Badly Fine

Born in 1940 in the village of Biofabrika (now Novokuibyshevsk).
In 1960 he graduated from the Kuibyshev railway technical school. transport, worked as an electrician in Bashkiria, served in the army on Balkhash. In 1964-1969 Studied at the Faculty of Economics of Moscow State University. From September 1969 he began teaching political economy at the Kuibyshev Polytechnic Institute. In 1972-1974 was in graduate school and often wrote poetry instead of a dissertation. He lived during his student and postgraduate years in a hostel on Lengory under the glorious spire of Moscow State University. He returned to Kuibyshev, became an assistant professor. Family, children and work, work came to the fore. Poems have faded into the background. Nevertheless, when freedom of speech and press came, he collected his verses, shook the dust off them and published them.

WREATH TO YESENIN

"Drink, sing in your youth,
Hit life without a miss.
Still beloved
Cherry will bloom."
(S. A. Yesenin. 1925)

BIRTHDAY OF SERGEY YESENIN

I don’t want problems, questions in the morning.
The sun is in the sky, the whole world is transparent.
October gives us autumn again,
Once again, nature takes off its arrogance.

On Vagankovsky, the people are already crowding.
The poet calls the admirers to him.
Someone drinks and thus “strives” to it.
Someone sees an unspeakable light.

We will visit the poet with you,
Rare throughout the twentieth century.
Don't feel sorry for love last summer
And cry ... What a man he was!

I could live and be with friends nearby.
But he died handsome and young.
Warm up your soul and look,
Remember May and white apple trees smoke.

... Autumn again drops leaves, sows.
Mixed - bitterness and delight.
We are again related by Sergei Yesenin,
The soul hurts with song longing.

Moscow State University, 1965

DEATH IN "ANGLETERRE"

Moscow. White snow on the palms.
Izryadnova, Reich. But wait!
Seryozha, what about Isadora?
Leaving Sophia Tolstoy.

Your brain is affected by alcohol
By the end, apparently, the path of life.
You run away from pain to Peter,
To tighten the neck with a loop.

And what about your one-legged maple?
Rye curls? Crosses?
Funny fool foal
Which one did you invent?

You are not the first time to cut veins
And writing in blood is not the first time.
Knees bend again
In the usual cruel binge.

And the lips are quite detached
Already in a crazy delirium
Whisper to someone with a groan:
"I'm sorry, I won't come to you."

Last night at Angleterre;
And there are no friends in the room ...
Dead body swinging
Under the stupid "live is not newer."

Oh no! This bitter phrase
Cheating for yourself.
His friends, why are you all at once
Did you leave him that evening?

CONVERSATION WITH YESENIN

My dear, my most tender poet,
A violent brawler from the Oka River,
Do you remember how you regretted your freshness,
Having exchanged in Moscow for taverns?
For poetry, you threw life on the chopping block,
Achieved international recognition.
Well, I, an amateur, gave a blunder with glory,
According to Aunt Sima, not great.

So what, is that a big deal?
Life goes on, and girls attract.
Smile, resolving doubts,
And good words will come.
Let's sit side by side, discarding the haze for years,
Excited and a little sad.
Let them scold, let's break the bottle,
Cucumber aunt Simin crunching.

Perishable, oddly enough, we, Seryoga.
Hell! collect belongings
Mortal ... and it's time for me to go.
No wife and no one to wash.

Pour it! My ulcer will endure.
Let me tell you about my life.
About the poor villages, and immediately
You put a knife in your boot.

You grit your teeth: “Fuck them in the drawbar!
I'll kill the authorities on the spot.
Thousands live naked on collective farms.
Pron Ogloblin fought in vain?

But the "naive", "calico" Yesenin,
After all, fifty years have passed since then.
In the "developed" present Russia
There is no desire to rebel for a long time.

And now there are not so many peasants.
You ran away in the thirteenth.
But nowhere, under any weather
"Capital" three-volume did not read.

I read it, but there is a lot of sense ...
Like you, I'm running around the corners.
Queen of spades to me, a long road.
He lived in Moscow, but did not take root there.

Oh, Sergey, you are my autumn poet,
You did not have time to sing your song.
In a life not quite blessed
Had to die before the time.

They say: "Chekists, they say, killed."
They say: "I didn't hang myself." How to know...
Banned. But they didn't forget.
Thank God, they remembered again.

We are now the same age as you.
I am exactly thirty years old today.
Your three-volume book and the sky is blue,
With the "capital" next - your portrait.

We will sit in a secluded room.
Drive away despondency from the soul.
Your maple is standing, like you, unevenly,
Reminiscent of young days.

Kuibyshev, 1970

SOUL WASTE

A.K. Voronsky wrote about a meeting with Yesenin in the spring of 1925 in Baku: “At a country dacha, drunk, at first he quarreled and cursed for a long time. He was removed to a separate room. I went in and saw him sitting on the bed and sobbing. His whole face was filled with tears. He crumpled a wet handkerchief.
- I have nothing left. I'm scared. There are no friends or relatives. I don't love anyone or anything. Only verses remain. I gave everything to them, you know, everything.”
(Yesenin.ru. - Memories)

Yesenin, like a neurasthenic,
Sobbed and crumpled his handkerchief.
And neither Russia, nor spring rain,
Nobody could save him.

Flowers in the cemetery in spring
Young girls have freckles.
“Seryozha, why are you crying?”
"I dont like. I drink vodka by the glass.

I'm sick, they're after me.
I'm going to the mental hospital again.
I drank my soul, as if in the heat
It’s easy to get drunk with one soul.”

“Where is your Shagane now?
Your poetry drives everyone crazy.
“I lock the door at night.
I'm scared. After all, the soul passes.

... They inspired: "Everything is predetermined."
They threatened to sue. Creeped to the door.
For poetry and wine
Night was approaching at the Angleterre.

Words already written
What to die, how to live, is not new.
And a golden head
It drooped like a maple leaf.

AT THE GRAVE OF YESENIN

Sheltered in his eyes sadness,
Everything seemed pointless.
He kept repeating to himself: “Let
Everyone lives, but I will say goodbye.

He is in the album of his favorites
Arranged neatly over the years
And looked at them in the evenings ...
But love, ah, love is irrevocable.

They look from photographs
And they tease with cute smiles.
He remembers the best days.
But will you bring them back from the past?

In life, money, struggle, vanity.
Either poetry, or illness, or strife.
Life without meaning is not the Muse.
And old, oh, old Isadora.

... They say, they say, Yesenin is a fool,
And his talent is God's grace.
Benislavskaya, they say, just like that
She shot herself at his grave.

In vain, they say, he drank and ended up in a psychiatric hospital.
I could have become a big man.
But Yesenin, alas, understood
Better than many soullessness of the century.

Oh… The cemetery is quiet now.
No living behind a high fence.
You do not measure your soul with glasses,
Hit without a miss in life, but do not fall.

They are hurrying along the boulevards
Flocks of young, shy girls.
And poets, poets lie
On Vagankovsky in black graves.

Yesenin and Galina Benislavskaya

He wrote letters from the Caucasus.
All fees went to vodka.
I didn't promise you love
You were a gentle friend to him.

She took care of Katyusha and Shura,
You loved him in vain.
You brought a fur coat to a friend
From St. Petersburg and the scarf is red.

And he came only in the spring
And immediately drowned in scandals.
Deciding to marry Tolstoy,
Three wives, children, you - left.

That twenty-fifth year was already on;
The last, terrible, incomprehensible.
As if there were no worries -
Again the Caucasus with a noble bride.

But having signed in September,
He seemed to know that he did not want to live.
It seemed to him - in the yard
The villains sharpen the knife on him.

He couldn't sleep. And alcohol
It drove him more and more crazy.
Pain gnawed at his soul,
And it couldn't be worse, worse.

December already breathed frost.
Shura waved her hand to him:
“Seryozha, come! Goodbye..."
He left drunkenly, downcast.

Then came the news of death.
Friends, relatives at the grave.
Why now to climb into your souls?
You are not. And we have fallen in love.

You shot yourself after a year.
Now the petty bourgeois will pass by
And he will say to the young daughter: “Here,
The graves are nearby… And the name!”

And there will be superfluous morality,
Reproach, to suicide or envy.
But the girl will say: “What a pity!
Poems remained orphans.

Yesenin and Isadora Duncan

Dear, very Russian, great poet,
What did she promise you?
Well, why are you her, more than forty years old,
"Bad girl" called, even "sweet"?

Oh you, glory-infection, oh, money, calculation,
Mansion on Prechistenka, servants.
Flight from Moscow to Europe!
And then: "No wife and no friend."

We don’t understand now why you lived like this,
He put different women on his knees.
You tell me what kind of god led your hand,
Where did the sorcerer in you sit, genius?

Yesenin, Sophia Tolstaya and Doom

Tolstoy's granddaughter and Yesenin's wife
I lived very little with the poet.
She so honored the family and count habits,
That he couldn't go a day without a fight.
But he himself is to blame, not Tolstaya.
Yes, and it was, of course, difficult.

Why was it necessary to be treated in the color of years?
Threatened with arrest, so he went to the hospital.
He wrote brilliantly about maple and about winter!
But he was threatened with a tribunal from the Cheka.

The noose already seemed to sway to the rhythm of the verses,
And there was no time left.

... Who is to blame for the fact that he is bleeding from a vein
Did he write about death and about his betrayals?
Not wives and not abandoned children.
Not homeless life, not the darkness of contradictions.
Not fame, not friends and not bohemia.
And the genius is to blame! His own genius.
He spent his soul on poetry to the bottom.
I couldn't live without them, and I ruined my life.

YESENIN AND WE, THE PRESENT

Ripples in the eyes of many names
Gloomy and spring poets.
But at least one would write about maple,
As Sergei Yesenin wrote.

BRIEF BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. Benislavskaya G. A. Diary. Memories. Letters to Yesenin / Introductory article by L. F. Karokhin. SPb., 2001.
2. Belousov V. G. Sergei Yesenin: Literary Chronicle. In 2 parts. M, 1969-1970.
3. Garina N. M. About S. A. Yesenin and G. F. Ustinov. 1935 (see: Yesenin.ru).
4. Duncan A. My life. My Russia. My Yesenin. M., 1992.
5. Yesenina N. V. (Nasedkina). In the native family: New materials about Sergei Yesenin. M., 2001.
6. S. A. Yesenin in the memoirs of contemporaries. In 2 vols. M., 1986.
7. Kunyaev Stanislav and Sergey. Yesenin's life. Years emerged from the darkness again ... M., 2001.
8. Mariengof A. B. A novel without lies. My age, my friends and girlfriends. M., 2013.
9. Sergei Yesenin: Memories of relatives / Comp. the poet's nieces: T. P. Flor (Ilyina), S. P. Mitrofanova (Ilyina), N. V. Yesenina (Nasedkina). M., 1985.
10. Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin / Comp. Sergei St. Kunyaev. M., 2013.
11. Sushko Yu. M. Children of Yesenin. M., 2013.
12. Khlystalov E. A. 13 criminal cases of Sergei Yesenin. M., 2006.

Other works by Viktor Belousov can be found on his page www.stihi.ru/avtor/v4568.

Tatyana Ivanova
Wreath to the log hut singer (literary and musical event dedicated to Sergei Yesenin)

Goals:

1. To acquaint with the life and work of the poet, to arouse interest in the poetry and work of S.A. Yesenin.

2. Education in students of a sense of patriotism, love for the motherland.

3. Formation of moral and aesthetic values

4. Contribute to the development of the culture of pupils through updating the content, forms and methods of educational activities.

5. Implementation in practice of modern approaches to the content and organization of educational activities.

Conduct form: .

Equipment: Screen and projector, multimedia presentation

A WREATH FOR THE SINGER OF THE LOG CUT

(literary and musical event, dedicated to Sergei Yesenin)

Inexpressible, blue, gentle.

My land is quiet after storms, after dreams.

And my soul is a boundless field,

Breathes the scent of honey and roses.

Today we are talking about Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin, a poet whose remarkable talent, which delighted his contemporaries, ate and lived with love for Russia. His life flashed like a comet in the poetic sky of the Motherland, it dazzlingly sparkled, carving sheaves of sparks. To this day, Russian poets write about Yesenin, without hiding his admiration for him and inspired by his poems

He is like a magician

Turned the dawn into a kitten

Sweet hands - in swans,

Bright month - in a foal.

The forest taught to speak

Herbs, groves in splashes of light.

Wrote about Yesenine N. Kutov.

slide 3+ music.

A romance to the verses of S.A. Yesenin"The golden grove dissuaded ..."

Leading. - Sergey Yesenin! - This name

In the forests of my native Russia,

In tender birches and aspens,

In yellowish-blue earrings,

In meadows of greenery spring,

In your verses Sergey Yesenin.

literary freaks,

Live for ten more years

You, as an enemy of the people,

Blessed to be shot!

But you left a vague life

With a bloody song on the wall

Ten years before the orgies of the cult,

Rip the veins of the whole country ...

From bitter words I will weave wreath-

The word is made by the soul.

Leading. The world knows two most charming smiles, in which the Russian soul: Yuri Gagarin and Sergei Yesenin. Gagarin, in love with poetry since childhood Yesenin, the first to open the way to the stars; his beloved poet rushed there with only a thought, but he achieved stellar clarity and purity in the glorification of Russian expanses. And the fire of dawn, and the splash of a playful wave, and the vast expanse of heaven with the ringing of Easter bells - all this seemed to melt in the Russian heart of the poet and poured out with verses.

Satov's students Kristina and Duplinskaya Kristina will read excerpts from S. Yesenin.

Beloved edge! Dreaming of the heart

Stacks of the sun in the waters of the womb.

I would like to get lost

In the greens of your bells.

The one who has seen at least once.

This edge and this surface,

The one almost every birch

I'm glad to kiss the leg.

Hello golden calm

With the shadow of a birch in the water!

Rooftop flock

Serves vespers to the star.

silver road,

Where are you calling me?

Candle purely Thursday.

There is a star above you.

I am here again in my family,

My land is thoughtful and tender.

Curly dusk behind the mountain

The snow-white hand waves.

Poets live after death

They suffer during their lives.

They are caught by petty-bourgeois nets,

Tyrants keep them in the shadows

Kohl they do not sing hallelujah

Dawn. I'm approaching the village

Where the Russian Poet was born.

Presenter 2. “I was born in 1825, on September 20, in the Ryazan province, in the village of Konstantinov. From the age of two, I was given to be raised by a rather prosperous grandfather, who had three adult sons, with whom almost all of my childhood passed. I started writing poetry at the age of nine. At the age of eighteen he was surprised that they were not printed, and sent to St. Petersburg ... "

Leading. Motherland, Russia, Russia - the artistic nerve of all creativity Sergei Yesenin. The village of Konstantinovo is spread out freely on the banks of the Oka. Fat herbs sing around, the bee sings tirelessly. How the poet loved this summer season!

I love over the mowing parking

Listen to mosquitoes in the evening.

And how the guys bark with talyanka,

The girls will come out to dance around the fires.

They will light up like black currants,

Coals - eyes in horseshoes of eyebrows,

Oh, you, my Russia, dear Motherland,

Sweet rest in the silk of kupyrs.

The poem is read by Isakova Masha.

Reader: S. A. Yesenin"Sleeping feather grass"

The feather grass is sleeping. Dear plain,

And the lead freshness of wormwood.

No other homeland

Do not pour my warmth into my chest.

Know that we all have such a fate,

And, perhaps, ask everyone -

Rejoicing, raging and tormented,

Life is good in Russia.

The light of the moon, mysterious and long,

Willows are crying, poplars are whispering.

But no one under the cry of a crane

He will not stop loving his father's fields.

And now that behold the new light

And my life touched fate,

I still remain a poet

Gold log cabin.

At night, clinging to the headboard,

I see a strong enemy

How someone else's youth splashes with new

To my glades and meadows.

But still, cramped by the new,

I can feel sing along:

Give me in the homeland of my beloved,

All loving, die in peace!

Leading. The poet of Russia, he took from her nature even the characteristic features of his beautiful appearance: the enchanting blue of the eyes - by the blue lakes and bottomless skies, soft curls - by the crowns of native birches, gold of hair - by Russian fields. And most importantly, he took from the Motherland, from the boundless expanse of Russia, her deep and immense soul.

The door will open a little, and in the canopy

Autumn knocks, breathing rain,

Born here Sergey Yesenin,

This is where his soul lives.

Where is the expanse of immense blue

Fills the chest with breath

Son of Ryazan, favorite of Russia

From birches he began his journey.

And he took off, subject to the song,

Above the daily hustle and bustle.

Passionate messenger of Russian tenderness,

Righteous sinner and saint.

Memories of my rural childhood Sergey Yesenin always kept in my heart.

Low house with blue shutters

I will never forget you,

Were too recent

Resounding into the dusk of the year.

What is the mother singing now behind the tow?

I left the village forever.

I only know - a crimson blizzard

We got leaves on the porch.

Leading. Who read the village lyrics Yesenin, he knows how many poems the poet dedicated to mother, sister, grandfather, grandmother. In his poems, and in prose, the distant Konstantinovsky house appears as a real embodiment of warmth, light and love. Here is what the poet wrote in his memoirs, dedicated to rural childhood.

Presenter 2. “Often blind people gathered at our house, wandering through the villages, singing spiritual verses about a beautiful paradise, about Lazar, about Mikol and about the Bridegroom, a bright guest from an unknown city. The nanny, the old woman who took care of me, told me fairy tales, all those fairy tales that all peasant children listen to and know. Poetry began to compose early. Grandma gave pushes. She told stories. I didn’t like some fairy tales with bad endings, and I remade them in my own way.

Leading. The old house with its smell, the creak of the floorboards remained the spiritual stronghold of the poet, the personification of his small Motherland.

Yesenin with dizzying speed, he made a difficult path of ascent from a poet singing his fatherland in a biblical style "in the splendor of the scarlet dawn", to the heights of poetic classics, creating such masterpieces as "Pugachev", little poems "Soviet Russia", "Rus tavern", "Russia leaving", lyrical cycle "Persian motives".

It is incomprehensible, but all this was created by one person who lived only 30 years, of which exactly half was given to poetry.

All my short and troubled life Sergei Yesenin showed concern, cared about the closest person - about his mother, Tatyana Fedorovna. She played a big role in his life. mothers Sergei Yesenin dedicated these sincere lines:

Enable the reading of the poem on slide 12

Are you still alive, my old lady?

I'm alive too. Hello you, hello!

Let it flow over your hut

That evening unspeakable light.

They write to me that you, concealing anxiety,

She was very sad about me,

What do you often go on the road

In an old-fashioned dilapidated shushun.

And you in the evening blue darkness

Often seen the same well:

Like someone is in a tavern fight for me

He put a Finnish knife under the heart.

Nothing, dear! Take it easy.

It's just painful bullshit.

I'm not such a bitter drunkard,

To die without seeing you.

I'm still so tender

And I only dream about

So that rather from rebellious longing

Return to our low house.

I'll be back when the branches spread

By- spring our white garden.

Only you me already at dawn

Don't wake up like eight years ago.

Don't wake up what was noted

Don't worry about what didn't come true -

Too early loss and fatigue

I have experienced in my life.

And don't teach me to pray. No need!

There is no return to the old.

You are my only help and joy,

You are my only inexpressible light.

So forget your worries

Don't be so sad about me.

Don't go on the road so often

In an old-fashioned dilapidated shushun.

But Tatyana Fedorovna had to endure the worst grief in her mother's life - the death of her son.

Listen to an excerpt from a poem by the poet Andrey Filatov "Poems about mothers Yesenin» .

... Once from the Oka meadow,

You see, without roads, by the side,

Under the name of an old friend

An elderly tourist wandered into her.

In a cap, in a dusty raincoat,

He sat down on a chair that was pulled up.

Called himself Mr. John

And he extended his hand, leaning:

I'm distant, but I speak Russian.

I read about Ancient Russia.

Explained in love Sergei,

"Letter" read it to her by heart.

I assured that the volume with birch

Still keeps in the heart

That her son is even in overseas

Famous in a distant land.

You won't understand this right away.

The old woman was silent in response.

Only the guest looked around

From caps to trendy boots.

- ... You would have a villa, mother, you need

With a balcony overlooking the river.

A tall fountain in the garden

Paths, sand, flower beds ...

Russia forgot about you

Yesenin's verse - not in price.

Darkness. What is the villa

In the swampy, deaf side.

Silence - prevented the villagers.

We entered - I did not have time to say ...

And stuffy, and hard for Tatyana -

Angry Russian mother.

Girlfriend didn't even notice

They sat side by side on a bench.

... Yes, unless with them he will tell

Open your soul!

Calls to die in a foreign land ...

Wandered in broad daylight...

How long ago "fussed" about the son

Now they got to me.

Why are you clinging to the threshold,

Would you like to sit by the window?

Are you afraid people will help me?

Don't be afraid, I can handle it alone.

You see, I got up without crying,

Let it be hard on the soul.

But only now - then I sighted:

It helped me see the grief.

Indeed, I got up, straight,

Went in front of friends.

Help would. Yes, they hear: - I myself.

Myself, dear, I will come.

In an embroidered shirt from a portrait

Sergey smiles after:

“Because John is waiting for an answer.

What is your answer, mom?

Let your heart cool down a bit

Seryozha, my dear son,

Give me strength to reach the threshold.

I know you are by my side.

She shook off the handkerchief,

loosened the tight knot

She glared at John.

And kicked open the door.

Dishes rattled in the corner

The light of the icons went out.

Well, get out of here

Get out good!

Loop your wretched path

And there at home, fool,

Don't touch the Russian land

And do not climb into the Russian soul!

I am proud that such a poet

She gave birth on Russian soil.

She is sung by my son

And now I'm thrice sweet!

Can I at whose reproach

Give a son's song!

In the Oka village near Ryazan,

This Russian mother lived.

Leading. Yesenin reluctantly recalled his trip to Europe and America. From his random phrases there remains the impression of a great, painful, longing that overcame him there. Here are just a few lines from those old letters from the poet to his homeland.

Presenter 2. “My relatives! Good ones! What can I say about this most terrible realm of philistinism, which borders on idiocy? Apart from the foxtrot, there is almost nothing here. Here they eat and drink, and again a foxtrot. I have not yet met a man and do not know where he smells. I didn't even want to publish books here, despite the cheapness of paper. No one here needs it."

slide 14+ music.

Leading. From his picturesque and melodious poems, a dear image of the native land, the original Ryazan-Kolomenskaya Rus, emerges. Nature in verse Yesenin- always a living organism, it breathes, feels, lives. Romance on verses by S. A. Yesenin"You are my fallen maple"

Leading. The paths are not overgrown yet,

that heard your steps,

And mother's scarf

There are still birch forests.

And the voice of the forest, the voice of the valley,

And the voice of the doves in the meadows

They call you to your home

Happy or in tears.

They don't care, no matter what,

They will find affection and greetings.

Fish play in the evening

And butterflies fly into the light.

And rosy horses

They snore in the sunset light.

And drowns in blue mists

Everything is waiting for you, everything is waiting, not believing

What are you for so many years

How tight the doors are

To this white light.

You left us so much blue!

And he left, as if under a thunderstorm,

Left on the face of Russia

Non-drying tear...

In the troubled times of 1919 Yesenin freely walked around the city at night, despite the patrols. One day, while checking documents, he suddenly began to read his poems. When we reached the monument to Pushkin, Yesenin stopped reading, but the head of the patrol asked his: “Tell me more about the village, it’s too smooth for you”.

They say that, getting to know Sergei Yesenin, Felix Dzerzhinsky dropped: "How do you live like this?" "How?"- the poet was confused. - "Unprotected".

Grass heavy with dust

The night in the wires buzzes like a bumblebee.

But Yesenin was killed,

Not even calling to a duel!

slide 16+ Music fragment.

Poem by V. Bogdanov "In memory of a poet".

The slaughter lay down in the hotel,

Yellow darkness swayed in the corridor.

How could you, vile pipe,

To hold such our grief?

The scoundrel slept, getting drunk in a tavern,

Over the poet evil jesting ...

The moment of death... The ice cracked on the Oka...

Only mother in all Russia woke up ...

What did she feel then?

Maybe I really saw

Like a hot star from heaven

She fell on the frosty porch.

And the star lit the dawn in the village,

Mother at the Russian stove fussed.

Through the snows deep, like trouble,

The news on a sled rolled up to the house ...

The moon has fallen from the blue heights.

And birch trees in a smoky whirlwind,

Like a noose, tore the horizon

Leading. "What a pure and what a Russian poet" Gorky spoke about him. Alexei Maksimovich accurately defined the deep essence Yesenin - poet, saying that he is "not so much a man as an organ created by nature exclusively for poetry, to express love for all living things in the world and mercy."

The poem is read by Mazhara Nadia.

Reader. S. A. Yesenin"Kachalov's dog"

Give me a paw, Jim, for good luck,

I have never seen such a paw.

Let's bark with you in the moonlight

For quiet, quiet weather.

Give me a paw, Jim, for luck.

Please, darling, don't lick.

Understand with me at least the simplest.

'Cause you don't know what life is

You don't know what it's worth to live in the world.

Your master is both sweet and famous,

And he has many guests in the house,

And everyone, smiling, strives

To touch you on velvet wool.

You are devilishly beautiful like a dog,

With such a sweet trusting friend.

And without asking anyone,

Like a drunk friend, you climb to kiss.

My dear Jim, among your guests

There were so many different and different ones.

But the one that is all silent and sadder,

Did you come here by any chance?

She will come, I promise you.

And without me, in her staring gaze,

You gently lick her hand for me

For everything in which he was and was not guilty.

Leading. Last stanzas devoted Galina Benislavskaya - friend Yesenin. Galya Benislavskaya, smart and deep, loved Yesenin devotedly and selflessly. Yesenin responded with great friendship. He never made a fuss. Loving and appreciating Galina as his rarest friend, at the same time in March 1925 he wrote her a short letter.

Presenter 2. “Dear Galya! You are close to me as a friend, but I do not love you at all as a woman.

Leading. Nevertheless, Benislavskaya did not leave him and took care of him.

Only marriage Yesenin on the granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy - Sofya Andreevna Tolstoy forced Benislavskaya to move away from him. This departure of a friend Yesenin took it hard. But she was a true friend and bequeathed to bury herself next to him.

Slide 19 + reading a poem.

We are now leaving little by little

In the country where peace and grace.

Maybe soon I will be on my way

To collect mortal belongings.

Lovely birch thickets!

You earth! And you, plains sands!

Before this host of departing

I can't hide my anguish.

I loved too much in this world

Everything that envelops the soul in flesh.

Peace to the aspens, which, spreading its branches,

Look into the pink water!

I thought a lot of thoughts in silence,

Lot composed songs to himself,

And on this gloomy earth

Happy that I breathed and lived.

Happy that I kissed women

Crumpled flowers, rolled on the grass

And the beast, like our smaller brothers,

Never hit on the head.

I know that thickets do not bloom there,

Rye does not ring with a swan's neck.

That is why before the host of the departing

I always get trembling.

I know that in that country there will be no

These fields, golden in the mist.

That's why people are dear to me

that live with me on earth.

Sound with renewed vigor today Yesenin's lines: “How beautiful is the earth and man on it”. Years go by, generations change, but poetry remains eternal Yesenin because in today's quivering, fragile world with its crises, the poet's voice calls for humanity, for prudence, for love.

Goy you, my dear Russia,

Huts - in the robes of the image.

See no end and edge -

Only blue sucks eyes.

Like a wandering pilgrim,

I watch your fields.

And at the low outskirts

The poplars are languishing.

Smells like apple and honey

In the churches, your meek Savior.

And buzzes behind the bark

There is a cheerful dance in the meadows.

I'll run along the wrinkled stitch

To the freedom of the green lekh,

Meet me like earrings

A girlish laugh will ring out.

If the holy army cries:

"Throw you Russia, live in paradise!"

I will tell: "There is no need for paradise,

Give me my country."

Strings Yesenin, which I will read to you now, are full of bold faith in the future of Russia, indestructible optimism.

The Lord went to torture people in Love,

He went out as a beggar to a sack.

Old grandfather on a dry stump, in an oak tree,

Zhamkal gums stale donut.

The grandfather saw the beggar dear,

On the path, with an iron club,

And thought: "Look, how miserable, -

To know, it sways from hunger, sickly.

The Lord came, hiding sorrow and flour:

It can be seen, they say, you can’t wake their hearts.

And the old man said, holding out hand:

“Here, chew. a little - you will be stronger ".

I think that the one who holds these verses in his heart will no longer want, will not be able to do evil in the world.

Leading. More than 85 years have passed since the tragic death of the poet. But today, like decades ago, his poems remain a kind of test for attitudes towards Russia. For a long time noticed: who loves poetry Yesenin, he cannot blaspheme his country.

How many wonderful songs based on his poetry! In Moscow, in Ryazan, in other cities of the country, monuments to the poet rise, many streets are named after him. The people cherish the memory of Sergei Yesenin.

Slide 22 + lyric music.

Against her background, the host reads a poem.

Leading. With a fashionable cane, in a civilian tuxedo,

He walked shocking with a top hat

Revolutionary Moscow:

Bard, spoiled by glory,

Liked boyish fun

Excite the wrong rumor.

Sad like music from the garden,

Gentle, like a summer starfall,

Eternal, like a sunrise,

Who is he, if not nature itself, -

The youth who came from the people

And gone in song to the people?

The wind sways the birches spring,

A cheerful drop is ringing,

Like reading a poem Yesenin

About the land he was in love with,

About white groves and slanting showers,

About yellow fields and the rise of cranes.

Love Russia, love Russia -

There is no sweeter land for the Russian heart!

Music intensifies. All participants of the program take the stage.

Appendix

Wreath to Sergei Yesenin