Leaning over the tulips on the stems
The spotlights are burning with the moon,
And in our invisible souls
As if the gods silently look.

And on the tower at a quarter to nine,
The dial shone with amber;
On the alleys along the clumps of trees
A crimson sunset broke out.

In the shaky haze of foggy coolness
The streets were silent and the city was silent,
Languid evening puts on roofs
Illusions unpretentious touch.

As if quiet music is heard
The murmur of the passing day,
In the mystery of the spring supper
I vanished too.

© Copyright: Angela Polyansky...

A cool spring evening blows us.
You are only stronger from touch
Mimosa snuggle up to me.
Eyes are closed, as in a magical dream.

I touch your eyelashes with my lips.
Lemon freshness moon above us
Shines in the frame bright stars.
From happiness, pearls flow in the form of tears.

Don't be afraid, you're under my protection
With a feminine soul and so open.
Beloved, you are like a talisman,
I'll take it to my family ark.
-
Sergei Prilutsky, Alatyr, 2013

I reread the annals of Gamba,
And the thought draws a castle on a rock,
In the gorges of the great Darial,
Where the Terek swarms in the semi-darkness.

But with every breath I feel the graveyard
Ruins of deceit and love;
And heaven, long dead kings
In the fire of the early dawn.

And spirits along an invisible path,
Like clouds, they float on a wondrous voice
They are in the tower, met by a gloomy eunuch,
Yes only...

On a spring evening, say - I love,
invent happiness and suddenly become younger.
And, having missed the past, February
forgive and forget it. And from the skin
erase (try) moles barcode,
forcing fate to reassess ...

And suddenly see.
And, having played the whole scene,
return at least part of the stolen freedoms.

And letting you go
don't climb the wall...

The weeds in the autumn burns did not burn out,
Winding, looking for a spring fox mouse.
The cold wind strokes the forest on sunken cheeks.
Thick fog hung over the hills.

Solemnly, slowly and strictly
The planet's wheel is spinning.
And the forest beckons with an abandoned road.
And Life is watching the scales...

She knows what is important, what is not important ...
The old ice lies in the shadow of the ravines.
The thawed butterfly bravely
On its first flight departs.

To be in the forest in human form.
(The memory of the past is still sharp...

Spring Pierrot and Drops-Colombina
Full of light love.
The mandolin murmurs lyrically in their soul
The consent of the happiness of the wave.

And they drown in each other intoxicated,
In radiant eyes.
Sensual honey flows to lovers,
Aroma of warm tenderness of phrases.

Magnetic current melts in the nerves,
A young spring boils in the heart,
Becoming the choice - the best and the main, and the first,
Having tasted the feeling of peak.

Wraps pink haze in the evening
River channel bend.
Their white shoulders will touch
And the lips will merge for a moment ...

Spring warm evening enveloped the bustling city.
He hugged the crimson sunset tops of pines,
Sunbeam lying down on slate roofs,
Falling like a waterfall of golden rays from the walls of houses.
Falling on the asphalt, which is cut by threads of snow.
The city subsides in a sweet half-asleep, falling asleep
To the singing of birds and the music of running streams.
The city subsides to the melody of cool-warm winds,
Under the quiet rustle of green-young foliage,
What bluish shadows laying down on asphalt...
A warm evening leads into the mystery of a dream,
In the past...

Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin

Silently flowing silver river
In the kingdom of evening green spring.
The sun sets behind the wooded mountains.
The golden horn emerges from the moon.

The West turned into a pink ribbon,
The plowman returned to the hut from the fields,
And behind the road in the birch thicket
The nightingale sang the song of love.

Listens tenderly to deep songs
From the west, a pink ribbon of dawn.
With tenderness looks at the distant stars
And the earth smiles at the sky.

In 1912, Sergei Yesenin came to conquer Moscow, but luck smiled young poet not right away. It will be a few more years before his first poem is published in the capital's magazine. In the meantime, Yesenin works in a butcher's shop and recalls with nostalgia his native village of Konstantinovo, where he was truly happy.

It is these memories that give the poet strength to go forward and believe that he will achieve his goal anyway. Moreover, they inspire Yesenin to write surprisingly pure and bright poems, which will subsequently create a special halo around the poet as a “singer of fields and rivers”, defining the main direction in his work. The poem belongs to this period. spring evening”, which was created in 1912 and was included in the debut selection of works by the young author, published in one of the capital's magazines. It most fully reveals natural gift Yesenin, a landscape painter who knew how to see what other people simply did not notice. In addition, an amazing feature of the poet is to endow with reason and feelings inanimate objects brought a special warmth and tenderness to this poem. In every line of this work, Yesenin's love for the world in which "a silver river flows quietly" and "a golden horn emerges of the moon" shines through.

Imagery and the ability to capture even the smallest nuances allow Yesenin to recreate a picture, unusual in its simplicity and beauty, familiar to the poet, but opening the door to inexperienced readers to a completely different reality, where a tired plowman returned home after hard work in the field, enjoying where “The nightingale sang the song of love.” And from this singing, not only the ordinary peasant, who is able to rejoice at such trifles, is transformed, but the whole the world. Nightingale trills are a delight for the dawn, which crosses the sky, forests, plowed fields and deep rivers who fully feel the onset of spring. The world is filled with harmony, it is perfect and flawless in its beauty. when "with tenderness looks at the distant stars and the earth smiles at the sky." This is exactly what Yesenin sees as a quiet spring evening, although the poet is deprived of the opportunity to enjoy his tenderness and warmth. But the memories that all this was already once in his life warm the soul of the poet and fill it with love for his native land.

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own idiosyncratic beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

Lovely verse like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, for each poetic work of those times, the whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry who rejected the word.

Project name

Project participants

Students of MBOU secondary school No. 127

Group Study Topic

Sergei Yesenin "Spring Evening"

Problem question (research question)

Why is the image of spring attractive for S. Yesenin?

Study question

What kind figurative means language used by poets when describing spring?

Research hypothesis

We chose beautiful poem Sergei Yesenin about the beauty of a spring evening. Reading it, we present a picture of a spring sunset and pre-night silence. The poem shows the tenderness and tranquility of evening nature in spring. "Spring Evening" perfectly conveys the atmosphere of a spring evening landscape with notes of sadness.

Research objectives

• Learn the biography of the poet, his creative path.
• Analyze one of the poems about spring.
• Develop tasks (presentation, photo storytelling, wiki page or booklet).

results

Presentation about the poet

Photonarration

SERGEY YESENIN "SPRING EVENING"

Silently flowing silver river

In the kingdom of evening green spring.

The sun sets behind the wooded mountains.

The golden horn emerges from the moon.

The West turned into a pink ribbon,

The plowman returned to the hut from the fields,

And behind the road in the birch thicket

The nightingale sang the song of love.

Listens tenderly to deep songs

From the west, a pink ribbon of dawn.

With tenderness looks at the distant stars

And the earth smiles at the sky.

findings

Analysis of the poem

Each of us has the most beloved, the most expensive place to the earth, the place where we were born, where we spent the years of our youth. Warm memories are associated with this place, which we carefully store in our memory all our lives. This place is ours small motherland. And the small Motherland of each is a small, tiny part of our common Motherland - Russia.

The poet Yesenin S.A. is not in vain called the singer of Russia, since the image of the motherland is the key in his work. Even in those works that describe mysterious Eastern countries, the author constantly draws a parallel between the overseas beauties and the quiet, silent charm of his native expanses.

The poem "Spring Evening" refers to early work S. Yesenia, it was written when Sergei Yesenin was not yet 18 years old. He had just arrived in Moscow, which struck him with its scale and fuss. However, in the work of the poet remained faithful native village Konstantinovo, where he was born and spent his youth. For Yesenin, his Russia is unthinkable without its quiet, discreet, but such living nature, which is not only present in his element, she breathes, rejoices, cries. And the poem "Spring Evening" is a wonderful confirmation of this. In this poem, the poet very clearly and to the smallest detail accurately paints a picture of nature in a certain period of time that lurks between night and a clear day - evening. The description of the evening in his perception becomes touching and expressive.

The poem is small, only three quatrains, but the poet, in our opinion, was able to fill it with life, beauty, and the sounds of nature. At s. Yesenin nature - creature She breathes, acts, lives.

After reading the poem, a picture of peace arises. The village hut stands on the edge of the forest, a silver stream flows in the ravine, and the trills of the nightingale are heard in the birch grove. The poet uses interesting metaphors “the river is flowing”, “the sun is setting”, “the horn of the moon is coming out”, 2dawn is listening”, “the earth is smiling”, which fill the poem with life.

The poet does not just make a sketch from nature. We think the color in his poems always expresses certain mood, feeling, creates an image, so color definitions become epithets. AT this poem there are delicate, crisp colors: green, pink, blue and silver. In Yesenin's poem, it is difficult not to pay attention to the gentle trill of sounds [s], [s,] [p] [p,] in the first quatrain. It is these overflows, in our opinion, that help create a picture of appeasement.

Yesenin's nature and man are in harmony. The poet saw in nature an extraordinary beauty that can transform a person, give him spiritual strength.

This poem is permeated with feeling great love to the Motherland. And Yesenin not only teaches us to love the Motherland, but he simply loves her dearly and reverently, and it is impossible for us not to feel this love in ourselves.

The poem was created when Sergei Yesenin had just moved to Moscow - to conquer the capital. The poet succeeded in this at least with one of these lyrical poems.

In this poem, consisting of three stanzas, there are a lot of epithets. The evening is assembled from picturesque pieces, like a puzzle: one is gold, the other is green. Mentioned twice pink color- this is the reflection of the dawn. Of course, these pieces convey both sound and sensation... For example, a river flows quietly.

There are also characters in the story. The plowman from the fields returned to his place - to rest. The nightingale only gets down to business - for love "song". This word is solemn, somewhat outdated. Unusually small for Yesenin dialect words, colloquial vocabulary, folk motives. The whole poem, describing a calm summer evening, is somewhat solemn.

Everything here is animated: the dawn, the earth... and these characters are also in a calm state. Here the dawn smiles relaxed, here the earth smiles at the sky, looking at the stars.

Yesenin creates in his work the feeling of a fairy tale. The images of the "kingdom of spring", the "hut" of the plowman help him in this. The nightingale's songs here are deep, as if full of meaning. higher meaning often not just in words, but in feelings. And although this descriptive poem cannot be attributed to love lyrics, but only to landscape, we are talking here, of course, about love.

Analysis of the poem Spring evening according to plan

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