreed and, according to the recollections of the participants of this evening, read an excerpt from the just completed poem “Mtsyri” - a fight between a young man and a leopard.
17. Slide14. Word from Natalya Apollonovna Zhikhorenko, chemistry teacher. Reading an excerpt from M.Yu. Lermontov’s poem “Mtsyri”.
18. Slide 15.
2nd presenter. The 20th century has begun. This turning point went down in the history of literature under the beautiful name - “Silver Age”. Suddenly an incredible number of poets appeared to the world. And everyone is talented! All are original! All are multifaceted.
But I happened to live in a difficult era, at a turning point, at the junction of two times. During these terrible times, the Motherland, Russia, was tormented, burned, torn apart.
The fates of the remarkable poets of the “Silver Age” turned out differently. Some could not endure life in their inhospitable homeland, some, like Gumilyov, were shot without guilt, some, like Akhmatova, remained in their native land until their last days, experiencing all the troubles and sorrows with it, some put a “bullet point at its end”, like Mayakovsky, or a loop of a loop, like Yesenin. But they all created a real miracle at the beginning of the 20th century - the “Silver Age” of Russian poetry. They had to go through ups and downs, victories and defeats. Creativity became a salvation and a way out, maybe even an escape from the Soviet reality that surrounded them.
19. Slide 16.
1st presenter. Yesenin returned from abroad. Breakup with Isadora Duncan.
I've never been this tired before.
Into this gray frost and slime
I dreamed of the Ryazan sky
And my unlucky life.
Many women loved me, Slide 17.
And I myself have loved more than one,
Isn’t this where the dark power comes from?
Taught me to wine...
SHE appeared. We met daily. We wandered around Moscow, went outside the city and walked there for a long time. During meetings, Yesenin often repeated: “I am with you like a high school student.” Miklashevskaya did not hear a single not only rude, but even harsh word from him. It was as if, during meetings with her, everything that had tormented him during these months went somewhere aside, heavy, gloomy thoughts disappeared, and he himself was transformed before his eyes. He called her sister and friend; near Miklashevskaya he felt calm and balanced. It was to Augusta Miklashevskaya that he dedicated 7 poems of the famous cycle “The Love of a Hooligan.” Here is one of them...
20. Slide 17
Sergey Yesenin. “A blue fire began to sweep through...” Reading Dygalo Evgeniy, a student of group No. 22 in the profession of “Welder”.
A blue fire began to sweep,
Forgotten relatives.
For the first time I refuse to make a scandal.
I was all like a neglected garden,
He was averse to women and potions.
I stopped liking drinking and dancing
And lose your life without looking back.
I just want to look at you
See the golden eye of the pool,
And so that, not loving the past,
You couldn't leave for someone else.
Gentle gait, light waist,
If you knew with a persistent heart,
How can a bully love?
How he knows how to be submissive.
I would forget the taverns forever
And I would have given up writing poetry,
Just touch your hand subtly
And your hair is the color of autumn.
I would follow you forever
Whether in your own or in someone else’s...
For the first time I sang about love,
For the first time I refuse to make a scandal. 1923
In general, Yesenin could not love anyone or anything except his POETRY. Rurik Ivnev recalls: “... Yesenin’s life and work were closely intertwined, like a rope of one rope. For all the amazing warmth of his lyrics, his love was “pointless.”
21. Slide 18
2nd presenter. Vladimir Dal wrote: “Every decent Russian person consists of three parts: soul, body and passport.” Has your passport always been like it is now? In Kievan Rus, a belt was a kind of identification document. By its ornament it was possible to determine which region its owner was from. The men's belt was wide and long, and the women's was narrow, elegant, and brightly colored. The child was girded with thread. The history of the Russian passport begins in the 18th century.
22. Slide 19. “Poems about the Soviet passport” by Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky will be read by Ilya Petrovich Kryukov, teacher of special disciplines.
23. Slide 20
2nd presenter. Akhmatova declared herself as a true poet already in 1912 with the release of the collection “Evening”. Most of the poems of that period are dedicated to love, which is not surprising: after all, she was a little over twenty years old. But in these poems she does not seem young, nor naive, nor pampered, nor fragile. On the contrary, we see a strong, wise woman. The poems of her first collections are about love, about the joy of meetings and the bitterness of parting, about unfulfilled hopes. These poems were reminiscent of the pages of a diary in their simplicity; they excited us with the subtlety of their feelings and the depth of their experiences.
24. Anna Andreevna Akhmatova. “Oh, you thought I was like that too...” Read by Ekaterina Solovyova, a 1st year student.
Oh, you thought I was like that too
That you can forget me
And that I will throw myself, begging and sobbing,
Under the hooves of a bay horse.
Or I’ll ask the healers
There's a root in the slander water
And I will send you a terrible gift -
My treasured fragrant scarf.
Damn you. Not a groan, not a glance
I will not touch the damned soul,
But I swear to you by the garden of angels,
I swear by the miraculous icon
And our fiery nights as children -
I will never return to you. (1921)
25. 1st presenter. Another woman, Ekaterina Vasilievna, who lived for many years for her husband, saw neither care nor affection from him. He treated her... Here are the lines from his poem “Wife”:
In the morning he writes and writes everything,
Immersed in unknown work.
She can barely walk, barely breathe,
If only he was healthy.
... and at the age of 48, she leaves for Vasily Grossman, a writer and famous heartthrob. “If she had swallowed a bus,” writes Korney Chukovsky’s son Nikolai, “Zabolotsky would have been less surprised!”
Surprise was followed by horror. The poet was crushed, helpless and pitiful. Misfortune brought him to a lonely, young (28 years old), intelligent woman, Natalya Roskina. He kept the phone number of some lady who loved his poetry. That's all he knew about her. From her youth, she read almost all of his poems by heart. He called her. Then they became lovers - on her part it was more pity (at least that’s what she explained in her memories). It is curious that Grossman was something of a foster father for Natalya. Everything was intertwined, but no one was happy. Everyone in this triangle (Zabolotsky, his wife and Roskina) suffered in their own way. Ekaterina Vasilievna returned to her husband in 1958. They were not destined to experience the joy of union: the poet suffered a second heart attack. A month and a half later, on October 14, 1958, he died.
26. Nikolai Zabolotsky. "Confession". Read by Nikita Dits, student of group No. 22
Kissed, bewitched,
Once married to the wind in the field,
It's like you're all in chains,
My precious woman!
Not happy, not sad,
As if descended from the dark sky,
You and my wedding song,
And my star is crazy.
I'll bend over your knees
I will hug them with fierce strength,
And tears and poems
I will burn you, bitter, dear.
Open my midnight face,
Let me enter those heavy eyes,
In these black oriental eyebrows,
These are your half-naked hands.
What is added will not be diminished,
What doesn’t come true will be forgotten...
Why are you crying, beauty?
Or is it just me imagining things? 1957,
26. Slide 21
2nd presenter. “Without the sun, flowers do not bloom, without love there is no happiness, without a woman there is no love, without a mother there is neither a poet nor a hero, all the pride of the world comes from mothers!” These wise words belong to M. Gorky.
Poem by Elena Blaginina “Don’t forget mothers!” read by first-year student Yana Strunina.
Don't forget Mothers!
They are sad in separation.
And there is no worse torment for them -
The silence of your own children.
Don't forget Mothers!
They are not to blame for anything.
As before their hearts are embraced
Anxiety for your children.
Write letters to Mothers,
Call them on the phone!
They are so happy to see you
My regards to all of you.
Don't forget Mothers!
After all, there is no reason for silence,
And the wrinkles get deeper every day
From the indifference of children.
Among the bustle and idle days
Hear, Gentlemen and Ladies:
Your Mom's soul hurts!
Don't forget Mothers!
Write letters to Mothers!
Call them on the phone
They are so happy to see you
My regards to all of you.
27. 1-leader. Dmitry Sergeevich Likhachev said: “Good is the happiness of all people, this is the ability to see and feel the beautiful.” Human kindness, emotional sensitivity, mercy, disposition towards people, the ability to rejoice and worry about other people, goodwill create the basis of human happiness.
Mark Schechter’s poem “Life is given for good deeds” is read by Denis Matsko, a second-year student.
There are many evil ones
In any human destiny,
And they will only say a kind word -
And your heart is lighter.
But such a kind word
Not everyone knows how to find
To cope with a friend's sadness,
You can overcome adversity along the way.
There is no kind word more valuable
The cherished word of that
But rarely, my friends, still
We say it out loud.
We are given life for good deeds!
Teacher's word. Writer Boris Pasternak is the greatest poet of the twentieth century, “a talent of exceptional originality,” as M. Gorky said about him.
2010 marks the 120th anniversary of Pasternak's birth. He was born and lived in an era of great transformations, coups, and revolutions. He survived the tsar, the provisional government, three revolutions, two world wars... All this could not but affect his poetry.
“Throughout his life, the poet goes through several creative cycles, makes several turns up the spiral of comprehension of nature, society, and the spiritual world of the individual. And instead, the reader goes the same way with him in order to understand the poet... But it is already obvious and proven that Pasternak’s legacy is included in the treasury of Russian and world culture of the 20th century,” said Lev Ozerov.
It is impossible to talk about Pasternak’s fate without memorizing his words from the autobiographical story “Safety Certificate”: “I am not writing my biography. I turn to her when someone else demands it... Only a hero deserves a real biography, but the story of a poet in this form is simply unimaginable.”
It’s customary for everyone to live and burn,
But then you will only immortalize life,
When to her glory and greatness
You will draw the path with your sacrifice.
1 HOST. These lines of Boris Pasternak perfectly reflect the essence of his life, the life of an artist who, through sacrifice, charted the path to fame and greatness.
2 PRESENTER. Boris Leonidovich Pasternak was born on January 29, 1890 in Moscow. In the family of the young painter Leonid Pasternak and the pianist Rosalia Isidorovna Pasternak-Kaufman, art merged with everyday life.
1 HOST. Musical evenings were held at home, attended by my father’s friends - Polenov, Levitan, Serov. L.N. came to listen to the famous pianist. Tolstoy. One of the family's closest friends was S. Scriabin
2 PRESENTER. The boy grew up to the sounds of the piano, surrounded by his father’s paintings. This synthesis of music, painting and poetry was reflected in his work even textually.
October is silver-walnut,
The shine of frost is pewter.
Chekhov's Autumn Twilight,
Tchaikovsky and Levitan.
2 PRESENTER. The poet considered the furnishings of his parents' home to be the basis of his artistic development. Later he wrote: I, the son of an artist, saw art and great people from the first days, and I got used to treating the high and exceptional as nature, as a living norm.
1 HOST. In the summer of 1903, B. Pasternak was amazed and enchanted when he heard Scriabin composing the 3rd symphony at a nearby dacha. In this ingenious music that was born before his eyes, the boy was surprised to recognize the surrounding nature, the hum of the forest, the singing of birds.
Reached in thirst for the proboscis
And butterflies and spots,
I've erased the memory of both
Honey, mayna, mint.
Not the ticking of clocks, but the ringing of flails
From sunrise to sunset
Stuck into the air like a dream of thorns,
Bewitching the weather.
It happened - after walking to your heart's content,
The sunset surrendered to the cicadas,
Power to both the stars and the trees
Above the kitchen and garden.
Not shadows - I laid the beams for a month,
And then I was away,
And quietly, quietly the night flowed
Jog, from cloud to cloud.
More likely from sleep than from rooftops; hurry up
Forgetful than timid,
The rain was pattering at the door,
And it smelled like a wine cork.
The dust smelled like that, the weeds smelled like that.
And, if you look at it,
That's what the nobles' copybooks smelled like
About equality and brotherhood.
2 PRESENTER. The impression was so strong that it prompted the decision, without delay, to study musical composition professionally. Simultaneously with the gymnasium, he took courses in the composition department of the conservatory.
1 HOST. He was destined to become a musician; his compositional experiments were approved by Scriabin himself, whom he idolized. However, he did not become a composer, carrying throughout his life his love of music, the melody of poetry, and music itself in verse.
I fed the flock with a key by hand
Under the flapping of wings, splashing and screaming.
I stretched out my arms, I stood on my toes,
The sleeve rolled up, the night rubbed against the elbow.
And it was dark. And it was a pond
And waves. - And I love birds of this breed,
It seemed they would rather kill than die
Loud black strong beaks.
And it was a pond. And it was dark.
The pots of midnight tar were burning.
And the bottom was gnawed by a wave
By the boat. And the birds squabbled at my elbow.
And the night rinsed in the throats of the dams.
It seemed that while the chick was not fed,
And the females would rather kill than die,
Roulades in a screaming, twisted throat.
2 PRESENTER. The poet told how he parted with his dream of becoming a composer in his autobiographical story “Safety Certificate.”
READER More than anything in the world I loved music, Scriabin most of all. Under the influence of the adoration I had for him, my desire for improvisation and composition flared to the point of passion. I was destined to become a musician, everything was forgiven to me for the sake of music. And despite this, I left music.
I left her when I had the right to rejoice and everyone around me congratulated me. But no one knew about my secret misfortune, and if I had told about it, no one would have believed me. I barely played the piano and even sorted the notes almost into storage. All this, as well as the lack of absolute pitch, turned the gift of nature into a subject of constant torment, which in the end I could not bear.
1 HOST. In 1908, Boris entered Moscow University, first to study law and then to the faculty of philosophy. He wants to get to the heart of things.
I want to reach everything
To the very essence.
At work, looking for a way,
In heartbreak.
To the essence of the past days,
Until their reasons.
To the foundations, to the roots,
To the core.
All the while grasping the thread
Fates, events,
Live, think, feel, love,
Complete the opening.
Oh if only I could
Although partly
I would write eight lines
About the properties of passion.
About iniquities, about sins,
Running, chasing,
Accidents in a hurry,
Elbows, palms.
I would deduce her law,
Its beginning.
And repeated her names
Initials...
2 PRESENTER. In 1912, B. Pasternak went for 3 summer months to the University of Marburg, then the center of philosophical thought, where such luminaries as Natorp, Cohen, and Hartmann taught.
1 HOST. The city amazed him with its splendor. “From the tenth step, I stopped understanding where I was,” Pasternak wrote. “I remembered that I forgot my connection with the rest of the world in the carriage... If only it were a city!” It’s some kind of medieval fairy tale!”
2 PRESENTER. Here, in Marburg, Pasternak meets his first love. He meets the daughter of a tea merchant, Ida Vysotskaya, and proposes to her. The girl refuses. This event is captured in the pinnacle of the poet’s love lyrics, the poem “Marburg,” which students and fellow students muttered on the streets, walking her home from the institute in the late 20s.
I shuddered. I lit up and went out,
I was shaking: I just proposed, -
But it’s too late, I drifted away, and now I’m rejected.
What a pity for her tears: I am more blessed than the saint!
I went out to the square. I could be counted out
Secondly born. Every little bit
She lived and, without regard for me,
In its farewell significance it rose.
The flagstones were heating up, and the streets
He was dark-skinned and looked at the sky from under his brows
Cobblestones, and the wind, like a boatman, rowed
By linden trees. And all these were similarities.
But anyway, I avoided
Their views. I didn't notice their greetings.
I didn’t want to know anything about wealth.
I struggled so as not to burst into tears...
When I fell before you, embracing
This fog, this ice, this surface
(How beautiful you are!) - this whirlwind of stuffiness...
What are you talking about? Come to your senses! Gone. Rejected...
1 HOST. Boris studies at the university with such success that he is even offered to return to Marburg in a year to defend his doctoral dissertation. Philosophy will also be reflected in poetry. Pasternak will call the whole cycle “Practicing Philosophy,” and it will open with the poem “The Definition of Poetry.”
This is a cool whistle,
This is the clicking of crushed ice floes,
This is the leaf-chilling night,
This is a duel between two nightingales.
These are sweet rotten peas,
These are the tears of the universe in the shoulder blades,
This is from consoles and flutes - Figaro
Falls like hail onto the garden bed.
Everything that is so important to find at night
On deep bathed bottoms,
And bring the star to the cage
On trembling wet palms.
It’s stuffier than boards in the water.
The firmament is filled with alder,
It suits these stars to laugh,
But the universe is a deaf place.
2 PRESENTER. But philosophy will not become destiny. Seriously and deeply engaged in philosophy, Pasternak at the same time was burdened by academic narrowness. After a trip to Marburg, he decides to give up philosophy and devote himself entirely to poetry.
1 HOST. In the spring of 1913, Pasternak graduated from the university with flying colors. At the same time, the Lyrica publishing house, created by several young people, published an almanac in which five of his poems were published. Pasternak invariably opened his collections with the first of them.
February. Get some ink and cry!
Write about February sobbingly,
While the rumbling slush
In spring it burns black.
Get the cab. For six hryvnia
Through the gospel, through the wedge of wheels
Travel to where it's raining
Even noisier than ink and tears.
Where, like charred pears,
Thousands of rooks from the trees
They will fall into puddles and collapse
Dry sadness to the bottom of my eyes.
Underneath the thawed patches turn black,
And the wind is torn with screams,
And the more random, the more true
Poems are composed out loud.
2 PRESENTER. Pasternak's early lyrics are filled with admiration for nature, which contains soul, love and language. The poet listens to her voices and records them. His poems “break” and “collapse,” and one must either step aside from this flow, or withstand it without choking.
1 HOST. There was some kind of mysterious, deep connection between the appearance, mental make-up of this man and the character of his poems. From his first steps in poetry, he discovered a special style, a special structure of means and techniques. You had to get used to Pasternak’s poems, you had to get used to them.
2 PRESENTER. B. Pasternak himself wrote: Poems no longer infect the air, whatever their merits. The distributing medium of sound is the personality. The old personality is destroyed, the new one has not been formed. Without resonance, lyrics are unthinkable.
Or I don’t know what, poking into the darkness,
The darkness would never come to light,
And I'm a freak, and the happiness of hundreds of thousands
Isn’t a hundred empty happiness closer to me?
And don’t I measure myself against five years,
I don’t fall, I don’t rise with her?
But what should I do with my chest?
And with the fact that all inertia is inertia?
In vain in the days of the great council,
Where places are given to the highest passion,
Poet vacancy left:
It is dangerous if it is not empty.
1 HOST. Since 1914, Pasternak joined the Centrifuge futurist community and became closely acquainted with Mayakovsky.
2 PRESENTER. In the 20s, he completely devoted himself to poetic creativity. His collection “Above Barriers” is published, in which he strives to stand “above” the war, “above” the revolution, “above” the class struggle in the country and in art.
1 HOST. He responded to the war of 1914 with a call for humanity, for sympathy, a desire to get rid of a “bad dream” or, rather, to fall asleep soundly, close his eyes to the terrible face of life, and go into love experiences.
2 PRESENTER. In 1921, Pasternak's parents and his sisters left Soviet Russia and settled in Berlin. Pasternak began active correspondence with them and Russian emigration circles in general, in particular with M. Tsvetaeva. In 1922, the poet’s program book “My Sister is Life” was published.
1 HOST. And in the same year he married the artist Evgenia Lurie
Song “There will be no one in the house” (performed to a video soundtrack)
1 HOST. Family life was not easy. “Heightened impressionability was equally characteristic of both of them, and this made it difficult to calmly endure the inevitable hardships of family life,” their son Evgeniy would later write in his memoirs. In addition, both were “people of art.”
2 PRESENTER. Evgenia Vladimirovna was a talented portrait painter and needed a liberated life. The poet had more to do with arranging the family home. Their life together was full of quarrels and discord. The topic of divorce constantly comes up in conversations. Evgenia Vladimirovna dreams of a “better life.”
You played this role so well!
I forgot that I myself am a prompter!
What will you sing in the second,
Whoever gets it off first.
A boat was walking along the clouds. Along
Meadows of cut fodder.
You played this role so well
Like the babble of the gateway - stern!
And, low on the steering wheel
Killer whale on one wing,
You are! - you are the best of all roles
Played this role!
1 HOST. The late 20s and early 30s saw a short period of official Soviet recognition of Pasternak's work. His books are published, and critics are happy to publish positive reviews in the press. True, the poet had to read criticism for some pretentiousness.
Spring, I'm from the street where the poplar is surprised,
Where the distance is afraid, where the house is afraid to fall,
Where the air is blue, like a bundle of laundry
A person discharged from the hospital.
Where the evening is empty, like an interrupted story,
Left by a star without continuation
To the bewilderment of thousands of noisy eyes,
Bottomless and expressionless.
2 PRESENTER. Pasternak takes an active part in the activities of the USSR Writers' Union. His large one-volume work from 1933 to 1936 is reprinted annually. Having met Zinaida Neuhaus, at that time the wife of pianist Neuhaus, he traveled with her to Georgia in 1931, where he met Georgian poets and their work.
1 HOST. And in 1932, having interrupted his first marriage, he married Zinaida Neuhaus, taking her away from his friend. Having become the poet's new muse, she appeared just when the poet needed an orderly lifestyle, home comfort, and order. Actor Vasily Livanov in his book “The Real Boris Pasternak” described Zinaida as a woman of rare spiritual purity and fortitude, “so that, realizing Pasternak’s exceptional poetic gift, she would bear the heavy cross of untainted love for Boris Leonidovich.”
Loving others is a heavy cross,
And you are beautiful without gyrations,
And your beauty is a secret
It is tantamount to the solution to life.
In spring the rustling of dreams is heard
And the rustle of news and truths.
You come from a family of such fundamentals.
Your meaning, like air, is selfless.
It's easy to wake up and see clearly,
Shake out the verbal trash from the heart
And live without getting clogged in the future,
All this is not a big trick.
2 PRESENTER. Meanwhile, the second half of the 30s was approaching. The country was hit by a wave of political repression. Speaking at the All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934, Pasternak urged: “Do not sacrifice your face for the sake of position.” Clouds began to gather over his head, and the poet was made to understand that he could not avoid arrest.
1 HOST. Since 1936, the poet has settled in the village of Peredelkino near Moscow. From the mid-30s until the end of his life, translation became one of Pasternak’s main activities. He translates the tragedies of Shakespeare, Schiller, Goethe's Faust and much more, while striving not to convey the linguistic features of the original, but, on the contrary, to create a “Russian Shakespeare”. These translations were not only a source of income, but also gave him moral support in life.
The hum died down. I took to the stage
Leaning against the door frame,
I catch in a distant echo,
What will happen in my lifetime.
The darkness of the night is pointed at me
A thousand binoculars on the axis,
If possible, Abba Father,
Carry this cup past.
I love your stubborn plan
And I agree to play this role.
But now there is another drama,
And this time fire me.
But the order of actions has been thought out,
And we will not avert the end of the road.
I am alone, everything is drowning in pharisaism,
Living life is not a field to cross.
2 PRESENTER. At the same time, he translated Georgian poets. And it so happened that these translations reached Stalin and, moreover, he really liked them. There are witnesses' recollections of Stalin's behavior when he was informed that Pasternak's arrest was being prepared. The leader suddenly recited aloud Georgian verses translated by Pasternak:
1 HOST.
The color of heaven, the color blue,
I fell in love from an early age,
Since childhood it meant to me
The blue of others began.
And now that I have reached
I am the peak of my days,
As a sacrifice to other flowers
I won’t give away the blue one...
1 HOST. In the early forties, after a long break, Pasternak again began to write poetry, which was included in the book “On Early Trains.” At the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Pasternak sought permission to go to the front, but was evacuated with his family to the city of Chistopol on the Kama, where other writers lived at that time.
2 PRESENTER. In 1943 he made a trip to the front, which resulted in the essays “In the Army”, and the poems “Death of a Sapper”, “A Living Fresco”, “Winner” were included in the book “On Early Trains”, in which the image of the author as a humanist and patriot appears.
And then the cherished moment came:
He broke the siege ring.
And the whole world, crowded in the distance,
She looks at his face in delight.
How great he is! What an immortal lot!
How his link is included in the chain of legends!
Everything that is possible on earth and in the sky,
They were sentenced and committed.
1 HOST. The joy of victory in the war revived hopes for the long-awaited renewal of society. But the joyful harbingers of freedom turned out to be false, and in their light, Pasternak began to write the novel Doctor Zhivago - his last, beloved and difficult child. He worked on this book for more than 10 years; it was completed in 1956, receiving the final title “Doctor Zhivago.”
Actually, this is my first real job. In it I want to give a historical image of Russia over the last 45 years, and at the same time, with all sides of my plot, heavy, sad and detailed, as ideally in Dickens and Dostoevsky - this thing will be an expression of my views on art, on the Gospel, on the life of a person in history and much more...
2 PRESENTER. The novel became almost autobiographical. The poet had long felt that he was missing something. He had been nurturing the idea of a great novel for a long time, but could not begin to realize his plan. What helped him overcome his indecision was “the awakening of a sharp and happy personal imprint.”
1 HOST. In 1946, at the editorial office of the New World magazine, he met Olga Ivinskaya, head of the department of aspiring writers. She was 33 years old. She has a difficult life experience behind her. However, life's adversities did not affect her appearance in any way. Olga was extraordinarily beautiful - tender, feminine, with huge eyes and golden hair.
2 PRESENTER. Their love flared up like a candle, life intertwined with romance, and romance became life.
The song “The Candle Was Burning” (performed with piano). Hyperlink from slide 27: video “Candle”
1 HOST. One evening Olga Ivinskaya was taken to the Lubyanka. Pasternak was sure: Olga was imprisoned because of him - “in order to achieve sufficient grounds for prosecution through painful interrogations under threats.” “I owe it to her heroism and endurance that in those years they did not touch me,” the poet was convinced. Ivinskaya was sentenced to five years in the camps. Pasternak had a heart attack.
2 PRESENTER. However, the story did not end there... During the separation, Pasternak wrote letters to Ivinskaya and dedicated poems. After returning from camp she was still irresistible. Love flared up with renewed vigor. Ivinskaya took the poet’s publishing affairs into her own hands and moved to live closer to the writer, renting a room in Peredelkino. The poet literally spent days and nights with her. He even “legalized” their relationship by telling Zinaida Nikolaevna that he would now live where he wanted. But he didn’t leave the family and didn’t give up his established life.
Don't cry, don't wrinkle your swollen lips,
Don't bunch them up.
You will unravel the dried scab
Spring fever.
Years will pass, you will get married,
You will forget the troubles.
Being a woman is a great step
To drive you crazy is heroism.
But how does the night not constrain
Me with a sad ring,
The strongest pull in the world
And the passion for breakups attracts.
1 HOST. Work on the novel, which Pasternak expected to complete in 2-3 years, lasted for a whole decade. Nevertheless, Doctor Zhivago was completed and sent to editors. However, its publication was delayed even longer, for more than 30 years. In the Soviet Union no one dared to publish it. In 1956, Pasternak agreed to publish the novel in Italy.
2 PRESENTER. It was impossible to stop the release of the Italian translation. And the novel, banned in its homeland for more than 30 years, was published in Italy in 1957. This was followed by foreign and Russian publications and translations into almost all languages of the world. Pasternak becomes famous throughout the world.
Being famous is not nice.
This is not what lifts you up.
No need to create an archive,
Shake over manuscripts.
The goal of creativity is dedication,
Not hype, not success.
Shameful, meaningless
Be the talk of everyone.
But we must live without imposture,
Live like this so that in the end
Attract the love of space to you,
Hear the call of the future.
And you have to leave spaces
In fate, and not among papers,
Places and chapters of a whole life
Crossing out in the margins.
And should not a single slice
Don't give up on your face
But to be alive, alive and only,
Alive and only until the end.
1 HOST. Victory turned out to be equal to defeat. In 1958, it became known that Pasternak had been awarded the Nobel Prize “for outstanding achievements in modern lyric poetry and the continuation of the noble traditions of great Russian prose.” It was worldwide recognition, but...
2 PRESENTER. A scandal broke out on a political basis. The poet was summoned to the Prosecutor General and charged under the article “Treason to the Motherland.” At the general meeting of the Writers' Union, the question of expelling Pasternak from the Writers' Union and depriving him of Soviet citizenship was raised.
I disappeared like an animal in a pen.
Somewhere there are people, will, light,
And behind me there is the sound of a chase,
I can't go outside.
Dark forest and the shore of a pond,
They ate a felled log,
The path is cut off from everywhere,
Whatever happens, it doesn't matter.
What kind of dirty trick did I do?
Am I a murderer and a villain?
I made the whole world cry
Over the beauty of my land.
But even so, almost at the grave,
I believe the time will come
The power of meanness and malice
The spirit of goodness will prevail.
1 HOST. Having initially responded with gratitude for the award he deserved, Pasternak, after a week of harassment and threats, was forced to refuse the award.
2 PRESENTER. Telegram: Stockholm. To the Swedish Academy. “Due to the importance that the society to which I belong to attaches to the award, I must refuse the award. Do not consider my voluntary refusal an insult..." B. Pasternak"
1 HOST. After Pasternak’s refusal, the international scandal subsides, but passions move to the everyday level. Fees for translations are not paid, contracts are terminated, performances based on Pasternak’s translations are removed from theater repertoires. There is nothing to live on.
2 PRESENTER. But newspapers write that Pasternak received millions for a novel published in Europe. In fact, he borrows for a living. Meanwhile, the Legal Collegium for Foreign Affairs informs Pasternak that he has a large amount of money in his accounts in Switzerland and Norway.
1 HOST. Pasternak asks the Central Committee to receive a certain amount with the obligation to transfer part of the money to help elderly writers. In response, Pasternak is required to give up all fees, but transfer them entirely to Moscow and transfer them to the official peace committee.
Oh, I wish I knew this could happen
When I started to debut,
That lines with blood kill,
They will rush through your throat and kill you!
From jokes with this background
I would flatly refuse.
The beginning was so far away
So timid is the first interest.
But old age is Rome, which
Instead of tours and wheels
Doesn't require reading from the actor,
And complete death in earnest.
When a line is dictated by a feeling,
It sends a slave to the stage,
And this is where art ends,
And the soil and fate breathe.
1 HOST. The difficult reality of existence did not disturb the rhythm of Pasternak’s work, maintained by all means. The new poems that he began to write made up his last book, “When it clears up.” On the threshold of his seventieth birthday, he begins to write a play about Russia during the times of serfdom. The title of the play “Blind Beauty” is a symbol of the historical image of Russia.
2 PRESENTER. From the beginning of 1960, Pasternak began to feel worse. He was clearly aware of the incurability of his illness. On May 30, 1960, B. Pasternak passed away.
1 HOST. Many years have passed since then. Doctor Zhivago has finally been published; his poems and prose are being printed in mass quantities that the author could not have even dreamed of. They read him, talk and write about him a lot. All this makes us recall with bitter joy the words spoken by Pasternak two years before his death: “Most likely, many years after I die, it will become clear on what broad, broad grounds my activity of recent years was directed, what it breathed and fed, what served."
2 PRESENTER. Everyone who knew Pasternak remembers the special - thick, buzzing sound of his voice, his rolling, drawn-out old Moscow “a”, “o”, “u”, his stunning, ardent narratives, in which strokes and sparkles of observations, sudden thoughts, boiling and flaring , spread out in barely perceptible, incredible circles and ellipses.
1 HOST. Pasternak's poetry and prose organically combined the traditions of Russian and world classics with the achievements of Russian symbolism and the avant-garde. The novel “Doctor Zhivago” for several decades remained one of the most read Russian novels all over the world, largely defining the idea of Russian literature of the twentieth century.
The song “Poets are not born by chance” (performed to a soundtrack). Hyperlink from slide 37: video “Poets”
Final words from the teacher. I would like to end our speech with the words of the famous critic, researcher of the work of the poet Lev Ozerov: “The legacy of B. Pasternak is legitimately included in the treasury of Russian and world culture of our century. It has won the love and recognition of the most demanding and strict connoisseurs of poetry. Knowledge of this heritage becomes an urgent necessity... and a reason for thinking about the fundamental questions of human existence.”
Scenario for Poetry Day
"Beautiful impulses of the soul"
Purpose of the event: instill a love of poetry, develop creative abilities, and the ability to use visual and expressive means of language.
Presenter1 :
According to UNESCO, March 21 is celebrated as World Poetry Day.
Presenter2:
Poetry is probably one of the most brilliant achievements of mankind. To pour out your feelings in poetic form, to capture your worldview in rhyme, to dream about the future and remember the past, while simultaneously addressing millions and remaining alone with yourself - only poetry, the greatest of the arts created by man, is capable of this.
Presenter1:
Not many become great and famous poets, but many have tried to write poetry at least once in their lives. After all, most people are far from alien to those “beautiful impulses of the soul” that prompt a person to take a pen, a piece of paper and start creating.
Presenter2:
Write poetry without thinking about fame and immortality. After all, even a small, unknown poem written by a child is also a huge spiritual contribution to the cultural and intellectual prosperity of the entire society.
Music sounds softly (Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”).
Presenter1:
Poetry always leaves in the heart a trace of “sublime dreams, and sincere sorrow, and human thoughts.”
What is poetry?
She is a combination of magical sounds,
Souls of excited dreams,
The torment of a proud mind.
The verse contains a tune familiar from childhood.
He has been known for so long.
And the heart, hearing him, trembles,
And the lines flow in succession...
They beckon, they take you away.
V. Pechurova What is poetry?
Reader
The old syllable attracts me.
There is charm in ancient speech.
It can be both more modern and sharper than our words.
Shout out: “Half a kingdom for a horse!”
What temper and generosity!
But it will come down on me too
the last enthusiasm is futility.
Someday I'll wake up in the dark,
forever losing the battle,
and now it will come to my memory
madman's ancient decision.
Oh, what half a kingdom is for me!
A child taught by centuries,
I'll take the horse, I'll give the horse
in half a moment with a person,
beloved by me. God be with you,
O. my horse, my horse, my zealous horse.
I will weaken your reason for free
– and you will catch up with your dear herd,
you will catch up there, in the empty and reddish steppe.
And I’m tired of the clamor of these victories and defeats.
I feel sorry for the horse! I'm sorry love!
And in a medieval manner
only a trace falls under my feet,
left by a horseshoe.
B. Akhmadulina “An ancient syllable attracts me...”
Presenter2:
You expect the impossible from poetry. And only poetry gives this impossible. The greatest miracle occurs when simple words and lines suddenly form poetic stanzas, and unreal, supernatural pictures of the world arise.
Reader
The clouds are rushing, the clouds are swirling;
Invisible moon
The flying snow illuminates;
The sky is cloudy, the night is dark.
I'm driving, driving in an open field;
Bell ding-ding-ding...
Scary, scary
Among the unknown plains!
“Hey, the coachman has gone!..” - “No urine:
It’s hard for the horses, master;
The blizzard blinds my eyes;
All the roads were skidded;
For the life of me, there is no trace;
We've lost our way.
What should we do?
The demon leads us into the field, apparently
Yes, it circles around.
Look: there he is playing,
Blows, spits on me;
There - now he’s pushing into the ravine
Wild horse;
There's an unprecedented mileage there
He stuck out in front of me;
There he sparkled with a small spark
And disappeared into the darkness empty!”
The clouds are rushing, the clouds are swirling;
Invisible moon
The flying snow illuminates;
The sky is cloudy, the night is cloudy.
We have no strength; we are still spinning;
The bell suddenly fell silent;
The horses began... “What’s there in the field?”
- “Who knows them? stump or wolf?
The blizzard is angry, the blizzard is crying;
Sensitive horses snore;
There he is galloping far away;
Only the eyes glow in the darkness;
The horses rushed again;
Bell ding-ding-ding...
I see: the spirits have gathered
Among the white plains.
Endless, ugly,
In the muddy game of the month
Various demons began to spin,
Like leaves in November...
How many of them! where are they being driven?
Why are they singing so pitifully?
Do they bury the brownie?
Do they marry off a witch?
The clouds are rushing, the clouds are swirling;
Invisible moon
The flying snow illuminates;
The sky is cloudy, the night is cloudy.
Demons rush swarm after swarm
In the infinite heights,
With plaintive squeals and howls
Breaking my heart...
A. S. Pushkin “Demons”
Presenter1:
The poet-singer is forever alone in the universe. The poet's loneliness at all times gives birth to captivating songs, full of inexplicable sadness, bright sadness and dreams of immortality.
The romance “I go out alone on the road” is performed
Presenter2:
If only you knew what kind of rubbish
Poems grow without shame,
Like a yellow dandelion by the fence,
Like burdocks and quinoa.
A. Akhmatova If only you knew what kind of rubbish
Presenter1:
How are poems born? Sometimes it’s easy and accidental, sometimes it’s painfully difficult. One thing is certain: the poetic gift is a gift from God. And the image of the Muse - one of the eternal images of poetry - is the image of the messenger of heaven.
Reader
The sister muse looked into the face,
Her gaze is clear and bright.
And she took away the golden ring,
First spring gift.
Muse! you see how happy everyone is
Girls, women, widows...
I'd rather die on the wheel,
Not these shackles.
I know: guessing, and I should cut off
Delicate daisy flower.
Must experience on this earth
Every love torture.
I burn a candle in the window until dawn
And I don’t grieve for anyone,
But I don't want, I don't want, I don't want
Know how to kiss another.
Tomorrow the mirrors will tell me, laughing:
"Your gaze is not clear, not bright...
I will quietly answer: “She took away God’s gift.”
M. Tsvetaeva “Muse”
Presenter1:
The inexorable Muse demands sacrifice and sacrifice, and the greatest effort. Listening to himself, the poet in agony gives birth to the music of poetry from individual sounds.
Reader
It happens like this: some kind of languor;
The chime of the clock does not stop in my ears;
In the distance, the rumble of fading thunder.
I imagine both complaints and groans,
Some secret circle is narrowing,
But in this abyss of whispers and ringings
One, all-conquering sound rises.
It’s so incredibly quiet around him,
You can hear the grass growing in the forest,
How he walks dashingly on the ground with a knapsack...
But now the words are heard
And light rhymes are signal bells, -
Then I begin to understand
And just dictated lines
They go into a snow-white notebook.
A. Akhmatova “Creativity”
Presenter1:
The birth of poetry is hard work, not for the sake of earthly glory, not for one’s own sake, but according to the will of God. The poet, in spite of everything, overcoming all obstacles, in a stubborn struggle, with sweat and blood, creates immortal creations.
Presenter2:
Only a poet can describe all the beauty of the world, all the ordinariness of life, the smallest details and the grandiose scale of an event, all the inexplicable complexity of existence.
Reader
As never before, carefree and kind,
I went out into the snow of the Arbat courtyard,
And there it was: it was getting light there!
The light blossomed like a lilac bush,
And in the yard, recently so empty,
Suddenly it became bright and crowded from the children.
Irish Setter, as playful as fire
He placed the back of his head in my palm,
Puppies and children rejoiced in the snow,
Snow got into my eyes and lips,
And this little incident was funny,
And everyone laughed and inclined to laugh.
How at that moment I loved Moscow
And I thought: the longer I live,
The simpler the mind, the fresher the soul.
Here's the snow, here's the janitor, here's the child running -
Everything exists and can be sung,
What could be more reasonable and sacred?
A day to live like a living being,
Stands and awaits my fate,
And the air of the day seems healing to me.
Ah, the luck that lived was not enough
I was completely happy
In that lane called Khlebny.
B. Akhmadulina “As carefree and kind as ever”
Presenter 1:
A changeable, every second changing world, unforgettable moments of life, the breath of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the flight of an alder earring - everything is so tightly intertwined and tied together in life and in poetic lines.
Performs the romance “Alder Earring”
(music by E. Krylatov, lyrics by E. Yevtushenko)
Presenter2 :
It all starts with love...
They say at the beginning, there was a word.
And I proclaim again,
It all starts with love.
Both insight and work.
The eyes of flowers, the eyes of a child -
It all starts with love.
Presenter1:
Love…! It is difficult to establish when it appeared on Earth! Obviously, together with a person. This is the oldest and greatest feeling.
Presenter2:
How does love arise?
Presenter1:
Already from birth, the first feelings and sensations of affection and care are given to us by maternal love. There is no person in the world dearer and closer than a mother. Her love for children is boundless, selfless, and full of dedication.
Presenter2:
Motherhood in Rus' has always been synonymous with holiness, and the birth of a new life is considered one of the greatest sacraments on Earth.
Take care of mothers! (R. Gamzatov).
Everyone stand up and listen while standing
Preserved in all its glory
This word is ancient, holy!
Straighten up! Get up!..
Stand up everyone!
This word will never deceive you,
There is a being hidden in it.
It is the source of everything.
There is no end to it.
Get up! I pronounce it:
- Mother!
Presenter1 :
Poetry and love are inseparable. Feelings - whether the first, tender or later, the latter longs to be poured out on paper, to sound like a song of delight or sadness. And only poetry can express the joy of meeting and the boundless rapture of a date.
Reader
At a late hour we were with her in the field.
I, trembling, touched tender lips...
"I want hugs until it hurts,
Be merciless and rude to me!”
Tired, she asked tenderly:
“Lully, let me rest,
Don't kiss so hard and rebelliously
Lay your head on my chest."
The stars sparkled quietly above us,
There was a subtle smell of fresh dew.
I touched you tenderly with my lips
To hot cheeks and to braids.
And she forgot. Once I woke up,
Like a child sighed in the semi-darkness,
But, looking at it, she smiled faintly
And again she pressed herself against me.
The night reigned for a long time in the dark field,
For a long time I guarded a sweet dream...
And then on the golden throne,
Shined quietly in the east
It’s a new day, it’s getting cool in the fields...
I woke her up quietly
And in the steppe, sparkling and scarlet,
I walked home through the dew.
I. A. Bunin “At a late hour we were with her in the field”
Presenter1 :
There are so many magical songs and beautiful poems about love. Bright sadness and melancholy everywhere accompany a deep, strong feeling that transforms human souls and the world around us.
Presenter2:
There are so many incomprehensible, unknown things in the world of love. Mystery. Secret. Incomprehensibility. Everything contains a grandiose feeling. And everything is subject to this feeling - people, gods, demons. The great temptation is fraught with a demonic declaration of love.
Presenter1:
A declaration of love is often accompanied by an invitation to dance. And an invitation to dance can become an invitation to life.
Reader
What a ball it was!
The intensity of movement, sound, nerves!
Hearts beat three counts instead of two.
In addition, the ladies invited gentlemen
The white waltz, traditional - and breathtaking.
You yourself, although you dance with grief in half,
I decided to invite her alone a long time ago,
And now, getting closer, becoming more and more real,
She, whom I intended to approach,
She comes herself to invite you to a waltz,
And the blood in your temples beats to the rhythm of a waltz.
She tossed, broke, trembled in the unsteady light of the candles.
There was a white waltz - the end of the doubts of those of little faith
And the end of youthful dreams, fun, pleasures,
Today the ladies invited gentlemen -
Not because, not because those people have little courage.
Elevated to the rank of ladies for the duration of the ball,
And the waltz turns our heads, like in the old days.
But you always have to be away on business
Rush to the rescue, get ready for war.
Whiter than snow white waltz, spin, spin,
May the snowfall last longer!
She came to invite you to life
And you were white - whiter than the walls, whiter than the waltz.
You are outwardly calm in the midst of a noisy ball,
But the shadow behind you gave you away -
She tossed, trembled, broke in the unsteady light of the candles.
And holding it carefully, and circling wildly,
You could run it along the edge of a knife
Don’t just stand there with your arms folded, you’re not your own and no one’s!
Wherever the ball was - in the Lyceum, in the House of Officers,
In the palace hall, at school - how lucky you were -
In Russia, ladies invited gentlemen
In all centuries there was a white waltz, and everything was white and white.
Looking down, not looking around,
Through despair, silence, silence
Women hurried to come to our aid,
Their ballroom is the size of the entire country.
Wherever you are thrown, wherever you disappear,
Remember the waltz - how white you were! - and smile.
They will wait for you forever - both from the sea and from heaven -
And they'll invite you to a white waltz when you return.
V. Vysotsky “White Waltz”.
A musical excerpt from F. Chopin's play “Waltz of the Rain” is played.
They dance the waltz.
Presenter1 :
Thoughts about Russia, its fate, past and present, about its beauty, chosenness and unusualness - everything merged together in the poetic image of the Motherland - an eternally beautiful wife, lover, mother. Love and pain sound sharply and piercingly in poems about Russia.
Reader
I love my fatherland, but with a strange love!
My reason will not defeat her.
Nor glory bought with blood,
Nor the peace full of proud trust,
Nor the dark old treasured legends
No joyful dreams stir within me.
But I love - for what, I don’t know myself -
Its steppes are coldly silent,
Her boundless forests sway,
The floods of its rivers are like seas;
On a country road I like to ride in a cart
And, with a slow gaze piercing the shadow of the night,
Meet on the sides, sighing for an overnight stay,
Trembling lights of sad villages.
I love the smoke of burnt stubble,
A train spending the night in the steppe,
And on a hill in the middle of a yellow field
A couple of white birches.
With joy unknown to many
I see a complete threshing floor
A hut covered with straw
Window with carved shutters;
And on a holiday, on a dewy evening,
Ready to watch until midnight
To dance with stomping and whistling
Under the talk of drunken men.
M. Yu. Lermontov “Motherland”
Presenter1 :
Without this strange love, life is impossible, without it everything loses meaning, and dull, hopeless melancholy sets in.
The romance “The fragrant bunches of white acacia” is performed
Presenter2 :
But the immortal poetic word dispels darkness and creates light, creating wisdom and goodness.A. Akhmatova wrote in her poem “Our Sacred Craft”:
Our sacred craft
Has existed for thousands of years...
With him, even without light, the world is bright.
But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom and no old age,
Or maybe there is no death.
Presenter1:
Years go bycenturies pass. Thinkers, philosophers, scientists strive to unravel the mysteries of existence. But the most complex mystery of the world remains man and his soul. The answers to the most complex questions are hidden in the human soul; the immortal soul keeps hidden secrets.
Presenter2:
To break through to every human soul, awaken it from sleep, tune it to goodness, joy and rapture in life - this is the true purpose of the greatest sacrament of poetry.
The air is full of the passing thunderstorm.
Everything has come to life, everything is breathing, as if in paradise.
With all the dissolution of the brushes, lilac clusters
Lilac absorbs a stream of freshness.
Everything is alive with the change of weather.
The rain floods the roof gutters,
But the transitions are ever brighter than the sky,
And the heights behind the black cloud are blue.
The artist's hand is even more powerful
Removes dirt and dust from all things.
Transformed from his dye shop
Life, reality and reality come out.
Memories of half a century
It goes back with a passing thunderstorm.
A century has passed out of his care.
It's time to give way to the future.
Not shocks and revolutions
The path is cleared for a new life,
And revelations, storms and generosity
Someone's inflamed soul.
B. L. Pasternak “After the Storm”
Presenter1:
Rhythms, styles, poetic forms change, but mother, Motherland, love will always remain unchanged. So let poetry be filled with enchanting love magic for these concepts. And we urge you not to hide your feelings, as the bard Bulat Okudzhava said: “Let us exclaim.”
The song "Let's Exclaim" is performed
(music and lyrics by B. Okudzhava)
Akhmadulina, B. A. An ancient syllable attracts me / B. A. Akhmadulina. – Moscow: Eksmo-Press, 2000. – 528 p.
Akhmatova, A. A. Collected works in 6 volumes / A. A. Akhmatova. – Moscow: Ellis Luck, 1998.
Bunin, I. A. Collected works in 9 volumes / I. A. Bunin. – Moscow: Fiction, 1965.
Voznesensky, A. A. Collected works in 3 volumes / A. A. Voznesensky. – Moscow: Fiction, 1983.
Vysotsky, V. S. Did not leave the battle / V. S.
Vysotsky. – Voronezh: Central Black Earth Book Publishing House, 1988. – 560 p.
Evtushenko, E. A. My very best / E. A. Evtushenko. – Moscow: JSC “H. G.S.”, 1995. – 630 p.
Lermontov, M. Yu. Collected works in 3 volumes / M. Yu. Lermontov. – Moscow: IPO “Polygran”, 1996.
Okudzhava, B. Sh. Poems / B. Sh. Okudzhava. – St. Petersburg: Humanit. Agency “Academic Project”, 2001. – 711 p.
Pasternak, B. L. Collected works in 2 volumes / B. L. Pasternak. - Moscow: Fiction, 1989.
Pushkin, A. S. Golden volume / A. S. Pushkin. – Moscow: Korona – Print, 1999. – 975 p.
Fet, A. A. Smile of beauty / A. A. Fet. – Moscow: School – Press, 1995. – 735 p.
Tsvetaeva, M. I. Collected works in 7 volumes / M. I. Tsvetaeva. – Moscow: Terra – Bookstore, 1997.
Puchkova Antonina
Entertainment script “Poetry Evening”
Move: children enter the hall to the music, walk around and sit on chairs.
Leading:
-A wonderful page of poetry
The door opens for us today,
And let any miracle happen!
Most importantly, believe in him with all your heart!
Love and beauty of nature,
The road of fairy tales, any world, -
Everything is subject to control Poetry,- Try!
And open the door to her country!
The rustle of leaves underfoot, a drop of rain,
Rainbow in the sky, nightingale trills, -
Here the frost draws a pattern on the glass.
The world around is beautiful! And everyone in it is an actor.
(E. Nekrasova)
Leading:
Hello guys! I invite you to our event dedicated to poetry. As you may have already guessed, the hostess of today's holiday will be poetry.
By the way, guys, do you know who writes poetry? It seems to me that these are composers!
Children - no.
Leading:- Well, then - an artist!
Children - no.
Leading:- Well, tell me, what are they called?
Children are Poets.
Leading: - That's right, guys, poets write poetry. And our guest today is the Naryshkin poetess Ponomareva Valentina Anatolyevna. Let's welcome her!
Leading: - Guys, guess the riddle.
Opened her snowy arms,
The trees were all dressed in dresses.
The weather is cold
What time of year is this? (Winter)
Song "Winter"
Leading: - Guys, not only songs, but also poems have been written about winter, I suggest reading them.
Reading a poem "The snowdrifts are growing..."
Reading the poem "Snowflakes are flying, circling..."
Reading the poem "They came down onto my palm..."
Dance "Snowflakes"
Leading: - Children guess the following riddle:
Sparrows, swifts, penguins,
Bullfinches, rooks, peacocks,
Parrots and tits:
In a word it is -. (birds)
(Yu. Svetlova)
Leading:- Today we will listen to interesting poems about birds.
Reading a poem “Frosts and snowstorms again...”
Reading a poem "My Guest"
Poem readings "We built a birdhouse."
Leading:- Guys, now I suggest you play a game "Guess the bird".
If you give the correct answer, it will appear on the screen.
A game "Guess the bird"
1. What kind of bird is called a gossip. (Magpie).
2. This bird does not build its own nest - it lays its own eggs in others’ (Cuckoo).
3. A blizzard is howling in the autumn forest, the trees are cracking from the frost, and this bird is making a nest in the very cold and hatching chicks! And she has an unusual beak -
cross-shaped to get the seeds of the cones. (Crossbill).
4. What is the name of a large bird with long legs and a straight beak,
who hunts in the swamp? (Stork).
Moldavian folk game "Bird Without a Nest"
Leading:- Well done children! Tell me, please, do you like to work? Now I suggest listening to a poem about a good deed.
Reading a poem "Someone made me boots."
Leading:- And now two doctors will come to us, welcome!
Reading a poem "Two Doctors"
Leading:- Guys, who is this riddle about?
A tailor walks through the forest,
A hundred needles behind! (Hedgehog).
Reading a poem “Where are you hurrying, Hedgehog?”
Leading:- Children, I want to introduce you to the author of all the poems,
voiced today. This is Valentina Anatolyevna Ponomareva, let’s greet her!
Word by V. Ponomareva.
Leading:- Our holiday was a great success.
And we think that everyone liked it!
Publications on the topic:
This year we continue to cooperate with the Children's City Library named after. Yu. F. Tretyakova. November 3 was the 128th birthday of the child.
Slide 1 in the background
What is the magic of poetry?
Perhaps in nakedness of feelings?
The ability to touch heartstrings?
After all, the words that come out of your mouth can
Make a gloomy day happy.
Or maybe it's just an obsession?
And yet, as long as there is light,
Behind the line is a line, like a necklace,
The poet slowly strings together words.
Host: Good afternoon, dear guests. The wonderful month of March is ending. And it’s not in vain that this month was chosen to celebrate the wonderful, romantic holiday of Poetry Day. After all, March represents the beginning of spring, the rebirth and awakening of nature.
It seems to me that writing poetry is like being able to fly like a bird. This cannot be learned, but everyone can learn to understand poetry.
Each of us has moments in life when we want to move away from current problems and plunge into another, turbulent and exciting world - the world of poetry. And, having opened a volume of poems by our favorite poet, we begin to feel and think differently.
Yesenin, Pushkin, Nekrasov, Tyutchev, Lermontov, Blok, Akhmatova still warm our hearts and give admiration regardless of where we live.
It’s amazing where poets have such strength, such energy.
Slide 2 (I. Talkov)
Host: Each of us has our own favorite poet, whose work we turn to at certain moments in our lives. And today you will hear declarations of love to poets who, with their creativity, managed to penetrate our hearts and souls, lit in them an unfading candle of hope, awakened an unquenchable faith in goodness, justice and humanity.
Slide 3 in the background
1st student: The great Russian poet Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin enters our lives in childhood and remains with us until the end. Everyone finds in it something of their own, close and understandable only to them. I see in him just a friend to whom I can tell the innermost secrets of my soul. I love Pushkin for his fun and wisdom, sadness and nobility, for his ability to feel happy even when it is very difficult. Because he loved people and knew how to be friends with them. Pushkin was unhappy, and disappointed, and exhausted, and wounded, and dying... But he always illuminated life around him with light. And the more you get to know him, the more you understand: he was not just involved in the world of poetry - the world of poetry was contained within him, and he was its ruler...
I would present Pushkin with red tulips, inside of which there seems to be a fire burning.
We see this fire of life, the fire of love that will never go out, in the poet’s heart.
(A.S. Pushkin “What’s in my name for you?”)
What's in a name?
It will die like a sad noise
Waves splashing onto the distant shore,
Like the sound of the night in a deep forest.
It's on the memorial sheet
Will leave a dead trail like
1
Tombstone inscription pattern
In an unknown language.
What's in it? Long forgotten
In new and rebellious unrest,
It won't give your soul
Memories pure, tender.
But on a day of sadness, in silence,
Say it in sadness;
Say: there is a memory of me,
There is a heart in the world where I live...
Host: The life paths of geniuses are always difficult. Creatively gifted people try to understand and comprehend their lives, the lives of the people around them, and the whole world.
(video fragment from the film “Sergei Yesenin” - “Hooligan”)
Slide 4 in the background
2nd student: I believe that there is no person who would be indifferent to the poetry of Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin. Having penetrated the world of his poetic images, we begin to feel like brothers of a lonely birch, an old maple, a rowan bush. These feelings help us maintain our humanity. Yesenin is dear to me because he gave people the gems of his soul. He loved as only a poet could love - tenderly, passionately and painfully. Reading his poems, I smell the fragrant smell of hay, see quiet river pools with white lilies and yellow water lilies. But Yesenin especially loved white birch.
That’s why I would bring my beloved poet a birch twig intertwined with the meadow flowers that the poet loved so much.
The golden grove dissuaded
Birch, cheerful language,
And the cranes, sadly flying,
They don’t regret anyone anymore.
Whom should I feel sorry for? After all, everyone in the world is a wanderer -
He will pass, come in and leave the house again.
The hemp plant dreams of all those who have passed away
With a wide moon over the blue pond.
I stand alone among the naked plain,
And the wind carries the cranes into the distance,
I'm full of thoughts about my cheerful youth,
But I don’t regret anything about the past.
Host: No one can say more about the poet than he himself does in his poems.
3rd student: I would give modest cornflowers and delicate daisies to Nikolai Mikhailovich Rubtsov. Love and tenderness for his homeland is what distinguishes his poetry. Behind every line of his poems lies a painful and all-consuming love for his native land, tenderness for its meadows, forests, its slow waters and tart berries. Let these modest wildflowers awaken the brightest, kindest and most beautiful things in people’s souls.
(video by A. Barykin “Bouquet”)
Host: At all times, poetry has enjoyed great attention in society and occupied a special place. The people always appreciated her high and sacred mission. Every person needed poetry. They looked for consolation in her, the beauty of feelings and peace, they loved her...
Have you ever wondered why a person starts writing poetry? Where does the amazing gift of making words sound differently, in a new way, from which other people take their breath away and their heart beats faster? How can you make a person feel the whole world in just two lines?
Slide 6 in the background
3rd student: (B. Pasternak “I was lost like an animal in a pen”)
I disappeared like an animal in a pen.
Somewhere there are people, will, light,
And behind me there is the sound of a chase,
I can't go outside.
Dark forest and the shore of a pond,
They ate a fallen log.
The path is cut off from everywhere.
Whatever happens, it doesn't matter.
What kind of dirty trick did I do?
Am I a murderer and a villain?
I made the whole world cry
Over the beauty of my land.
But even so, almost at the grave,
I believe the time will come -
The power of meanness and malice
The spirit of goodness will prevail.
Chrysanthemums, slightly shrouded in light frost, are a symbol of perseverance, courage, and love of life. I give them to an extraordinary person, my favorite poet Boris Leonidovich Pasternak. I am fascinated by his poetry because it is about the meaning of human life. There is a wonderful symbol in Pasternak’s poetry - a burning candle. This is a symbol of the poet’s difficult life, a flame that could have been extinguished many times. The poet has passed away, but the fire of his poetry still burns today.
(Video “The candle was burning on the table”)
Presenter: Poetry. What definition can be given to this truly magical phenomenon? Poetry is a word that comes not so much from the mind as from the heart. Life itself breathes in poetry - everyone knows this.
Unfortunately, in the history of poetry there are many not only beautiful pages, but also tragic pages. Our poets walked a difficult road, which is why stunning, heart-tugging, sometimes scary, but always humane poems were born.
Slide 7 in the background
4th student: My love for Anna Andreevna Akhmatova is so great that I would erect several monuments to her: to the barefoot seaside girl in Chersonese; a lovely Tsarskoye Selo schoolgirl, a sophisticated, beautiful woman with a thread of black agate around her neck in the Summer Garden. And also where she wanted - opposite the Leningrad prison, there should be, in my opinion, a monument to a woman, gray with grief, holding in her hands a bundle with a package for her only son, whose entire guilt 3
The only thing was that he was the son of two great poets - Nikolai Gumilyov and Anna Akhmatova.
And I would bring red carnations to the foot of the monument as a symbol of the courage of this amazing woman and a symbol of the immortality of her poetry.
(verse “I don’t want to give you peace”)
Slide 8 (Hands clenched under a dark veil)
Presenter: A real poet is a worker of the soul, restless, caring. And to be one, you have to live, fighting with yourself, not letting your conscience sleep. And only in this case will life really not be in vain.
5th student: I would give scarlet poppies to my favorite poet. I will tell you the legend of Evgeny Nosov, and I think you will guess who they are intended for.
Slide 9 in the background
“In the center of the flowerbed, among pansies, Parisian beauties and snapdragons, red poppies rose, throwing their tight, heavy buds towards the sun. They blossomed the next day. From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live flames blazing merrily in the wind. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you! For two days the poppies burned wildly. And at the end of the second day they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately the lush flowerbed became empty without them.
I picked up a still very fresh petal, covered in drops of dew, from the ground and spread it on my palm.
- That's it, it burned out. His life is short. But without looking back, she lived it to the fullest. And this happens to people...
Surely you guessed it? Yes, poppies - to Vladimir Semenovich Vysotsky, a man who embodied the pain and conscience of the 20th century, a wonderful poet, singer, actor and a Man with a capital P.
(video by V. Vysotsky “No me, I left Russia”)
Host: One of the most favorite themes in poetry is love. How many lines have been written by poets about this sublime feeling, how much paper, papyrus, and ink have been translated by poets. The great bright feeling is sung by almost all poets of the world. Love inspired poets to great deeds; they dedicated their best creations to their loved ones.
Slide 10 in the background
6th student: White roses are considered symbols of innocence and purity. They are usually given to young people. Snow-white buds symbolize eternal love - the strongest, purest and strongest feeling of all on earth. Bouquets of white roses are like clouds - incredibly airy and carry emotions, feelings, thoughts... That is why I would give these wonderful flowers to Tatyana Valerievna Snezhina - a young but very popular poet and singer. And, although Tatyana lived far from Lugansk, she was born here, on our land. Her songs are performed by many famous singers. If I die before my time,
Let the white swans carry me away
Far, far away, to an unknown land,
High, high, into the bright sky...
These are words from a romance that have become prophetic. Tatyana performed it at one of the presentations, and on the third day, the Nissan minibus in which Tanya was traveling with her fiance and friends got into an accident, as a result of which everyone died.
23 years of life, but a great legacy - collections of poems, books, albums with recordings of songs. In our city, in the Komsomol park, a monument was erected to Tatyana Snezhina. 4
(video by T. Snezhin “Let me live without time”)
Presenter: One of my favorite poets is Eduard Arkadyevich Asadov. In the bewitching lines about love, war, friendship, nature, feelings, everyone can find something of their own. As a sign of gratitude and admiration, I would present him with red roses as a symbol of courage, courage, love and hope. After all, only a brave person can, without hesitation, being wounded, drive a truck with ammunition to an artillery battery; only a courageous person, having undergone the most difficult operations after being wounded and remaining blind, can continue to write such beautiful works. In the 1980s, Eduard Asadov's poems were incredibly popular among young people. Schoolgirls who began to write poetry did it “according to Asadov.”
Millions of people read the poems of this poet - although sometimes the texts seemed naive, even simple-minded, perhaps because it was precisely such poems that attracted their attention. But with time and with age, everything changes. I want to read you a poem that would appeal not to a naive girl from the 70s and 80s, but to someone who has already grown up.
Slide 11 (in the background)
The couple quarreled in the evening,
They said a lot of harsh words.
In the heat of the moment they did not understand each other,
They completely forgot about love.
My husband has to go to work early in the morning,
And there is a stamp of bitterness on the heart.
Overnight he realized the stupidity of the quarrel,
He came up to kiss his wife.
Didn't sleep, but still pretended
She turned her face to the side.
Resentment lurks deep down,
Like a coiled boa constrictor.
The door closed - not a word goodbye,
I looked at the windows from the yard...
If they knew, if they knew,
That he left home for good.
And the wife does her usual things,
As always, I took care of my own:
I washed the baby's underwear,
I cooked borscht and cleaned the house.
Clean floor, washed dishes,
And soon my husband will come home from work.
- I won't talk to him.
Let him ask for forgiveness, let him understand.
Pride rose high in my heart:
- I won’t go to him first!
The quarrel was played out by roles
In a brain inflamed by the devil. 5
Six struck, seven and half past eight...
The door is motionless, the threshold is silent.
And in anxiety something in my heart aches,
Where could he stay like that?
Suddenly there was some scream and commotion,
Someone's voice, crying bitterly,
And the neighbor's boy Alekha
He shouted out of breath: “There’s an explosion in the mine!”
Explosion. A very short word
It was as if my heart had been torn to shreds.
No, she is not ready for this!
Maybe he's alive, maybe he's lucky.
And she ran down the street in tears,
Remembering with pain the last day,
How I got angry and screamed in resentment,
A shadow covered the mind of malice.
With the wound up doll she repeated:
- My dear, if only it weren’t you.
I would fall at your feet right now,
Whispering a short “I’m sorry.”
They should have known yesterday what would happen tomorrow,
Everything could have been different.
Death, like a thief, comes so suddenly
Leaving no chance to fall in love.
It will thunder inexorably menacingly
Sentence. It can't be changed.
It's too late to correct the mistakes
She will have to live with this pain.
People, be gentler towards your neighbors,
Treat with tenderness and kindness
And don't offend, otherwise
You can bitterly repent later...
Host: In my opinion, poets live among us, because almost each of us has composed something like this at least once in our lives, thereby expressing our feelings or attitude towards someone or something. It’s just that someone did not develop this way of expressing himself, spinning in the whirlpool of life and losing interest in poetry within his soul...
(word to guests)
Our literary evening has come to an end. We have touched upon only the smallest part of the literary works of poets. Much was left unsaid. The poems of many poets remained unread.
We sincerely hope that this day and our meeting will remain in memory for all of you as a good and happy day spent with friends. All the best to you! See you again!