Literary and musical composition "a line torn by a bullet". Presentation "line torn by a bullet" Scenario of the city festival "A line torn by a bullet ..."

String torn off by a bullet,
It was not sounded to the end.
Like a dress crumpled on a chair
Like two wilted flowers.

And in those fatal moments,
No one thought about themselves.
And the letters hit right through,
He will remember you.

And again, grief is a lump in my throat.
Who scorched my hope.
I pray to the Almighty until
But how to hear in silence?

Host: A military storm shed its drops of tears and blood long ago. For a long time already in the fields, where hot battles took place, wheat has been sprouting. But the people keep in their memory the names of the heroes of the last war. The Great Patriotic War ... Our lesson is dedicated to those who fearlessly stepped into the glow of war, into the roar of cannonade, stepped in and did not return, leaving a bright mark on the earth - their poems.
Presenter (Reads A. Ekimtsev's poem "Poets"):
Somewhere under a radiant obelisk
From Moscow to the distant lands,
Guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky is sleeping,
Wrapped in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cool birch,
That shimmers in the lunar distant
Guardsman Nikolay Otrada is sleeping
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July will warm
Sleeps without awakening Pavel Kogan
For almost six decades now.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
So it stayed for centuries
The most recent grenade -
The very last line.
Poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
They should get up at dawn tomorrow,
To the belated first books
Write prefaces in blood!
Presenter: Before the Great Patriotic War, there were 2,186 writers and poets in the USSR, 944 people went to the front, 417 did not return from the war.
Presenter: 48 poets died on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. The oldest of them - Samuel Rosin - was 49 years old, the youngest - Vsevolod Bagritsky, Leonid Rosenberg 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 there all evening tonight
Choking on tobacco smoke
Tormented by thoughts of some people
Who died very young
Which at dawn or at night
Unexpectedly and clumsily
Dying without finishing the uneven lines
Not loving
without finishing,
not finished ...
A year before the war, characterizing his generation, Nikolai Mayorov wrote about the same:
We were tall, fair-haired,

The melody "Sacred War" (music by A. Alexandrov) sounds, two "poets" appear on the stage and read the lines.
Georgy Suvorov: We will not grieve in memories,

And for people.
Nikolai Mayorov: We know all the statutes by heart.
What is ruin 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 don't hear
When descendants talk about them.
The "poets" sit on the outer chairs.
Presenter: The poems of Joseph Utkin are imbued with deep lyricism. The poet was a war correspondent during the Great Patriotic War. Joseph 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.
Tall stars are visible.
You write a letter to me my dear
To the blazing address of the war.
How long have you been writing it darling
You graduate and start again.
But I'm sure: to the leading edge
Such love will break through!
... We have been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
Wars are not visible behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
At home - and in the smoke of war!
Warmer at the front from affectionate letters.
Reading, behind every line
You see your beloved
And you hear your homeland
Like a voice behind a thin wall ...
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And this time will come:
Sadness and separation will remain outside the door.
And only joy will enter the house.
Lights a candle on the table and sits on a chair.
Host: By the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Boris Bogatkov, who grew up in a teacher's family, was not yet 19 years old. From the very beginning of the war, he was in the active army, was seriously wounded and demobilized. The young patriot seeks to return to the army, and he is enlisted in the Siberian Volunteer Division. The commander of a platoon of machine gunners, he writes poetry, creates the division's anthem. Raising the soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovskaya height (in the Smolensk-Yelnya region). Posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree.
Boris Bogatkov appears on the stage.
Boris Bogatkov (reads the poem "Finally!"):
New suitcase half a meter long
Mug, spoon, knife, pot ...
I saved it all in advance
To appear on the summons on time.
How I waited for her! And finally
Here she is, desired, in her hands! ... ...
Childhood has flown by, noisy
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth with girlish hands
Hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
It sparkled on the fronts now.
Youth to fight for everything native
I took the guys into fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To my matured 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).
Presenter: In the summer of 1936, in one of the Moscow houses on Leningradsky Prospekt, a song was sounded that has been the anthem of romantics for more than 60 years.
Pavel Kogan appears with a guitar and Mikhail Kulchitsky, sit on chairs. Pavel Kogan sings "Brigantine", Mikhail Kulchitsky sings along with him.
Presenter: The author of these lines was a future student of the Gorky Institute of Literature Pavel Kogan. And in September 1942, the unit where Lieutenant Kogan served was fighting near Novorossiysk. On September 23, Pavel received an order: at the head of a group of scouts to get to the station and blow up the enemy's gas tanks ... A fascist bullet hit him in the chest. The poetry of Pavel Kogan is imbued with deep love for the Motherland, pride in his generation and alarming forebodings of a military thunderstorm.
Pavel Kogan (reads an excerpt from the poem "Lyrical digression"):
We were all sorts.
But, tormented,
We understood: in our days
We have had such a fate
Let them be jealous.
They will invent us wise
We'll be hard and straight
They will paint and powder
And yet we will make our way!
But, to the people of the United Motherland,
It is hardly given to them to understand
What a routine sometimes
Led us to live and die.
And let me seem narrow to them
And I will offend their all-lightness,
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air,
I love the Russian land,
I believe that nowhere in the world
The second one cannot be found,
So that it smells like that at dawn,
So that the smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find such
Birch trees, like in my land!
I'd die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut paradise.
But we'll still get to the Ganges,
But we will still die in battles
So that from Japan to England
My homeland shone.
Lights her candle.
Presenter: Under the walls of Stalingrad in January 1943, a talented poet, a student of the Literary Institute, a friend of Pavel Kogan, Mikhail Kulchitsky, died.
Mikhail Kulchitsky (reads the poem "A dreamer, a dreamer, an envious lazy person! .."):
Dreamer, dreamer, envious lazy person!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the riders whistle
Swinging sabers by propellers.
I used to think: Lieutenant
Sounds "pour us"
And knowing the topography,
He stomps on gravel.
War is not fireworks at all,
It's just hard work,
When - black with sweat - up
The infantry is sliding along the plowing field.
March!
And clay in a chomping stomp
To the bone of frozen feet
Wraps up on chebots
The weight of bread in a monthly ration.
On fighters and buttons like
Scales of heavy orders,
Not up to the order.
There would be a Motherland
With daily Borodino.
Lights a candle, sits down next to Pavel Kogan.
Presenter: History student and poet Nikolai Mayorov, political instructor of a machine-gun company, was killed in a battle near Smolensk on February 8, 1942. A friend of Nikolai Mayorov's student years, Daniil Danin, recalled him: "He did not recognize poetry without 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, strong suitable for long-distance flights. "
Nikolay Mayorov (reads the poem "There is a sound of metal in my voice"):
There is a sound of metal in my voice.
I entered life hard and straight.
Not everyone dies. Not everything will be included in the catalog.
But only let it be under my name
The descendant will discern in the archival trash
A piece of hot land true to us,
Where we passed with charred mouths
And they carried courage like a banner.
We were tall, fair-haired.
You will read in books like a myth,
About the people who left without affection,
Without finishing the last cigarette.
Lights a candle. The melody "At a nameless height" is played (music by V. Basner, words by M. Matusovsky).
Host: Lieutenant Vladimir Chugunov commanded a rifle company at the front. He died at the Kursk Bulge, raising the soldiers to attack. On a wooden obelisk, friends wrote: "Here is buried Vladimir Chugunov - a warrior - a poet - a citizen who died on July 5, 1943".
Vladimir Chugunov appears and reads the poem "Before the Attack".
Vladimir Chugunov:
If I'm on the battlefield,
Letting out a death moan,
I will fall in the sunset fire
Struck down by the enemy's bullet,
If a raven, as if in a song,
The circle will close above me, -
I want my peer
He stepped forward over the corpse.
Lights a candle.
Presenter: A participant in the battles to break the blockade of Leningrad, the commander of a platoon of anti-tank rifles, Guard Lieutenant Georgy Suvorov was a talented poet. He died on February 13, 1944 while crossing the Narova River. The day before his heroic death, 25-year-old Georgy Suvorov wrote the purest feeling and highly tragic lines.
Georgy Suvorov appears on the stage and reads the poem "Even in the morning, black smoke swirls ...".
Georgy Suvorov:
Even in the morning, black smoke swirls
Over your torn-up housing.
And the charred bird falls
Overtaken by mad fire.
Even at white nights we dream
As messengers lost love,
Living mountains of blue acacias
And there are enthusiastic nightingales in them.
Another war. But we stubbornly believe
That there will be a day - we will drink the pain to the bottom.
The wide world will open its doors again
At dawn, a new silence will rise.
The last enemy. The last well-aimed shot.
And the first glimpse of the morning, like glass.
My dear friend, and yet how quickly
How quickly our time has passed.
We will not grieve in memories,
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness, -
We have lived our good times as people -
And for people.
Lights a candle. The melody of the song "We need one victory" (music and lyrics by B. Okudzhava) sounds.
Host: 24-year-old senior sergeant Grigor Hakobyan, the tank commander, died in 1944 in the battles for the liberation of the Ukrainian city of Shpola. He was awarded two Orders of Glory, the Orders of the Patriotic War of the 1st degree and the Order of the Red Star, and two medals "For Courage". He was posthumously awarded the title of "Honorary Citizen of the city of Shpola".
Grigor Hakobyan appears on the stage.
Grigor Hakobyan (reads the poem "Mom, I'll be back from the war ..."):
Mom, I'll be back from the war,
We, dear, will meet you,
I'll snuggle up in the peaceful silence
Like a child, to your cheek.
I will snuggle up to your affectionate hands
Hot, rough lips.
I will dispel the sadness in your soul
With kind words and deeds.
Trust me, mom, - he will come, our hour,
We will win the war between the saint and the right.
And the world saved will give us
And an unfading crown and glory!
Lights a candle. The melody of the song "Buchenwald alarm" sounds (music by V. Muradeli, lyrics by A. Sobolev).
Presenter: The poems of the famous Tatar poet who died in Hitler's dungeon, Musa Jalil, who was posthumously awarded the title of Hero, are world famous Soviet Union.
Presenter: In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, Musa Jalil, seriously wounded, fell into the hands of the enemy. In the poem "Forgive me, Motherland!" he wrote with bitterness:
Forgive me your private
The smallest part of you.
I'm sorry that I didn't die
The death of a soldier in this battle.
Presenter: Neither terrible torture nor the imminent danger of death could silence the poet, break the unyielding character of this man. He threw angry words in the face of his enemies. His songs were his only weapon in this unequal struggle, and they sounded a guilty verdict to the stranglers of freedom, sounded faith in the victory of their people.
Musa Jalil appears.
Musa Jalil (reads the poem "To the Executioner"):
I will not kneel, executioner, before you,
Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison.
My hour will come - I will die. But know: I will die standing
Although you will chop off my head, villain.
Alas, not a thousand, but only a hundred in a battle
I was able to destroy such executioners.
For this, returning, I will ask forgiveness,
Kneeling down at my homeland.
Stands silently.
Host: Musa Jalil spent two years in the dungeons of the "stone bag" of Moabit. But the poet did not give up. He wrote poems full of burning hatred of enemies and ardent love for the Motherland. He always considered the poet's word to be a weapon of struggle, a weapon of victory. And he always sang with inspiration, with a full voice, from the bottom of his heart. All his life path Musa Jalil dreamed of going with songs that "feed the earth", with songs like the ringing songs of a spring, with songs from which "gardens of human souls" bloom. 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
He will fulfill his firm oath:
I have always dedicated songs to my homeland,
Now I give my life to my homeland.
I sang, feeling the spring freshness,
I sang, entering the battle for my homeland.
So I am writing the last song,
Seeing the executioner's ax over him.
The song taught me freedom
The song of a fighter tells me to die.
My life was ringing like a song among the people,
My death will sound like a song of struggle.
Lights her candle and sits on a chair.
Presenter: Jalil's philanthropic poetry is an accusation of fascism, its barbarism, inhumanity. 67 poems were written by the poet after he was sentenced to death. But they are all dedicated 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 goes by without a trace
In baseness, in captivity, what an honor!
Only in the freedom of life is beauty!
There is eternity only in a brave heart!
If your blood poured for the Motherland,
You will not die among the people, horseman,
The traitor's blood flows into the mud
The blood of the brave burns in the hearts.
Dying, the hero will not die -
Courage will last forever.
Glorify your name by fighting,
So that it does not fall silent on the lips!
Host: After the Victory, the Belgian Andre Timmermans, a former prisoner of Moabit, handed over to Musa Jalil's homeland small notebooks no larger than a palm. On the leaves, like poppy seeds, letters that cannot be read without a magnifying glass.
Presenter: "Moabit Notebooks" is the most amazing literary monument of our era. For them the poet Musa Jalil was posthumously awarded the Lenin Prize.
Host: Let there be a moment of silence. Eternal glory dead poets!
A minute of silence.
Presenter: They did not return from the battlefield ... Young, strong, cheerful ... Unlike each other in particular, they were similar to each other in general. They dreamed about creative work, about warm and pure love, about a bright life on earth. The most honest of the most honest, they turned out to be the boldest of the bravest. They did not hesitate to fight fascism. This is written about them:
They were leaving, your peers
Without clenching your teeth, not cursing fate.
And the path was not short:
From the first battle to the eternal flame ...
The song "Red Poppies" (music by Y. Antonov, lyrics by G. Pozhenyan) is played. While the song is playing, the "poets" take turns getting up, going to the table, extinguishing their candles and leaving the stage.
Host: May there be silence in the world,
But the dead are in the ranks.
The war is not over
For those who fell in battle.
Lost, they were left to live; invisible, they are in the ranks. The poets are silent, the lines cut off by a bullet speak for them ... For them, the poems continue to live today, love and fight. "Let these people be always close to you, as friends, as relatives, as you yourself!" - said Julius Fucik. I would like you to refer these words to all the dead poets, whose poems helped you learn something new, help you discover the beautiful and light, and help you look at the world with different eyes. The deceased poets, like tens of thousands of their peers, who have so little success in life and who have done so immeasurably much, giving their lives for the Motherland, will always be the conscience of all of us living.
People!
As long as hearts are knocking, -
Remember!
At what cost
happiness is won, -
You are welcome,
remember!

The melody of the song "Cranes" (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov) sounds. Students leave the hall to music.

Author details

Aubakirova O.I.

Place of work, position:

Teacher of the MOU "Wellhead School of Basic General Education"

Kamchatka region

Resource characteristics

Education levels:

Basic general education

Class (s):

Class (s):

Class (s):

Item (s):

Extracurricular work

The target audience:

Classroom teacher

Resource type:

Event scenario

Brief description of the resource:

Class hour dedicated to Victory Day, accompaniment-music and presentation-photographs of the war years.

Strings ah, torn off by a bullet ... - class hour dedicated to the 65th anniversary of the Victory.

(class hour "A line cut off by a bullet .." scenario.fome.ru/ras-13-9.html , revised and supplemented by Aubakirova O.I.)

Equipment:

multimedia projector, screen, computer, speakers, metronome.

The class hour is spent in the classroom .; on the blackboard in large letters the topic of the school hour; 5 chairs to be filled with gradually emerging "poets" in military uniform; in the center, a small table with 5 candles that will be lit;

The melody of the song "Cranes" sounds (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov).

Leading.
The war has been raging for a long time. For a long time already in the fields, where hot battles took place, flowers are blooming. But the people keep in their memory the names of the heroes of the last war. The Great Patriotic War ... Our story is about those who fearlessly stepped into the flames of war, into the roar of cannonade, stepped forward and did not return, leaving an eternal mark on the earth - their poems.

On the screen, photographs of the war years begin to change in automatic mode - (presentation, author Aubakirova O.I.)

Leading (reads the poem by A. Ekimtsev "Poets").
Where-TOundera radiant obelisk,
From Moscow to the distant lands,
The guardsman sleepsVsevolod Bagritsky,
Wrapped in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cool birch,
That shimmers in the lunar distant
The guardsman sleepsNikolay Otrada
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July will warm
Sleeps without awakeningPavel Kogan
For almost six decades now.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
So it stayed for centuries
The most recent grenade -
The very last line.
Poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
They should get up at dawn tomorrow,
To the belated first books
Write prefaces in blood!
Leading.
Before World War II, there were 2,186 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 - Samuel Rosin - was 49 years old, the youngest - Vsevolod Bagritsky, Leonid Rosenberg and Boris Smolensky - barely turned 20. As if foreseeing his own fate and the fate of many of his peers, eighteenBoris Smolensky wrote:
I'll be there all evening tonight
Choking on tobacco smoke
Tormented by thoughts of some people
Who died very young
Which at dawn or at night
Unexpectedly and clumsily
Dying without finishing the uneven lines
Not loving
without finishing,
not finished ...

Leading:

Rocket green lights
They slashed across pale faces
Lower your head
And, like crazy, don't go under the bullets.

Order: "Forward!"
Command: "Stand up!"
Again I wake up a comrade,
And someone called his own mother,
And someone remembered someone else's,

When having broken forgetfulness,
The guns roared
Nobody shouted: "For Russia!"
And they went and died for her.

These lines were written by the poetNikolay Starshinov, from the first days he stood up to defend the Motherland.

Quiet s he teaches the melody "The Holy War" (music by A. Aleksandrov), two "poets" appear on the stage and read the lines.

Georgy Suvorov.
We will not grieve in memories,


And for people.

Nikolay Mayorov.
We know all the statutes by heart.
What is ruin 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 don't hear
When descendants talk about them.

The "poets" sit on the outer chairs.
Leading.
By the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Boris Bogatkov, who had grown up in a teaching family, was not yet 19 years old. From the very beginning of the war, he was in the active army, was seriously wounded and demobilized. The young patriot seeks to return to the army, and he is enrolled in the Siberian Volunteer Division. The commander of a platoon of machine gunners, he writes poetry, creates the anthem of the division. Raising the soldiers to the attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovskaya height (in the Smolensk-Yelnya region). Posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree.

Boris Bogatkov appears on the stage.
Boris Bogatkov (reads the poem "Finally!").
New suitcase half a meter long
Mug, spoon, knife, pot ...
I saved it all in advance
To appear on the summons on time.
How I waited for her! And finally
Here she is, desired, in her hands! ... ...
Childhood has flown by, noisy
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth with girlish hands
Hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
It sparkled on the fronts now.
Youth to fight for everything native
I took the guys into fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To my matured peers.

The "poet" lights a candle on the table and sits down on a chair.

"Pavel Kogan" appears
Leading.
In the summer of 1936, in one of the Moscow houses on Leningradsky Prospekt, a song was performed that has been the anthem of romantics for over 60 years.

The beginning of the song sounds "Brigantine",
Leading.
The author of these lines was the future student of the Gorky Literary Institute Pavel Kogan. And in September 1942, the unit where Lieutenant Kogan served was fighting near Novorossiysk. On September 23, Pavel received an order: at the head of a group of scouts to get to the station and blow up the enemy's gas tanks ... a German bullet hit him in the chest. The poetry of Pavel Kogan is imbued with love for the Motherland and pride for his generation ...

Pavel Kogan (reads an excerpt from the poem "Lyrical digression").
We were all sorts.
But, tormented,
We understood: in our days
We have had such a fate
Let them be jealous.
They will invent us wise
We'll be hard and straight
They will paint and powder
And yet we will make our way!
But, to the people of the United Motherland,
It is hardly given to them to understand
What a routine sometimes
Led us to live and die.
And let me seem narrow to them
And I will offend their all-lightness,
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air,
I love the Russian land,
I believe that nowhere in the world
The second one cannot be found,
So that it smells like that at dawn,
So that the smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find such
Birch trees, like in my land!
I'd die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut paradise.
But we'll still get to the Ganges,
But we will still die in battles
So that from Japan to England
My homeland shone.
( Lights her candle and sits down.)

Leading.
History student and poet Nikolai Mayorov, political instructor of a machine-gun company, was killed in a battle near Smolensk on February 8, 1942. A friend of Nikolai Mayorov's student years, Daniil Danin, recalled him: “He did not recognize poetry without 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 - earthy, durable, suitable for long-distance flights. "

Nikolai Mayorov reads the poem "There is a sound of metal in my voice."
Nikolay Mayorov.
There is a sound of metal in my voice.
I entered life hard and straight.
Not everyone dies. Not everything will be included in the catalog.
But only let it be under my name
The descendant will discern in the archival trash
A piece of hot land true to us,
Where we passed with charred mouths
And they carried courage like a banner.
We were tall, fair-haired.
You will read in books like a myth,
About the people who left without affection,
Without finishing the last cigarette.

Lights a candle. The melody "At a nameless height" (music by V. Basner, words by M. Matusovsky) sounds.

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

Vladimir Chugunov appears and reads the poem "Before the Attack".
Vladimir Chugunov.
If I'm on the battlefield,
Letting out a death moan,
I will fall in the sunset fire
Struck down by the enemy's bullet,
If a raven, as if in a song,
The circle will close above me, -
I want my peer
He stepped forward over the corpse.

Lights a candle and sits down.
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 feeling and highly tragic lines.

Georgy Suvorov appears on the stage and reads the poem "Even in the morning, black smoke is swirling ...".

Georgy Suvorov.
Even in the morning, black smoke swirls
Over your torn-up housing.
And the charred bird falls
Overtaken by mad fire.
Even at white nights we dream
Like heralds of a lost love
Living mountains of blue acacias
And there are enthusiastic nightingales in them.
Another war. But we stubbornly believe
That there will be a day - we will drink the pain to the bottom.
The wide world will open its doors again
At dawn, a new silence will rise.
The last enemy. The last well-aimed shot.
And the first glimpse of the morning, like glass.
My dear friend, and yet how quickly
How quickly our time has passed.
We will not grieve in memories,
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness, -
We have lived our good times as people -
And for people.

Lights a candle andsits down.

Leading:

Let there be a moment of silence. Eternal glory to the dead poets!
Minute of silence. (Metronome)
Leading.
They did not return from the battlefield ... Young, strong, cheerful ... Unlike each other in particular, they were similar to each other in general. They dreamed about creative work, about warm and pure love, about a bright life on earth. The most honest of the most honest, they turned out to be the boldest of the bravest. They did not hesitate to fight fascism. And they died ... It is written about them:

They were leaving, your peers
Without clenching your teeth, not cursing fate.
And the path was not short:
From the first battle to the eternal flame ...

The melody of the song "Cranes" sounds

The “poets” take turns getting up, going up to the table, each putting out his candle and leaving the stage.
Leading.
May there be silence in the world
But the dead are in the ranks.
The war is not over
For those who fell in battle.
Lost, they were left to live; invisible, they are in the ranks. The poets are silent, the lines cut off by a bullet speak for them ... "May these people always be close to you, as friends, as relatives, as you yourself!" -

People!
As long as hearts are knocking, -
Remember!
At what cost
happiness is won, -
You are welcome,
remember!

On the screen- video "Memory" (author Alexandrova Z.V.)

Classroom teacher: Thanks to everyone who took part in our literary composition, everyone who came to honor the memory of the dead poets. I would like these verses to help you discover the beautiful and light, to help you see the world with different eyes. The deceased poets, like tens of thousands of their peers, who have done so little in life and have done so immeasurably much, giving their lives for the Motherland, will always be the conscience of all of us living.

Memorial of Glory

A stream of people flows ... On the battlefield,
Frozen, Mother stands in sorrowful silence,
Listening to sensitive mornings
At night without ceasing to wait:
The sons from hell are about to return.
Four long years no news!
To wait - and the highest award -
Their return from the war of the 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 were left here to lie,
He covered them with a wall,
The holy host fell asleep in eternal sleep.
The hearts of the heroes are pounding - ours echo.
She hears a clear and uniform sound
Unheard of for centuries in all history,
Hearts ringing irrepressible beat.
The oaks rustle calmly, proudly
And hum to the fallen in silence -
Soldiers, partisans and divisional commanders,
Retelling the past to me.
The trees are whispering like a will
To keep forever in human memory
Those names who are proudly dying,
Here I found my peace forever.
And the mother looks with sad eyes,
And the pain is eternal, and the guard is eternal! -
As if talking to us
And with those who stepped into immortality!
... I come here in blooming May,
Bringing you flowers with love.
I recognize your star among thousands of stars -
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 command
Say goodbye to your fallen friends forever.

Tears do not measure all losses,
Time will not heal the scars on the heart.
Tirelessly everyone is looking for them now
Years lost in thunderstorms, in the grip of the blockade.

The dream of meeting in my heart is hidden,
Only those who believe in happiness find it.
Let this song call like a beacon
Giving hope, measuring the pain of parting.

Not forget

I don't want the war to thunder again
A heavy and terrible burden fell on our shoulders.
Like a black storm she burst
Many destinies of people on earth have been mutilated.

We must not forget all the bitterness of the terrible years -
There is no more human suffering in the world,
How the land lost its best sons,
And mother's anticipation was prematurely aging ...

Yes! They are expecting 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, be faithful to them unforgettable!

Hope
(To N.P. Kozhinova's grandmother)

And she walked, barely touching the ground,
Gait weightless - so light
There was a fragile barefoot figure,
And the silence around the piercing bell.

And suddenly I stumbled on the edge of a fork -
Far away the forest turns black
Fritz breathes hard in the back of her head,
And keeps the machine gun at the ready ...

... A deaf dead end. The sheds took shelter
The shot spread far around:
The gaze of the monster pierced her with a needle -
A wounded bird darted suddenly.

And slowly settling along the wall,
She shook her head quietly, quietly.
Nothing escaped the executioner,
As a woman, suddenly becoming gray,

I opened my wonderful eyes,
Glancing over the heavens with a proud gaze,
And he was suddenly afraid of this power,
And the depths of heaven in her eyes.

* * *
White stone - obelisk ...
At the edge of the forest
As if they were holding hands,
Maples for each other.
Someone with a kind hand
The line marked the edge;
"Here the soldier found peace"

Only the wind whispers a song.

Sailboat of memory

(To the pilot Shestakov, S. Staryi Saltov)

Like a sailboat on a vast ocean
Arguing tirelessly with thunder and wind,
Floats, floats for centuries that memory island
On the sea plowed by an angry storm.

And the past is sacred ... So close:
The plowing tracks are the battlefield here.
Do not smooth them to the ground - they lead to the hero,
The lighthouse-star over the obelisk attracts.

When the seedlings turn green in the spring,
Blossoms, the dawn of a scarlet flame,
Throwing a tent, an apple tree above it,
Mourning the fiery years

The grass rustles, and bursting into song,
Birds chirp in the morning with dewy ...
Thanks for the future of a peer -
And the memory of the past will not be forgotten.

* * *
(to the poet Pavel Reznikov)

The man from the portrait looks slyly,
With a kind smile in squinting eyes,
Meeting everyone who entered, so welcoming,
From the doorway, he meets us alive.

And the awards are neatly folded
On the shelf where the stacks of his books are.
A bouquet of tender forget-me-nots nearby,
Blue nestled in mourning.

You walked, soldier, by steep roads
Through the flames of battles, battles of difficult smoke.
Whether by swamps or deaf forests -
He was adamant and invincible.

I congratulate the warrior soldier
With a victory song through the edges of the 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 will remember our comrades ...
And the voice trembled, as if the edge of ice -
Again you seek their faces among the living.

* * *
(to frontline writers)

Lines torn by a bullet -
A burning trail of life
The strict memory was returned
The roar of hard victories.

The song, frozen in half a word,
In the battles of a harsh spring,
Suddenly resurrected heroes
Fallen on the warpaths.

These sacred lines -
Gunpowder and blood on the sheets
They will be eternal 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 good guys.

Wake up my memory: thunderstorms and flames
Ship banner and landing party.

Machine-gun line, my memory rumbles,
And again, a formidable war enters my memory.

Submachine guns don't rattle, but soldiers have fallen here,
And the sea pea coats were carried deep into the wave.

Only the winds are moaning here, thunderstorms will drop showers,
And the old cliff remembers how the water boiled.

And in the momentary lull, the cries of the 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
In the white-foam space, ships are met.

Where forever remained those with whom we fraternized,
Save by promising brotherhood something forever!

And the dawn, flaming like blood, turns red
Those who did not spare life, stood to death.

And at the old wharves the oath was resounded again
Those who fought with formidable lava in these parts

Independence Square

Native square, how I love you,
You shine brightly in the glow of the lights.
I walk proudly on the cobblestones
Everything brightens with you in my soul.
... Here the enemy passed, treacherous and arrogant,
And the Crusader tanks crept through.
Crushed everything that is so sacred to us,
It seemed that they could erase life.
... Gosprom is on fire. And bubbles far away,
Without ceasing, echoing - deafen us
Volleys of guns. And a dashing gunner
He does not take his eyes off the target.
... As if I feel a molten metal
And the severity of the armor-piercing -
But you didn't moan under their heels,
You endured all the hardships of the war:
And the gallows gnawed knitting needles,
Bloody ash on your land
Harsh defiant faces -
And the appearance of terrible days is resurrected.
... The enemy was driven out. You healed the wounds
At the place of execution, squares were erected.
And, waking up with the country early,
After washing with dew, it blossomed again.
Fragrant lindens are beautifully framed,
Their branches seem to stretch towards dawn,
And bright bouquets of worship
We carry it, believing in happiness on earth.
Yes, you live, proud and dignified,
And you are grateful to your fate.
And, as always, you multiply the glory a hundredfold,
And my heart smiles at you.
You, square, meet your sons -
We won! Bowing to you
We sing our sacred, glorious hymn,
Fireworks are thundering from above!

Ballad of Mary

(Dedicated to the lost
in Kharkov)

Mary has been gone for a long time
She was killed at dawn
I only managed to shout with pain: "Goodbye!" -
The shout drowned out the angry barking of the sheepdogs.
There were many of them, doomed women,
Around - a convoy of enemy pincers,
Screaming and crying we walked through the city,
They could not believe in their hour of death,
Confusedly we approached a huge pit,
Which they recently dug themselves,
Bullets lashed at them from all sides,
A terrible female moan shook the area.
And the sky burned the future flame,
And the sky blazed like a banner
Calling for a formidable right battle,
To cover up all the innocent.
... Nothing will hide that day with oblivion,
And the cry of Mary has been with me for many years,
I will not forget that bloody dawn,
The pain of the heart has not subsided for so many years ...
Maria looks at me from a 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 the eyes,
No, we will never forget the fallen:
We humans must be vigilant

/ To the soldiers - liberators of Kharkov /

SIP of water
(The twenty third of August)

We rushed to Kharkov and drove the Germans,
And the roar was heard outside the village;
The enemy carts were hastily retreating,
The shells exploded hard.

By dawn, everything calmed down gradually ...
Only the enemy soldier hesitated
One moment could save him.
Eyes, bloodshot, do not look.

Jumping into the yard, drove the girl out into the field,
To show him how to get away.
But like a cat, he suddenly jumped to the side -
And she didn't have time to say anything -

Above her, as in a fairy tale, the horses pranced.
The fighter bent down, smiling, towards her.
Confusedly answering: "The name is Galya,"
And she kept repeating: "Where is our father?"

The villagers happily greeted
Relatives of their own liberators:
Boiled potatoes were treated
Us, long-awaited, loyal, dear ones.

Exhausted, tired to pain
We dreamed of resting in a respite:
I wanted only one intolerable
Take a sip of water as soon as possible.

And how did the little girl and her brother manage? -
Arrow to the well and quickly back,
Among the soldiers, they flew like birds again,
Children's eyes shone with the sun.

In soaked salty tunics,
From the sweat whitened on the shoulders,
Lips dry bucket
We drank in one gulp. And in the rays

Summer was ringing, morning was playing
And it was good at that moment,
That even seemed for a second
As if eternal peace has reigned.

And we all called: "Girl, some water!" -
After all, I so wanted to drink that moisture,
That by noon we saved the krynitsa
They managed to devastate everything.

The water was cold, with sand -
Krynichnaya water of the native land,
But each got a sip
And with renewed vigor they went further into battle.

Victory Avenue

Named our avenue
By a bright name ringing "Victory" -
There is a delight in him of love and recognition.
Washing my face with a thunderstorm
Unprecedented riot shoots
Light up the avenue of space.

They overwhelmed
By the surging wave of chestnuts
The majestically running distance.
And now, as then,
Victory was crowned in the spring,
But sadness falls on the heart.

We are again today
We will remember all the friends of our youth,
Those that were found in the roar of the battle ...
The conquered world
Fills us with great happiness -
And it rings in the bright sky of the earth!

On Poklonnaya Hill

The sacred alarm sounds, hearts beat louder
Swearing an oath to the world.
They are faithful to the blessed memory of the fallen,
We bow our heads low.

On Poklonnaya Hill, we swore forever
Protect the world from fire tirelessly.
Our pain and all our anger weaved together
Friendship has become a reliable force.

And at the mass grave of unknown soldiers
The torch of unity is shining.
Multiplying the union of all banners a hundredfold,
We entrust the Victory Monument.

Like a crown of triumph, proudly splashes over him,
The majestic scarlet banner.
And an eyewitness story to his descendants
He will resurrect everyone, and again they are with us.

From the highest point of Poklonnaya Gora we can see
Arc de Triomphe of the capital.
And the anxiety of peoples for happiness is heard -
Let's not let the war break out again!

The whole planet is a huge and sunny house
We will build beautiful and kind.
They will certainly dream for us later,
And they will understand how expensive the world is!

(On the Shahumyan pass) /

The sword shot up to the sky proudly,
Illuminating the sky with the brilliance of steel, -
Monument harsh silent,
Monument to the heroes of the pass.

He stood over the grave as an eternal guard,
Striving to the blue sky
A monument to our proud strength
And a reminder of the fight.

He straightened the hilt like his shoulders.
Like a hero, he is straight and slender.
Here, among the mountains, he will stand forever,
Slashing sword, Nart sword of heroes.

... And there are flowers at the pedestal -
The gift of the living to the dead is irrevocable ...
Glory to you who fell on the pass,
Glory to our heroic army!

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Place of work, position: - MOU "secondary school with. Brykovka Dukhovnitsky district of the Saratov region "teacher of Russian language and literature

Region: - Saratov region

Characteristics of a lesson (occupation) Level of education: - secondary (complete) general education

Target audience: - Teacher (teacher)

Class (s): - Grade 11

Subject (s): - Literature

The purpose of the lesson: - - to acquaint students with the poets of the 40s; tell about their fate and work, about the importance of poetry during the Great Patriotic War; - to develop interest in the historical past of our country through the study of 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; instill in students an interest in literature, music, art;

Lesson type: - Combined lesson

Equipment used: -

: an exhibition of books and collections of poems by poets about the Great Patriotic War; multimedia presentation, computer, screen, media projector.

Brief description: - The 11th grade program allocates a minimum number of lessons for an overview study of the topic "Literature during the Great Patriotic War." The teacher is faced with a difficult task: to tell in a concise form about the literature of this period in such a way as to awaken interest in the history of the country, to preserve the memory of the events of the wartime 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 feats of poets, about poetry scorched by war; to acquaint and keep in memory the events of the wartime.

Explanatory note.

The Great Patriotic War became a huge tragedy and a great feat of all our people. The war with fascist Germany began unexpectedly and mercilessly. Despite the fact that, it would seem, there was no time for art in the war, without it a person could not live at the front or in the rear, and poetry was the most popular genre.

Both civilian and personal motives are reflected in the military lyrics. Poets wrote about the horrors of war, about soldiers and home front workers, about partisans, women and children, wrote about the Motherland and themselves, praised the courage and great feat of our people in the name of the Motherland, freedom and peace.

The 11th grade program devotes a minimum number of lessons to an overview study of the topic "Literature of the Great Patriotic War". The teacher is faced with a difficult task: to tell in a concise form about the literature of this period in such a way as to awaken interest in the history of the country, to preserve the memory of the events of the wartime 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 feats of poets, about poetry scorched by war; to acquaint and keep in memory the events of the wartime.

Extracurricular activity:

Literary drawing room "A line torn off by a bullet."

11th grade students.

Targets and goals:

To acquaint students with the poets of the 40s; tell about their fate and work, about the importance of poetry during the Great Patriotic War;

To develop an interest in the historical past of our country through the study of 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; instill in students an interest in literature, music, art;

Equipment: an exhibition of books and collections of poems by poets about the Great Patriotic War; multimedia presentation, computer, screen, media projector.

Characters: presenters, readers, storytellers.

The course of the event.

1 presenter. Once upon a time 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 by a bullet", where you will meet the poets of the 40s who fell on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. “The killed generation” - that is how 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 lead June ... The sunset was approaching the evening.

And the sea poured over the white night,

And the ringing laughter of the guys was heard,

Not knowing, not knowing grief.

Early June 1941. The country lived a peaceful life: peaceful skies, happy faces, are still alive ...

2 leads June ... Then we did not know yet,

Walking from school evenings,

That tomorrow will be the first day of war

And it will end only in the forty-fifth, in May.

Slide 3 (The song "The Holy War" is playing.) Against the background of the song:

1 led. Everything breathed such silence,

It seemed that the whole Earth was still asleep.

Who knew that between peace and war

There are only five minutes left!

Peaceful life was interrupted in one of the most long days 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 leads Motorcycles rush with desperate gunfire, thousands of gray tanks with crosses on board are torn. Airplanes bombard cities, trenches, villages, roads. Blood, death ...

5 slide (Declaration of war)

6 slide. 1 lead On this day, the writers of Moscow gathered as if on a military alert for a rally.

7 slide. 2 leads 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 lead From the appeal of the writers of Siberia on June 24, 1941: “The pen in our country is equated to a piece. We directed his point against the enemy, glorifying our sacred land. And if necessary, our lives will be given in the battle for the Motherland. "

9 slide. 2 leads Poetry put on a front 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 weapons that smash enemies. The word in the war cost life and sounded more weighty than ever.

1 lead But how little we know about the people who fought against the Nazis and died in the struggle for the freedom and independence of our Motherland. Do we know, do we remember the poets whose talent was killed by a fascist bullet?

11 slide. 2 leads Front-line 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 their classmates and classmates. They left the school bench, from student dormitories in June 1941, but not everyone is destined to return in May 1945.

(The song of B. Okudzhava "Ah, war, what did you do mean?")

12 slide 1 storyteller. Lieutenant Pavel Kogan, a poet, was killed near Novorossiysk.

"... The 4th year student Kogan Pavel Davidovich should be on leave until he returns from the Red Army." Count on vacation ...

1.Since the beginning of the war, despite being exempt from conscription for health reasons, he went to the courses of military translators and died, leading a reconnaissance group.

2. In 1942, he wrote: “It was only here at the front that I realized what a dazzling, what a charming thing life is. Next to death, you understand this very well ... I believe in history, I believe in our strength ... I know that we will win! "

1 reader (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

The second one cannot be found,

So that it smells like that at dawn,

What a smoky wind on the sands ...

And where else can you find such

Birches, as in my land!

I'd die like a dog from nostalgia

In any coconut paradise.

1. Paul lived by poetry. In this word, he concluded his entire life, his attitude to the fate of a generation. The song "Brigantine", written by Pavel Kogan and his friend Georgy Lepsky, has become the anthem of youth and students for many years. 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” - is at the helm.

(Performance of the song to the words of P. Kogan "Brigantine") (Appendix 1)

13 slide. 3 storyteller. Vsevolod Bagritsky, a twenty-year-old “son of a poet, a poet himself,” died on February 26, 1942 in the small village of Dubovka, Leningrad Region, while recording a story of a political instructor. He began to write in early childhood. From the first days of the war he was eager to go to the front.

14 slide. 4. In a letter to his mother on July 18, 1941, he wrote: “The war found me playing volleyball peacefully 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. (Poem by V. Bagritsky "Goodbye, dear, I'm leaving for war")

Goodbye dear, I'm leaving for war

I don’t know when I’ll return.

to the home side.

Dry foliage will fall, there will be blizzards and rains,

I will return to you, dear, do not be sad,

3.He nevertheless achieved, despite his poor eyesight, being sent to the front. On the eve of 1942, he was assigned to the newspaper of the Second Shock Army, which came from the south to the rescue of besieged Leningrad.

15 slide 4. On February 16, 1942, he wrote: “My work is very difficult and dangerous, but also very interesting. I went to work for the army press voluntarily and I have no regrets. I will see and have already seen what I will never have to endure again. Our victory will free the world from the most terrible atrocities 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 frontline poems, punctured by a shrapnel that killed the young man.

16 slide 3 readers (poem by V. Bagritsky "Expectation")

We lay in the snow for two days.

Nobody said: "I'm cold, I can't."

We saw - and the blood boiled -

The Germans were sitting by hot fires.

But, winning, you need to be able to

Wait, indignant, wait and endure.

Dawn rose through the black trees

Mist was descending through the black trees ...

But lie still, since there is no order,

The minute of the battle has not come yet.

Heard (snow melted in a fist)

Someone else's words in a foreign language.

I know that everyone during these hours

Remembered all the songs I knew

I remembered my son, since the son is at home,

I counted the stars of February.

The rocket floats up and breaks the dusk.

Now don't wait, comrade! Forward!

We surrounded their dugouts

We took half alive ...

And you, corporal, where are you running ?!

The bullet will overtake your heart.

The fight is over. Now take a rest,

Reply to letters ... And again on the road!

17 slide. 5 storyteller. Mikhail Kulchitsky died in the battles of Stalingrad in January 1943. He was a cheerful person, the greatest optimist. He liked to say about himself: "I am the happiest in the world!"

4 reader. (poem by M. Kulchitsky "A dreamer, a dreamer, an envious lazy person! ...")

Dreamer, dreamer, envious lazy person! What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops? And the riders sweep with the whistle of sabers whirling propellers. I used to think: "Lieutenant" It sounds like this: "Pour us!" And knowing the topography, he stomps on gravel. War is not fireworks at all, But simply - hard work, When, black with sweat, the infantry is sliding up the plow. March! And clay in a chomping stomp To the marrow of the bones of frozen feet Wraps up on chores Weighing bread in a month's ration. On the fighters and buttons like the Yeshui of heavy orders. Not up to the order. There would be a Motherland With daily Borodino!

His name is carved in gold in the pantheon of Glory on the Mamayev Kurgan, as if at the top of the century.

18 slide. 6 storyteller. 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. An open face, blue intelligent eyes, and 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 never gave up writing poetry for a minute. He wrote in the trenches. He wrote on the train going to the front. He wrote in the hospital. He wrote about bombing under heavy bombing. He wrote everywhere. He wrote about everything. And now I am writing. War is the soil 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

Over your torn-up housing.

And the charred bird falls

Overtaken by mad fire.

Even at white nights we dream

Like heralds of a lost love

Living mountains of blue acacias

And there are enthusiastic nightingales in them.

Another war. But we stubbornly believe

That will be the day - we will drink the pain to the bottom.

The wide world will open its doors again

At dawn, a new silence will arise ...

We will not grieve in memories.

Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness?

We have lived our good times as people

And for people.

6. The poet dreamed of how he would hold a book of his poems in his hands. At first he wanted to call it "The Path of War", and then he titled it strictly and simply - "The Word of a Soldier." It was under this name that it came out ... .. After the death of the poet.

22 slide 7 storyteller. 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 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 to join the army was granted.

He died without finishing the poem he had begun before the battle, without waiting for the book of his lyrics, without graduating from the university.

6 reader (poem by N. Mayorov)

We are not given to quietly rot in the grave-

Lie on the hood - and, opening the coffins,

We hear the thunder of the early morning fire

Summon Hoarse Regimental Trumpet

From the big roads that we walked.

We know all the statutes by heart.

What is ruin to us? We are even higher than death.

In the grave we formed a detachment.

And we are waiting for a new order. Let it go

Don't think the dead don't hear

When descendants talk about them.

23 slide. 8 storyteller. Musa Jalil is a Tatar poet. On the very first day of the war, he volunteered for the ranks of the army. In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, he was seriously wounded and taken prisoner. In a concentration camp, he led active underground work, for which he was thrown into a fascist torture chamber - Moabit prison. In 1944 he was executed by Moabite executioners.

9. In our country, he was considered missing. Only after the war the world spread the news about his (24 slide) two small notebooks, thickly covered with small beaded handwriting. These are 115 poems written in captivity. He dreamed of printing 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 reader. (Poem by M. Jalil "My Songs")

Songs, in my soul I have grown your seedlings,
Blossom warmly today.
How much fire and freedom have been given to you,
So much is given to you to live in the ground!

I trusted you with my inspiration,
Hot feelings tears cleanliness.
If I die, I will die for oblivion,
If you live, I will find life.

I lit a fire in the song, performing
Hearts order of Inarod order.
A friend cherished a simple song.
The song of the enemy won the nez.

Low joys, small happiness
I reject, I laugh at them.
The song is full of truth and passion -
For what I live and fight.

Heart with the last breath of life
He will fulfill his firm oath:
I have always dedicated songs to my motherland,
Now I give my life to my homeland.

I sang, feeling the spring freshness,

I sang, entering the battle for the Motherland.

So I am writing the last song,

Seeing the executioner's ax over him.

The song taught me freedom

The song of a fighter tells me to die.

My life was ringing like a 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. Joseph Utkin in 1941 volunteered for the front. He was a war correspondent for a front-line newspaper. After being seriously wounded, he returned to the newspaper. In 1944, Utkin's last collection, On the Motherland. About friendship. About love. ”The poet died in a plane crash while returning from the Western Front to Moscow. His poems about love warmed the hearts, chilled in the cold wind of trench life, did not allow them to harden and empty.

27 slide 8 readers (Poem by I. Utkin. “It's midnight on the street. The candle is burning out.)

It's midnight outside. The candle burns out.

Tall stars are visible.

You write a letter to me my dear

To the blazing address of the war.

We have been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms

Wars are not visible behind the smoke.

But the one who is loved

But the one who is remembered

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,

Shoulder to shoulder,

We will sit down and letters like the chronicle of the 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, went to the front as a volunteer. In the soldier's notebooks there is an entry: “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 are taking them on a sleigh. "

One of his first poems read to the writer Ilya Ehrenburg was the poem "When they go to death, they sing."

9 reader. (poem by S. Gudzenko "Before the attack")

When they go to death, they sing

And before that you can cry -

After all, the worst hour in battle is

An hour of waiting for an attack.

The snow was poured around by mines.

And blackened by the dust of the mine.

Break - and a friend dies

And that means death is passing by.

Now its turn will come

The infantry is following me alone

Damn the forty-first year,

You infantry frozen in the snow!

I feel like I'm a magnet

That I attract mines.

The gap - and the lieutenant wheezes.

And death passes by again.

But we can no longer wait

And we are led through the trenches

A numb enmity

Bayonet perforating neck.

The fight was short. And then

They jammed ice vodka,

And plucked out with a knife

From under the claws I am someone else's blood.

29 slide 10. Shortly before the victory, the young poet wrote: “Recently I came under heavy bombing at the crossing of the Morava ... I lay there for a long time and painfully. 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 how it happened to him in February 1953.

10 readers. (Excerpt from S. Gudzenko's poem "My Generation")

We are not destined to feel sorry for us, because we would not spare anyone,

We are pure before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God.

On the living they cut their greatcoats from blood and clay,

Blue flowers bloomed on the graves of the dead.

They blossomed and fell ... The fourth autumn is passing.

Our mothers cry, and our peers are silently sad.

We did not know love, we did not see the happiness of crafts,

We have got the hard part of the soldiers.

My weathermen have neither wives, nor poems, nor peace -

Only strength and youth. And when we get back from the war

We share everything in full and write, the same age, such,

That sons will be proud of fathers-soldiers.

Who will return - love? Not! There is not enough heart for this

and the lost do not need the living to love for them.

There is no man in the family - no children, no owner in the hut.

Will the sobbing of the living help such grief?

There is no need to pity us, because we would not pity anyone either.

Who went on the attack, who shared the last piece,

He will understand this truth, - it is in our trenches and crevices

came to argue with a grumpy, hoarse bask.

Let the living remember and let generations know

This harsh truth of the soldier, taken with battle.

And your crutches and your mortal wound

And the graves over the Volga, where thousands of young people lie,

This is our fate, it is with her that we fought and sang,

They went on the attack and tore bridges over the Bug.

... You don't need to pity us, because we would not pity anyone either,

We are clean in front of our Russia and in difficult times.

30 slide 1 lead. Frontline poetry is poetry of high citizenship. She was a teacher of life and learned from life. She helped to see through the hanging clouds the sun, not to lose faith in the triumph of good and justice. About those who did not have a chance to live to see Victory, one can say in the words of the front-line soldier-poet Georgy Suvorov: "We have lived our good age as people and for people."

2nd leading And the poem of the poet Nikolai Mayorov became the confession of people of his generation, who for the sake of life on earth went into battle, not sparing themselves ...

(excerpt from N. Mayorov's poem "We were tall, fair-haired")

31 slides. We were tall, fair-haired,

You will read in books like a myth,

About people who left without loving,

Without finishing the last cigarette ...

The descendant will discern in the archival trash

A piece of hot land true to us,

Where we passed with charred mouths

And they carried courage like a banner.

32 slide (Song of V. Vysotsky "He did not return from the battle")

1 led. Names ... Names ... Names ... All young, talented, greedy for life, devoted to the Motherland and poetry. After all, every last name, every line is a young life, cut short by the war. They have fallen, they are not, but they live in poetry collections, their feelings and thoughts have found a voice ...

33 slide. 2 leads Let us 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 longing and love.

And let's all keep quiet ... (metronome beats)

(Minute of silence)

34 slide. 1 lead And yet, a poet cannot die!

And the people giving birth to poets will not die!

The mind will rise to warm

Evil and hatred will disappear in the blood.

And if you have to sacrifice yourself

To perish is spiritually, from love!

(Song of V. Vysotsky "No crosses are put on mass graves")

35 slide. 2 leads 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 did not stand, did not stand these four years. "

1 ved. In the middle of spring, when the birds sing joyfully, and the earth smokes with the green of young bread, the 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 performs 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. M .: Pravda, 1987

3. Kogan. A. Poems and destinies. Front-line theme.

4. Poetry of the Great Patriotic War. - M., "Book", 1988.

5. The line broken by a bullet: Collected papers. M .: Moscow worker, 1985

6. Phonograms can be found here: www.sovmusic.ru.

Annex 1

(Lyrics to the song "Brigantine")

Tired of talking and arguing

And love tired eyes ...

The brigantine raises the sails ...

Captain, weathered like rocks

I went out to sea without waiting for the day ...

Raise your glasses goodbye

Golden tart wine.

We drink to the furious, to the disobedient,

For those who despised penny comfort.

Jolly Roger winds in the wind

Flint's men are singing a song.

In trouble, and in joy, and in sorrow

Just squint 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 a coal melted in an extinct fire

There were miles, burnt, in the dust

This Victory Day

The smell of gunpowder

This is a holiday

With gray hair on the temples

It is joy

With tears in his eyes

Days and nights by the open-hearth furnaces

Our Motherland did not close eyes

Day and night fought a difficult battle

We brought this day as close as we could

This Victory Day

The smell of gunpowder

This is a holiday

With gray hair on the temples

It is joy

With tears in his eyes

Victory Day, Victory Day, Victory Day!

Hello mom, we're not all back

Run barefoot through the dew

Half of Europe walked, half of the Earth

We brought this day as close as we could

This Victory Day

The smell of gunpowder

This is a holiday

With gray hair on the temples

It is joy

With tears in his eyes

Victory Day, Victory Day, Victory Day!

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This scenario was developed for the festival of poems, poets who died in the war. Unfortunately, not many 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 frontline soldiers who did not come ...

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

Festival objectives:

• propaganda and popularization of civic and patriotic trends in the creative activities of youth.
• the formation and education of artistic taste, positive social attitudes and interests of the younger generation, familiarizing as many children, adolescents and youth as possible with the best cultural traditions.

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

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

Track 1 SLIDE 1

The music of the war years sounds, on the stage at the memorial the screensaver "A line cut off by a bullet ..." is displayed. After that, the lights go out everywhere, a video - a film - poll appears on the memorial.

SLIDE 2

Video - survey film (introduction):

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

Video clip.

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

SLIDE 3

Young woman: Woe to the person who loses his memory! It is a crime if his memory is deprived, but deprived ... Before our eyes ...

Heinrich Borovik in New York in front of the ONN 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 the Americans. Many could not even say who fought against whom! In truth, not a known war ... Just think! Know nothing about the war in which sixty-one states were drawn! More than 80% of the world's population. About the war, the fire of which blazed 2194 days and nights! About a war that claimed fifty million lives.

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

SLIDE 4

I have a book in my hands, it is called "Immortality". On its pages are printed poems of those young poets who died in the war. I leafed through the pages of this book and felt a lump rise to my throat. After all, whatever the name, whatever the line ... young life, torn off by the deadly metal of war, fused into songs! Thirty-three names! Thirty-three human destinies! Thirty-three lives of those who strove 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 Iosif Utkin ... And young people who have barely begun their journey Pavel Kogan, Nikolai Mayorov, Vasily Kubanev, Mikhail Kulchitsky ... These names are the sacrifices that Soviet literature brought to the Motherland! In its 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 Yuri Drunina.

SLIDE 5

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

Give me a Wales car -
On the way to Youth, I mahan:
Not by air, not by rail
I cannot return to that country.
There, in a stooped dugout
(Unkilled! My God!)
War veterans (Guys,
Not finished tenth)
Before the fight they scribble home.
There Valerka fries canned food,
There Sergey fumbles on an accordion.
Why is it before the fight
Is the sky madly blue? ..
Eh, boys, I miss you
Twenty years, twenty whole years!
Youth, youth! V such a country,
As you know, there is no return.
What of this? Forever
I am faithful to her statutes.
It's not a problem for me - a problem
Because the war is behind me
Because it gets up behind me
Those killed boys platoon.

The light goes out. The girl leaves.

SLIDE 6

The bombardment music sounds - Track 4, then (SLIDE 7) Levitan's voice recording - Track 5. The light turns on. On the screen, the poster "Motherland Calls" - SLIDE 8. The music sounds "A huge country is rising" - Track 6, guys and girls, soldiers, nurses begin to leave the hall behind the scenes. The last 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.

SLIDE 9

Guy:(Boris Bogatkov "Everything in the morning goes as usual ...")

Everything in the morning goes on as usual.
Everyday, autumn day in the capital -
A glorious day of hard work.
The noise of the trolleybuses, the calls of the trams,
The call of beeps comes from the outskirts
The crowds are hurried as always.
But today, in the faces of passers-by,
And on the buildings of the native capital
I look with special feelings,
And I give the fighters a brotherly smile:
I last time in civilian clothes
I pass under the military sky.

After the poem, he also leaves for the memorial. The lights go 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. With twenty-two years Bogatkov at the front, he is enrolled in the 22nd Siberian Volunteer Division as the commander of a platoon of machine gunners. In August 1943, in the battle for Smolensk, Bogatkov, singing a song, raises machine gunners into the attack and, at their head, rushes into the enemy trenches. In this battle Boris Bogatkov died a heroic death.

A portrait of Alexei Lebedev and F.I.

SLIDE 10

Track 8

Voice behind the scene: Alexey Lebedev. Alexey Lebedev was born in 1912 in Suzdal. At twenty-nine he went to the front. He began to write poetry early. On the eve of the war he graduated military school, and was appointed navigator of the submarine. In November 1941, the submarine on which Alexei Lebedev served, while performing a combat mission in the Gulf of Finland, ran into a mine. The poet died 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
Column of rays of permeated dust
On the back roads of spring? ..
Or it’s impossible to remember, - SLIDE 12
Like visions of a distant dream
Behind the railway platform
Only pines, sand, silence.
Crystal bowl - SLIDE 13
The edges are golden from the sun.
This is your pure youth,
This is my buying tenderness.

The light goes out. A portrait of Vsevolod Bagritsky and F.I.-

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 was eager to go to the front. On the eve of 42, Bagritsky, together with the poet Shubin, was assigned to the newspaper of the 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 with machine guns in their hands appear on the stage.

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 annoying hunger.
Numb, hide from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
Not getting an answer from home
Change junk for black bread.
Twice a day, consider yourself dead,
Confuse plans, numbers and paths
To rejoice that he lived in the world less ... Twenty.

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

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

We lay in the snow for two days.
Nobody said: "I'm cold, I can't."
We saw - and the blood boiled -
The Germans were sitting by hot fires.
But, winning, you need to be able to
Wait indignantly, wait and endure.
Dawn rose through the black trees
Mist was descending through the black trees ...
But lie still, since there is no order,
The minute of the battle has not come yet.
Heard (snow melted in a fist)
Someone else's words, in a foreign language.
I know that everyone during these hours
Remembered all the songs I knew
I remembered my son, since the son is at home,
I counted the stars of February.
The rocket floats up and breaks the gloom.
Now don't 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 passage where a mine explodes, the light on the stage blinks, the young people sit on one knee. A nurse appears on the scene (war uniform)

SLIDE 16. Track 12

Nurse:

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

(Vsevolod Bagritsky "The Ballad of Friendship")

If you are wounded in mortal combat
Struck in a fierce struggle.
Your friend will tear his shirt apart.
Your friend will bandage your wound.
Your friend will help you.

The light flashes. The rumble of an exploding mine is heard. - Track 13

Commander Abakov was wounded in battle
A crazy fascist bullet.
And the wind scattered the ridge of clouds,
And the sun swayed on the edges of the bayonets ...
Commander Abakov was wounded in battle.
A messenger hastened to help him
Comrade and friend - Kvashnin.
He bandaged the wound with a shirt.
Then crawling down the slope.
The earth hummed, pounded at the temples.
Through smoke and fire in deceased hands
He carried his friendship.
The battle is already in the distance.
It smelled of grass and forest wind.

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

Larks sing:

"Take my rifle, brother.
Take my rifle.
Take the rifle, my friend and brother.
Hit the enemy without missing ... "
Perhaps they saw then
In the dying last moment.
Trouble flaps like black wings.
As in black blood water flames.
How doom overtook them.

The light goes out. The guys leave the stage. The memorial displays a 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 to write poetry in childhood. In the second half of the thirties, Gelovani was regularly published in magazines. From 39th to 44th year he served in the ranks of the Red Army. He is a participant in the Great Patriotic War from its first days. Mirza Gelovani died in 1944. He was 27 years old.

The lights are off everywhere. A girl in a black robe with a candle in her hands appears on the stage.

Track 16

Young woman:(Mirza Gelovani: "You")

Do you remember,
mines exploded every now and then
And all the ground around was black?
Do you remember the bullet flew by
But did she meet a friend's heart?
He lay at the fence of the former church
In an overcoat of exorbitant width,
Who did not know happiness yet,
who did not love
A week did not live to see spring.
The blast wave was flattened and bent
His battered submachine gun ...
And you said the main thing is
do not flinch
From sorrow, trials and losses.
We go with battles ...
Slow meters!
In the eyes of the dead - the evil fires of copper ...
Nothing will protect us from death,
If we will not be able to overcome death.

A portrait of Musa Jalil and F.I. -

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 Tatarstan. On the very first day of the war, Musa Jalil joined the ranks of the active army. And in June 1942, a seriously wounded man was taken prisoner on the Volkhov front. In a concentration camp, he led 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 of the Soviet Union.

An image of the manuscripts appears on the screen. -

SLIDE 19

A guy comes out.

Guy:(Musa Jalil: "My Songs")

Songs, in my soul I nurtured your seedlings,
Blossom in warmth today.
How much fire and freedom have been given to you,
So much has been given to you to live on earth!
I believed you my inspiration,
Hot feelings and tears of purity.
If you die, I will die into oblivion,
If you live, I will find life with you.
I lit a fire in the song, singing
The order of the heart and the order of the people.
A friend cherished a simple song.
The enemy's song won more than once.
Low joys, small happiness
I reject, I laugh at them.
The song is full of truth and passion -
For what I live and fight.
Heart with the last breath of life
He will fulfill his firm oath:
I have always dedicated songs to my homeland,
Now I give my life to my homeland.
I sang, sensing the spring freshness.
I sang, entering the battle for my homeland.
So I am writing the last song,
Seeing the executioner's ax over him.
The song taught me freedom
The song of a fighter tells me to die.
My life was ringing like a 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 dressed in a military uniform appears on the scene.

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

She saved one hundred wounded
And carried it out of the firestorm,
She gave them water to drink
And she bandaged their wounds herself.
Under a shower of red-hot lead
She crawled, crawled without stopping
And, picking up a wounded soldier,
Didn't forget about his rifle.
But for the hundred and first time, for the last time
She was struck by a fragment of a fierce mine ...
The silk of the banners bowed in the 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 hurries to hide,
Eyelashes obscured a radiant gaze.
A calm smile on her
Lips, brows calmly curved.
She seemed to have fallen into oblivion
Cutting off the conversation in mid-sentence.
A hundred lives a young life ignited
And suddenly she went out in the bloody hour.
But one hundred hearts for glorious deeds
Her posthumous fame will be inspired.
The spring went out before it could bloom.
But, as the dawn gives birth to the day, burning,
Bringing death to the enemy, she
She remained immortal, dying.

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

SLIDE 21. Track 18

Voice behind the scene: Pavel Kogan. Pavel Kogan was born in 1918 in Kiev. He began to write poetry early, but still belonged to the most gifted young poets. In the spring of 1941, Kogan went to Armenia as part of a geological expedition. Here the Patriotic War found him. He was 19 years old. In September 42, Lieutenant Pavel Kogan, who headed the reconnaissance group, was killed near Novorossiysk.

To lyric 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.
Trains bring smoke
Far, wormwood.
From your strangers 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 b
Now hurry up.
It's dark in the field, horror in the field -
Autumn over Russia.
I'm going up. I come up
To the 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.
Quench my star
All my sorrows.
Darkness. Deaf. Trains
Wormwood is being carried.
My motherland. Star.
My pain is old.

The music intensifies (the girl leaves).

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. Since childhood, she wrote poetry, was fond of drawing, went in for sports, was a pioneer of one of the first Rostov detachments. Since the beginning of the war, Elena Shirman has been the editor of the direct-fire propaganda newspaper, where her battle poems were published. In July 1942, as part of the mobile editorial office of the Rostov newspaper, she left for one of the districts of the region. She was captured by the Nazis with all the materials of the editorial board ... and died heroically.

Literary and musical composition: Track 21.

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

I love to think about you
When the dew on the leaves is glowing
The sunset grows cold through the pines
And weightless as an idea
The fog over the river is turning gray.
I love to think about you
When drunk than the smell of wine
Now suddenly abrupt, now long,
And voluptuous and innocent
A nightingale whistle will sound.
I love to think about you.
The brook, grumbling, flows into the darkness.
And bridge. And night. And the voice of a bird.
And I go. And my path is wrinkled
A twenty-page letter.
I love to think about you.

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

The composition, panting, will fly under the arch,
Both windows and hubbub will rush towards
Both cold and laughter. And someone burst into tears
Crying. And it will all be familiar
As in childhood, in a fever.
It's so kind
It was written to me according to an old omen -
And the fact that I won't find you again,
And the fact that you will not meet me again.
And faces. And backs. And a bright platform.
And someone is pushing me. Thunderous
Locomotive whistle. And this is not a dream
That you are not there. And my arrival was in vain.
Swirling and spinning, ride the station,
The glittering of the halls and the darkness of the corridors.
And the square is empty. And the lantern, like a fuse,
Blinks, setting fire to the abandoned city.

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

It will, I know ...
Not soon, perhaps -
You will enter bearded, stooped, different.
Your kind lips will become drier and sterner
Scorched by time and war.
But the smile will remain.
So or differently
I understand - it's you.
Not in poetry, not in a dream.
I will rush, I will run up.
And I will probably cry
As once, buried in a damp overcoat ...
You will lift my head.
Say: "Hello ..."
You will brush your cheek with an unusual hand.
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 the background of certain music. A third girl appears from the audience. After reading the poem, a soldier appears in the hall. Scene "Return" and freeze frame. The light goes out.

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

SLIDE 23 Track 24

Voice behind the scene: Nikolay Mayorov. Nikolay Mayorov was born in 1919. Early he 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 to join the army was granted. He was 22 years old. Political instructor Nikolai Mayorov was killed in the Smolensk region in February 1942.

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

Go straight through the blizzard.
Crawl crawl. Run blindly.
Go and fall. To beat with a forehead
and still love her - like that!
Forget about home and sleep
about the fact that
your grievances are endless
what's past morning mail
carried someone else's happiness.
Forget the last losses
station light,
her "sorry"
and somehow to the old door,
hardly remembering to get it.
Login as new dramas conceived.
Feel the walls, the coldness of the slabs ...
Throw your coat on the light switch
forgetting where the hanger hangs.
And turn on the light. And move the canopy
seditious darkness. Then again
get envelopes from the far shelves,
disassemble letters by line.
Search for words by checking numbers.
Do not remember dreams. Although shouting
reach the meaning at any cost,
understand and start again.
Do not sleep nights, drive silence from rooms,
move tables, take the last redoubt,
and those women who do not remember,
call back and know that they will not come.
Do not sleep nights, miss letters,
do not honor promises, arguments, praises
and see those unremitting heights,
which before the eye did not reach, -
find things timeless foundations.
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. Fatiha Karima. -

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 1930s, Fatih Karim, being on active service in the ranks of the Red Army, actively participates in the work of the newspaper "Komsomolets". 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.

A girl comes out.

Young woman:(Fatih Karim "Wild Geese")

Blue heavenly paths
From across the sea, where they lived in winter,
Again the geese are flying over the trenches,
Returning home in the spring.
Here we have lakes in abundance.
How many backwaters are there in the forest!
And lilies bloom on them,
Surprising with its whiteness.
Over meadows and more often hazy
Flying in spring days
I have a silky arrow as a gift,
Wild goose, drop it on the fly.
I'll take your gray feather
Into the shine of the spring dawn to the perch,
Ringing song with fiery faith
I will write about my native country.
Not the first time on the battlefield
In a formidable battle, 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.
... Wild geese will reach again
A string to their native land.

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 "Piece of native land)

A piece of land, it is all soaked in blood.
The dense frozen snow turned black from the smoke.
Even accustomed to verbosity,
Here a person gets used to silence.
Gentle heights lie ahead,
And below is a forest that has fallen to its knees.
Frowning foreheads, enemy bunkers
They stood up like night, across the path.
Crumpled parapet. Broken bed.
Dugout corner. The shells dared everyone.
Death danced here, but we care more
A bloody piece of foreign land.
Step by step exactly three weeks
We crept upward, knowing no barriers.
Even the dead did not want to leave
This lightning scorched hell.
Let at any cost, but only to get
Even if the snow is boring, but only to crawl,
So that in silence it is scary and cruel to fight,
Everything as it is, sweeping away on its way.
The company lingered under the attachment fire,
But the comrade took the lead. ..
I fell with my chest 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 shattered 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 a local newspaper. So the theme of the Urals entered his work. Since the beginning of World War II, Leonid Vilkomir has been at the front, flies on combat aircraft, and is a member of tank crews. In July 1942, while carrying out a combat mission, the Vilkomir 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
Mine are doubts and dreams.
Let the earth rise on its hind legs
Screams, and spite, and persecutes -
He won’t bend me to his feet,
As in a storm the mast of a ship.
I will live as I want:
I will fly as a free bird
I will open the height to my eyes
I will sprout grass at my feet,
In the deserts I will spill water
In the seas I will tremble with a star,
I will run an expensive run in the mountains.
I am a person, I can do anything!

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

The clip "Cranes" is playing 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, but pride! The pride of all our people! 21 writers were awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. 400 poets did not return from the fields of war. The legendary generation of frontline soldiers who did not come ... -

SLIDE 29

The metronome sounds. - Track 28

A minute of silence.

SLIDE 30

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

The reciters sit down

SLIDE 31

Music Sounds, Children Come Out - Track 29

No matter how many years have passed, 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 World War II Is the result of the heroism and courage of all our people. We should be proud of this victory and keep a grateful memory of those who won this victory in fierce battles.

Happy holiday, dear guests!
Happiness, you, peace, health!

Everyone leaves the hall to the sound of music. - Track 31