YOUNG POTTS DIE ON THE FRONTS OF THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR
The dead won't thank me
Just kiss the breeze
Or a ray of sunshine
Gently lies between these lines...
Ilya Tokov
Andrukhaev Khusen, 20 years old
Artemov Alexander, 29 years old
Bagritsky Vsevolod, 19 years old
Bogatkov Boris, 21 years old
Vakarov Dmitry, 24 years old
Viktoras Valaitis, 27 years old
Vintman Pavel, 24 years old
Gorodissky Zakhar, 20 years old
Guryan (Khachaturyan) Tatul, 29 years old
Zanadvorov Vladislav, 28 years old
Kaloev Khazby, 22 years old
Quicinia Levarsa, 29 years old
Kogan Pavel, 24 years old
Krapivnikov Leonid, 21 years old
Kulchitsky Mikhail, 23 years old
Lebedev Alexey, 29 years old
Livertovsky Joseph, 24 years old
Loboda Vsevolod, 29 years old
Lukyanov Nikolai, 22 years old
Mayorov Nikolay, 22 years old
Ovsyannikov Nikolai, 24 years old
Podarevsky Eduard, 24 years old
Podstanitsky Alexander, 22 years old
Polyakov Evgeny, 20 years old
Razikov Evgeny, 23 years old
Razmyslov Ananiy, 27 years old
Rimsky-Korsakov Vsevolod, 25 years old (died in the Leningrad blockade)
Rozenberg Leonid, 22 years old
Strelchenko Vadim, 29 years old
Suvorov Georgy, 25 years old
Surnachev Mikola, 27 years old
Tikhachek Arian, 19 years old
Ushkov Georgy, 25 years old
Fedorov Ivan, 29 years old
Shersher Leonid, 25 years old
Shulchev Valentin, 28 years old
Esenkojaev Kuseyin, 20 years old
Who else do you know?
They left at dawn
[Text: Dmitry Shevarov/RG]
We still found those yards from where they went to the front. Front gardens, sheds, a linden under the window, a lorry that raised clouds of dust in our street - a lot around was antediluvian, that is, pre-war.
And that lilac, at which the graduates of 1941 said goodbye, showered its color on us when we played war. After the rain, dark water with stars swirled in the pre-war barrel. In the evening, leaving the yard all covered in dust and abrasions, suddenly a mysterious wind from the garden touched our flushed faces, and it seemed to us that there, in the garden, someone was crying softly and these were not leaves under the moonlight, but girlish shoulders were trembling.
The night butterfly inaudibly beats against the glass, trembling. So the agenda trembles in the mother's hand. The cherished notebook for poetry is not yet in the backpack, but under the pillow.
In May, evening twilight turns too quickly into morning. Shut up, alarm clocks. Don't rattle, washstand. Shut up, loudspeakers. A locomotive with a red star on its chest, stay still on the siding ... Let me finish the verses.
I hate to live without undressing,
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
To forget the tired hunger.
Chilling, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
From home do not receive an answer,
Change junk for black bread.
I'm sad about the overcoat,
I see smoky dreams
No, they failed me
Return from War.
Days fly by like bullets
Like shells - years ...
Still not returned
Will never return.
And where can I go?
A friend was killed in the war.
And the silent heart
It began to beat in me.
***
I did not smoke for long, for a long time - in the war.
(A small piece of that life, but dear!)
Until now, for some reason, I suddenly hear:
"Friend, leave "sixty" or "forty"!
And you can’t refuse - you let it finish.
Smiling, chatting with the fighters.
And some new strong thread
It arose then between the hearts.
And for those who smoke, they are already eagerly watching,
He won't be able to refuse.
If someone says:
"Be a friend, soldier!" -
And leave not "forty", so "twenty".
There was something heartbreaking about
How they shared terry at a halt.
So then they shared the last bandage,
They gave their lives for a friend...
And in everyday battles I was able to resist,
Even if it hurts and it's hard,
Because they shared with me again,
As at the front, the last puff.
***
I've seen melee so many times,
Once upon a time. And a thousand - in a dream.
Who says that war is not scary,
He knows nothing about the war.
Perhaps the most terrible grief of the twentieth century. How many Soviet soldiers died in its bloody battles, defending their homeland with their breasts, how many remained disabled! .. But although the Nazis had the advantage for most of the war, the Soviet Union nevertheless won. Have you ever wondered why? Indeed, compared with the Germans, the Soviet army did not have many combat vehicles and thorough military training. The desire to defend themselves was caused by works and writers who inspired soldiers to exploits. It's hard to believe, but even in those troubled times, there were many talented people among the Soviet people who knew how to express their feelings on paper. Most of them went to the front, where their fate was different. The terrible statistics are impressive: on the eve of the war in the USSR there were 2186 writers and poets, of which 944 people went to the battlefield, and 417 did not return from there. Those who were younger than everyone were not yet twenty, the oldest were around 50 years old. If not for the war, perhaps they would now be equated with the great classics - Pushkin, Lermontov, Yesenin and others. But, as the catch phrase from the work of Olga Berggolts says, "no one is forgotten, nothing is forgotten." The manuscripts of both dead and surviving writers and poets that survived during the war were placed in printed publications in the post-war period, which were replicated throughout the USSR. So, what kind of people are the poets of the Great Patriotic War? Below is a list of the most famous of them.
Poets of the Great Patriotic War
1. Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
At the very beginning, she wrote several poster poems. Then she was evacuated from Leningrad until the first blockade winter. For the next two years she has to live in Tashkent. During the war she wrote many poems.
2. Olga Bergholz (1910-1975)
During the war, she lived in besieged Leningrad, working on the radio and every day supporting the courage of the inhabitants. Then her best works were written.
3. Andrei Malyshko (1912-1970)
Throughout the war, he worked as a special correspondent for such front-line newspapers as “For Soviet Ukraine!”, “Red Army” and “For the Honor of the Motherland”. He set out his impressions of this time on paper only in the post-war years.
4. Sergei Mikhalkov (1913-2009)
During the war he worked as a correspondent for such newspapers as "Stalin's Falcon" and "For the Glory of the Motherland". He retreated to Stalingrad along with the troops.
5. Boris Pasternak (1890-1960)
For most of the war, he lived in evacuation in Chistopol, financially supporting all those in need.
6. Alexander Tvardovsky (1910-1971)
He spent the war at the front, working in a newspaper and publishing his essays and poems in it.
7. Pavlo Tychina (1891-1967)
During the war, he lived in Ufa, being active in the Articles of Tychyna, issued during this period, inspired Soviet soldiers to fight for their homeland.
These are all the most famous poets of the Great Patriotic War. Now let's talk about their work.
Poetry of the period of the Great Patriotic War
Most of the poets devoted their time to creativity, mainly in that time many works were written, later awarded various prizes in literature. The poetry of the Great Patriotic War has the appropriate themes - the horror, misfortune and grief of war, mourning for the dead Soviet soldiers, a tribute to the heroes who sacrifice themselves to save the Motherland.
Conclusion
A huge number of poems were written in those troubled years. And then they created more. This despite the fact that some poets of the Great Patriotic War also served at the front. And yet the theme (for both poetry and prose) is the same - their authors fervently hope for victory and eternal peace.
Front-line poets, a term that was born during the Great Patriotic War. Young Soviet poets who ended up at the front by the will of fate and their own will wrote poetry. These verses reflect the harsh reality of those days.
Some poets died at the front, leaving behind poems about the Great Patriotic War, while others lived longer. However, life after the front was short for many, as one of the front-line poet Semyon Gudzenko said, "We will not die of old age, we will die of old wounds."
Who can better and more accurately express what happened during those war years than someone who himself witnessed and participated in these terrible events?
In this article, we tried to collect the most powerful poems of front-line poets about the Great Patriotic War, about events and people who turned out to be the history of this terrible time.
Semyon Gudzenko
MY GENERATION
We are clean before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God.
Overcoats turned red from blood and clay on the living,
blue flowers bloomed on the graves of the dead.
Blossomed and fell off... The fourth autumn passes.
Our mothers are crying, and our peers are silently sad.
We did not know love, did not experience the happiness of crafts,
we got to share the hard fate of the soldiers.
My weather has no poetry, no love, no peace -
only power and envy. And when we return from the war,
we will love everything in full and write, peer, such
that fathers-soldiers will be proud of sons.
Well, who won't come back? Who doesn't have to give in?
Well, who was struck down by the first bullet in forty-one?
A peer of the same age will sob, a mother will beat on the threshold, -
my weather has no poetry, no peace, no wives.
Who will come back - dolubit? Not! The heart is not enough
and the dead do not need the living to love for them.
There is no man in the family - no children, no owner in the hut.
Can the sobs of the living help such grief?
We do not need to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone.
Who went on the attack, who shared the last piece,
He will understand this truth - it is to us in the trenches and cracks
came to argue in a grumbling, hoarse bass voice.
Let the living remember and let the generations know
this harsh truth of the soldiers, taken with battle.
And your crutches, and a mortal wound through,
and graves over the Volga, where thousands of young people lie, -
this is our destiny, it is with her that we swore and sang,
went on the attack and tore the bridges over the Bug.
We do not need to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone,
We are clean before our Russia and in difficult times.
And when we return - and we return with victory,
all, like devils, are stubborn, like people, tenacious and evil, -
let us brew beer and roast meat for dinner,
so that tables break everywhere on oak legs.
We will bow at the feet of our dear, suffering people,
kiss mothers and girlfriends that waited, loving.
That's when we return and win with bayonets -
we will love everything, the same age, and we will find a job for ourselves.
1945
A. Tvardovsky
I know it's not my fault
The fact that others did not come from the war,
The fact that they - who is older, who is younger -
Stayed there, and it's not about the same thing,
That I could, but could not save, -
It's not about that, but still, still, still...
When you pass through the columns
In the heat, and in the rain, and in the snow,
Then you'll understand
How sweet is the dream
What a joyful night.
When you go through the war
You will understand sometimes
How good is bread
And how good
A sip of raw water.
When you go this way
Not a day, not two, soldier
Still you will understand
How precious is the house
Like a father's corner is holy.
When - the science of all sciences -
In battle you will comprehend the battle, -
Still you will understand
How dear friend
How precious each one is -
And about courage, duty and honor
You will not repeat in vain.
They are in you
What are you
Whatever you can be.
The one with whom, if you want to be friends
And do not lose friendship
As they say,
Can live
And you can die.
It is our duty to carry the bright memory of the exploits performed by our compatriots during the Great Patriotic War.
War Poems Our Children Learn, perhaps the best way to cultivate a sense of patriotism for our Motherland.
Musa Jalil
SPRING IN EUROPE
You drowned in blood, fell asleep under the snow,
Come to life, countries, peoples, regions!
Enemies tortured, tortured, trampled you,
So get up to meet the spring of being!
No, there has never been such a winter
Not in the history of the world, not in any fairy tale!
You've never been so deep
The chest of the earth, bloody, half-dead.
Where the fascist wind swept deadly,
There wilted flowers and ran out of keys,
Songbirds fell silent, thickets crumbled,
The rays of the sun faded and faded.
In those parts where the enemy's boots walked,
Life fell silent, froze, waiting for deliverance.
At night, only fires blazed in the distance,
But not a drop of rain fell on the field.
The fascist came into the house - the dead man was carried out.
There was an expensive fascist - the blood flowed dear.
The executioners did not spare the old men and women,
And the cannibal oven devoured the children.
About such a frenzy of evil persecutors
In scary tales, legends do not say
words
And in the history of the world of such suffering
Man has not experienced for a hundred centuries.
No matter how dark the night is, it is still getting light.
No matter how cold the winter is, spring comes.
Hey Europe! Spring is coming for you
She shines brightly on our banners.
Under the heel of the fascist half-dead,
To life, orphan countries, get up! It's time!
You future freedom beams glowing
The sun of our land stretches in the morning.
This sunny, new spring is approaching
Everyone feels Czech, and Pole, and French.
You bring the long-awaited release
The mighty winner is the Soviet Union.
Like birds flying north again
Like the waves of the Danube breaking the ice
A word of encouragement flies to you from Moscow,
Sowing light along the road - Victory is coming!
Spring will come soon...
In the abyss of the fascist night,
Like shadows, the partisans stand up to fight...
And under the spring sun
this time is near! --
The Danube ice will carry away the winter of grief.
Let joy hot tears break through
In these spring days from millions of eyes!
Let in millions of weary hearts
ignite
Revenge and the thirst for freedom are still hot! ..
And living hope will wake up millions
On a great rise, unprecedented in centuries,
And the coming spring glowing banners
They will turn red in the hands of free peoples.
February 1942 Volkhov Front
Front-line poets belong to a special caste among all poets. People who do not know how to lie, embellish and adjust. Poems about the Great Patriotic War, which were created by front-line poets, are difficult to read without tears. This poetry is so strong that while reading you feel a lump come to your throat, the scenes described in these verses hit the imagination deeply and strongly.
V. Strelchenko, A. Tvardovsky, B. Slutsky, Yu. Levitansky, S. Gudzenko, Yu. Drunina, E. Vinokurov and many more names and surnames of famous poets who were published in books and magazines, and those that were not known to the general public, published in local newspapers in Russia. All of them, despite their "poetic caliber", were one, the poets who were united by war and poetry. 
***
Oboishchikov Kronid Alexandrovich
BALLAD OF LOVE
In the icy sky we flew
The sunset was northern in blood,
We have experienced everything in those years,
They didn't just experience love.
She was looking for us in the blizzards.
And we, stricken by war,
How the birds fell on the rocks
And our cry beat over the wave.
And our youth matured
Away from youthful joys.
There were no women there, so sorry
They could show us.
And many have never
Do not kiss hot lips.
And at the German flight base,
We knew there was a special club.
And there were rumors among us
That there is a question of love.
From all over Europe there were whores
To make life easier for pilots.
Once a member of the Military Council,
A gray-haired admiral with a scar,
For a political conversation
Gathered us from the planes.
He said that our cause is right.
We will win.
And that in the regiment the guys are brave
And we will reward them soon.
And Kolka Bokiy, looking impudently
Point blank to the boss in the eyes,
Suddenly he slashed: “The Fritz have women,
Why can't we?
We, too, are dying young.”
But suddenly he stopped, fell silent,
Only the wind of northern Russia
His dashing tuft shook.
And we all looked with fear,
Reproaching my friend for this agility,
And the admiral gave Kolka his hand
And he began to speak strangely:
“What an idea! I approve!
Let's set up a brothel.
That's just, brothers, I do not know
Where can we find girls with you?
"Do you have a sister? he asked Kolka.
- Where does she live? - In Chita.
- Is your mother alive? And how old is she?”
Our friend covered his face in shame.
And hang your head low
"I'm sorry..." he whispered softly.
Oh, how smart and honest he was -
A gray-haired admiral with a scar.
He knew youth, her aspirations,
Burning, daring, passions power,
But he knew both loyalty and patience,
And supported - did not let fall.
And after we learned women
Leaving the deaf polar places.
And fast weddings were played,
There were thousands of them, brides.
In a drunken conversation circled,
Until the third they drank roosters,
Forgetting that in the Barents Sea -
One hundred thousand best suitors. 
***
Kezhun Bronislav Adolfovich
cornflowers
Under fire, on the river bank,
Tired arrows lay down.
Golden rye sparkled nearby,
And cornflowers were blue in the rye.
And the fighters, no longer hearing the buzz
And without feeling stuffy,
Like an unseen miracle
We were happy to look at the flowers.
Blue sky, unbearable
Blazing like flames
Like the eyes of children, the eyes of loved ones,
Cornflowers looked at the soldiers.
In a moment, overpowering fatigue,
The chain of shooters went on the attack again,
It seemed to them that Russia is looking
Blue eyes of cornflowers.
In this article, we will remember these people, look through their poems about the Great Patriotic War with their eyes at the events of those times. Each poem, each line will leave a trace in your soul, because these lines are burned out by the war and trials that befell the people of the Great Patriotic War. 
TROYANKER Raisa Lvovna
(1909, Uman - 1945, Murmansk)
TO THE MOST NATIVE
I don't know what color
You, dear, have eyes.
I probably won't meet you
Don't tell you anything.
Indeed, I would like to know
Who are you: technician, shooter, signalman,
Maybe you're a fast-winged pilot
Maybe you are a marine radio operator?
Well, if this note -
Land or water
Brought to you, the closest,
Inseparable forever.
I don't know how it was
Bright hospital, lamps, night ...
The doctor said: "The strength is running out,
Only blood can help him…”
And they brought her - dear,
Almighty like love
Taken in the morning, zero,
I have given blood for you.
And she ran through her veins
And saved you, golden one,
The enemy bullet is powerless
Before the power of such love.
Became scarlet pale lips,
What would you like to call me...
Who am I? Donor, comrade Lyuba,
There are a lot of people like me.
Even if I don't know
What's your name dear
Anyway, I'm your own
Anyway, I'm always with you.
Leonid Khaustov
TWO HEARTS
A harsh lot fell to the lieutenant,
And, tormented, he cut off the connection with the past.
He crawled out of the war, in fact,
Rolling on homemade roller skates.
He didn't write a single line to his wife.
What to write? Everything is clear without that.
And at home waiting indefinitely
She lived, not believing in his death.
When she used to get
In the mail, an unnamed transfer,
That heart was pounding,
That this is from him, that he lives.
And people managed to find him,
And so she came to him.
... Underneath the steel rollers gleamed,
And gray hair cast steel.
Biting my lips, and laughing and crying,
She ran into the city military registration and enlistment office,
And from the bottom up - how could it be otherwise? —
His confused gaze was fixed.
And a woman is a holy mercy of fate, -
Still not believing in my happiness
Silently fell on her knees
And she walked towards him on her knees. 
***
Mikhail Dudin (1916 - 1993)
nightingales
We'll talk about the dead later.
Death in war is common and harsh.
And yet we catch air with our mouths
With the death of comrades. Not a word
We don't speak. Without looking up
We dig a hole in the damp earth.
The world is rough and simple. Hearts burned. in us
Only ashes remain, yes stubbornly
The weathered cheekbones are brought together.
Three hundred and fifty days of the war.
Even the dawn did not tremble on the leaves,
And for the sake of warning, machine guns were fired ...
Here is the place. Here he died
My comrade from the machine gun company.
It was useless to call doctors,
He wouldn't make it until dawn.
He didn't need anyone's help.
He was dying. And realizing this
He looked at us, and silently waited for the end,
And somehow smiled clumsily.
The tan first faded from the face,
Then it, darkening, petrified.
***
Alexander Artyomov
BANNER
The stone, heated by ruptures, is already cooling down,
The hurricane that has been raging in the morning is already calming down.
Last throw. From the last trenches with bayonets
Fighters knock out and drive from the top of the enemy.
Like dead snakes entangled the hill of the trench,
Concrete nests sloping strewn slope,
And, stretching their cold long necks to the sky,
Broken cannons look sullenly at the sunset.
And the commander stood up on the land conquered by us,
Pitted by shells and scorched by fire,
And he shouted to the guys: “Comrades, we need a banner! ..”
The machine gunner got up, staggering from the ground. On him
Pieces of a tunic soaked in sweat hung,
Spattered with blood. He calmly took out a handkerchief,
He pressed him to the wound, burnt by the lead of a machine gun,
And an unprecedentedly bright flower flared up on the hill.
We tied a crimson banner tightly to the bayonet,
It began to play, beat in a strong wind.
The machine gunner circled his friends with blue eyes
And he quietly said: “I may die today,
But I will be proud, already weakened, tired,
Until the last sigh of the fact that he did not grow shy in battle,
That my blood has become the banner of our courage,
That I managed to die for my homeland with dignity ... "
Over the dark earth and over the stone sentinel chain,
Over the frail bush, mowed down by a hail of lead,
It burned like a star between the rocks of Zaozernaya height
A sacred banner drenched in the blood of a fighter.
<1939>
Vladivostok 
***
Leonid Khaustov (1920 - 1980)
SUN OF VICTORY
Morning of the ninth of May
In that forty-fifth year.
The sun, burning fogs,
It got in our sight.
It went to far distances,
In every window.
In every soldier's medal
It flashed hot.
What did it illuminate? —
lacerated wounds of the earth,
Our brotherly graves
Grief for every family
Broken brick over ashes
Next to the empty barn...
I'm glad to remember this
You are not given, young.
Your generous dawns,
Proud love triumph -
All this is the sun of Victory,
All this is a reflection of him!
May 1972
The more we know about the Great Patriotic War and the people who lived then, the stronger will be the memory of generations and the desire to preserve the world, the desire to remain strong and help each other. Let this poetry be a symbol of the strength, will and inflexibility of the people who then defended the world in which we live today.
"I do not accept eternity,
Why was I buried?
I didn't want to go to the ground
From my native land."
Vsevolod Bagritsky
The development is a ready-made script with texts of poems and a presentation containing portraits and brief biographical information about the poets who did not return from the war: M. Kulchitsky, E. Bereznitsky, V. Zanadvorov, N. Mayorov, B. Kotov, V. Bagritsky, B. Bogatkov, G. Suvorov, D. Vakarov, I. Utkin and others.
Download:
Preview:
Literary composition "On the roads of memory and glory"
slide 1.
(introduction)
A. Ekimtsev POETS
Somewhere under the radiant obelisk,
From Moscow to distant lands,
The guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky sleeps,
Wrapped up in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cold birch,
What flickers in the lunar distance,
Sleeping Guardsman Nikolai Otrada
With a notebook in hand.
And under the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the dawn of July warms,
Sleeps without waking Pavel Kogan
That's exactly nineteen years.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
And so it remained for centuries
The latest grenade
The very last line.
Poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
They should get up at dawn tomorrow,
To belated first books
Write prefaces in blood!
Presenter 1
Sacred memory of the fallen ....
But how little we know about the people who fought against the Nazis and fell in the struggle for the freedom and independence of our Motherland.
Do we know, do we remember the poets whose talent was killed by a fascist bullet?..
Lead 2
Names... Names... Names... All young, talented, greedy for life, devoted to the Motherland and poetry. Unfortunately, they left early and therefore little-known, not included in school anthologies ... After all, no matter the surname, no matter the line, it is a young, war-torn life. Young at war and young about war. This theme has become the main one in the work of many writers and poets.
David Samoilov wrote:
Slide 2.
Presenter 1
How it was! How did it coincide?
War, trouble, dream and youth!
And it all sunk into me
And then I woke up...
Lead 2
Forties, fatal.
Lead, gunpowder…
War walks in Russia,
And we are so young!
Slide 3.
Presenter 1
Lead 2
The war claimed almost 27 million lives of Soviet people.
Presenter 1
1215 writers left to fight the enemy.
Lead 2
More than 400 of them gave their lives for the liberation of the motherland.
slide 4.
Presenter 1
A poet stepped from the student audience to the front Nikolai Otrada . “I will retake the story when I return, and I myself will go to make history ...,” he said, and the next day he volunteered for the war with the White Finns. In 1940, surrounded by enemies who shouted to him: “Moscow, surrender!” Nikolai exclaimed: “Moscow does not surrender! ..” and rushed to the attack.
Lead 2
The platoon broke through, and the young poet remained lying in the snow. This was the first poet killed on the eve of the Great Patriotic War. A young man who dreamed of "flying around the world without landing! ..". Did he dream of glory, of exploits, or, even more so, of posthumous glory? Of course not. It was an impulse of the soul, the desire to give everything that is possible in the name of the freedom and independence of the Motherland.
Slide 5.
Reader 1
World
He is such a,
What can not be described immediately
Because you won't understand!
It's raining...
We say never
There was no heavy rain this summer.
One has only to light up the distances -
We remember
Your youth.
In the morning
Birds will play noisily...
We say: they sing in a new way.
Everything:
my fields,
valleys, thickets,
Unprecedented rays of the sun -
This is the world
Green and murmuring
Smelling flowers and eloquent.
He lives
In the foliage of dense acacias,
In the bird's whistle
In the voice of the stream.
Only to us
You can't forget about it
So,
To distinguish nothing.
So that the earth blooms in all its glory,
For life to bloom
buzzed with lava,
Sweeping away the old on the way.
Well, as for fame -
Glory will not be slow to come to us.
1939
Presenter 1
Through the decades, poets who died during the Great Patriotic War make their way to us. Forever they will remain nineteen and twenty years old: Moussa Jalil, Pavel Kogan, Mikhail Kulchitsky, Nikolai Mayorov, Utkin, Vsevolod Bagritsky.They left behind a poetic story about their generation, about their time:
slide 6.
Reader 2
There is such precision in our days,
That the boys of other ages
They will probably cry at night
About the time of the Bolsheviks.
And they will complain dear,
That were not born in those years
When it rang and smoked,
Collapsed on the shore, water.
They will invent us again -
A sazhen is oblique, a firm step -
And they will find the right foundation,
But they can't breathe like that
How we breathed, how we were friends,
How we lived, how in a hurry
Bad songs we made
About amazing things.
We were all, any,
Not very smart sometimes.
We loved our girls
Jealous, tormented, hot.
We were all. But, suffering
We understood that today
We have met such a fate
Let them envy.
They will invent us wise,
We will be strict and direct
They embellish and powder
And yet we'll get through!
But to the people of the united Motherland,
They hardly understand
What a routine sometimes
Led us to live and die.
And let me seem narrow to them
And I will offend their omnipotence,
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air
I love the Russian land
I believe that nowhere in the world
Can't find another one like it
To smell like this at dawn,
So that the smoky wind on the sands ...
And where else can you find
Birches, as in my land!
I would die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut paradise.
But we will still reach the Ganges,
But we will still die in battles,
So that from Japan to England
My Motherland shone.
1940-1941
Lead 2
So he wrote about his generation Pavel Kogan. During his short life, he did not see in print a single poem signed with his name. The poet's poems were kept in the memory of friends in life, in poetry
The romantic poet had a presentiment and knew that we, today, would compare ourselves with them.
Lead 2
Pavel Kogan died in the suffering days of the forty-second near Novorossiysk, leading the search for scouts. In full growth, he went under the bullets, just as he walked through life. There are verses to the famous song "Brigantine": "Tired of talking and arguing, and loving tired eyes ..."
Slide 7.
(The song "Brigantine" sounds)
slide 8.
Presenter 1
And here is how another poet-fighter said about his generationMikhail Kulchitsky:
We are dreamers. About eyes - lakes.
Unique boyish nonsense.
We are the last dreamers with you
To longing, to the shore, to death.
Lead 2
Kulchitsky studied at Kharkov University and at the Moscow Literary Institute. He lived in a hostel, constantly worked part-time, and the only type of property was a thick ledger, where Mikhail Kulchitsky wrote poetry. In December 1942, after graduating from a military school, he leaves for the front, where he writes a poem - a confession about hard work in the war.
Presenter 1
From the first days of the Great Patriotic War, Kulchitsky was in the army. In December 1942, he graduated from the machine-gun and mortar school, with the rank of junior lieutenant, he left for the front. He died near Stalingrad in January 1943 “Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious!” - the poet addresses the same young people who knew little about the war:
slide 9.
Reader 3
Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the riders whistle past
propeller-spinning sabers.
I used to think "lieutenant"
sounds like this: "Pour us!"
And, knowing the topography,
he stomps on the gravel.
War is not fireworks at all,
but just hard work
when,
Black with sweat
Up
the infantry glides over the arable land.
March!
And clay in the stomping stomp
To the marrow of the bones of frozen legs
Wraps up on boots
The weight of bread in a monthly ration.
On fighters and buttons like
Scales of heavy orders.
Not for the order.
There would be a motherland
with daily Borodino.
slide 10.
Lead 2
Evgeny Nikolaevich Bereznitskywas born in 1909. He wrote children's and lyrical poems. He published in the Novosibirsk book publishing house a children's book in verse "The Adventures of a Brave Ruff" and a collection of lyrical poems "On the Ob". At the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, he went to the front as a volunteer. In the autumn of 1941, he died in battles in the Elninsk direction.
Reader 4
For the honor of the motherland
For every ear that fell
From yours, fatherland of the fields;
For every hair that has fallen
From the heads of our children;
For a groan from cruel pain,
Flying from brotherly lips,
We will pay an eye for an eye,
We will pay tooth for tooth.
Do not be a slave to the motherland,
And we can't live as slaves!
For the happiness of a free life
It's not a pity to lay down your heads!
Hence our fearlessness,
It takes its start.
Holy is our hatred,
Payback is a big turn!
No more beautiful, native country,
Happy to serve you
We go, despising death,
Don't die, but live!
Slide 11.
Presenter 1
Vladislav Zanadvorovdid not live to see the Victory - he died in 1942 in the battle on the Volga. And he was born on the banks of the Kama, in Perm. He studied, worked as a geologist, managed to go on expeditions on the Kola Peninsula, in the Far North, beyond the Arctic Circle, in Kazakhstan.
Lead 2
Before the start of World War II, he was already the author of two books - the story "Copper Mountain" and the collection of poems "Space". During the war years, he was drafted into the army and sent to the Stalingrad front, where he died on November 28, 1942. He was buried in a mass grave in the village of Chernyshevskaya.
Reader 5
Memory
When the blood freezes in the veins,
I basked in the memory of one.
Your invisible love
Has always been with me.
In the damp anguish of trench days,
In a scorching, fiery hell
I swore by my memory
That I will come back.
Even on broken legs
I'll crawl on all fours.
I'm in bloody hands
I carry my love.
How hotly the heart beats
Flying fast to fight!
I feel your shoulder
Like you are with me.
Let the other doubt
And I will say at the last hour,
That there is no such power in the world
To separate us!
slide 12.
Presenter 1
One of the most original poets of the pre-war generationNikolai Mayorov.He did not have to look for himself and his theme. His poetic world was seldom delineated from the start. Mayorov saw, as if from his own side, the generation to which he belonged. Before the war, the poet studied at the Faculty of History of Moscow State University and at the same time attended classes at the Literary Institute.
Lead 2
In the autumn of forty-one, he volunteered for the front and died like his fellow writers. Young lives full of plans and dreams were cut short. Only poetic lines remained as an appeal to those for whom they gave their lives:
Reader 6
We were tall, fair-haired.
You will read in books like a myth
About the people who left without loving,
Without finishing the last cigarette.
If it were not for the fight, not the eternal quest
Steep paths to the last height,
We would be preserved in bronze sculptures,
In newspaper columns, in sketches on canvas.
The world is like a window, open for air,
We passed it, passed it to the end,
And it's good that our hands smell
A gloomy song of true lead.
And no matter how the years crushed the memory,
We will not be forgotten because forever
What, making the weather for the whole planet,
We dressed the word "Man" in the flesh!
Presenter 1
Literary legacyMayorova is one hundred pages, three thousand typewritten lines. He very early realized himself as a poet of his generation - the herald of that pre-war generation, which came to internal maturity in the late 30s.
He died as he himself predicted: in battle.
Lead 2
The volunteer scout died without finishing his last cigarette, without finishing the last poem, without having finished his work, without waiting for the book of his poems, without graduating from the university, without completing his studies at the Literary Institute, without opening all the possibilities. Everything in his life remained unfinished...
slide 13.
Presenter 1
The poet died in the war Boris Kotov . In 1942, he volunteered for the front, contrary to the decision of the medical commission, which recognized him as unfit for military service. Wrote poetry on the battlefield.
Lead 2
Boris Kotov was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union in 1944 and awarded the Order of Lenin and a medal.
Reader 7
Half a blink
No, not to gray hair, not to glory
I would like to extend my age.
I would only go to that ditch over there
Half a blink, half a step to live.
Cling to the ground - and in the blue
July clear day
See the grin of the embrasure
And sharp flashes of fire.
I just want this grenade
Maliciously putting on a platoon,
Plant it, embed it, as it should,
Four times the damned bunker.
To become empty and quiet in it,
So that he dusts a donkey in the grass!
I would live these half a moment,
And I will live there for a hundred years.
slide 14.
Presenter 1
Near Leningrad forever remainedVsevolod Bagritsky. He began writing poetry at an early age. From the first days of the war, V. Bagritsky rushed to the front. His poems were included in all anthologies of the genre so beloved by Soviet literary criticism "poets who fell in the Great Patriotic War." V. Bagritsky died on February 26, 1942.
Reader
The most terrible thing in the world
It's to be calm.
I praise Kotovsky's mind,
Which one hour before the execution
Its body is faceted
He tortured me with Japanese gymnastics.
The most terrible thing in the world
It's to be calm.
Praise the brave boys
Who are in a foreign city
Write poems in the morning
Washing down with broken-toothed water,
Eating blue smoke.
The most terrible thing in the world
It's to be calm.
Praise the soldiers of the revolution
Dreaming over the stanza
sawing trees,
Falling on a machine gun!
Reader
I hate to live without undressing,
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
To forget the tired hunger.
Chilling, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
From home do not receive an answer,
Change junk for black bread.
Confuse plans, numbers and paths,
Rejoice that he lived less in the world
Twenty.
1941
slide 15.
Lead 2
Boris Bogatkov prefers to voluntarily go into the infantry, immediately to the front. But I didn’t have time to fight properly, I didn’t have time to really grapple with the enemy, and here is a severe shell shock and a hospital.
Presenter 1
Pen and pencil became his weapons, and his poetic gift called the people to work and struggle. Boris spent the night sitting in his modest little room, drawing lines of new poems and evil ditties that stigmatized the fascist beast in his notebook.
So, having lived in the world for a little over twenty years, the Siberian poet Boris Andreevich Bogatkov died near Smolensk.
slide 16.
Reader (
Let's hug at the echelon.
sincere and big
Your sunny eyes
Suddenly sadness fades.
Loved to the nails
Familiar hands clasping
I'll say goodbye:
"Honey, I'll be back.
I must return, but if.
If this happens,
What can I not see anymore
Harsh native country -
One request for you my friend
Your heart is simple
Give it to an honest guy
Back from the war."
1942
slide 17.
Lead 2
Georgy Kuzmich Suvorovwas born in 1919 in Khakassia. He graduated from the seven-year school and the teacher's college in Abakan, studied at the Krasnoyarsk Pedagogical Institute. In 1939 he was drafted into the Red Army. Since the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, at the front. He served in the famous Panfilov division. In the battle near Yelnya he was wounded.
Presenter 1
After the hospital, in the spring of 1942, he ended up on the Leningrad Front, and from the end of 1943 he commanded a platoon of armor-piercers. He began to write poetry while still at the Pedagogical School. He was published in Krasnoyarsk newspapers, and since the beginning of the war - in the magazines Zvezda and Leningrad. He died during the offensive of the troops of the Leningrad Front, while crossing the Narva River, on February 13, 1944, with the rank of lieutenant of the guard.
Reader Even in the morning black smoke swirls
Above your ruined dwelling.
And the charred bird falls
Overtaken by furious fire.
We still dream of white nights,
Like messengers of lost love
Living mountains of blue acacias
And in them enthusiastic nightingales.
Another war. But we firmly believe
What will be the day - we will drink the pain to the bottom.
The wide world will open the doors to us again,
Silence will rise with the new dawn.
Last enemy. Last good shot.
And the first glimpse of the morning, like glass.
My dear friend, but still, how quickly
How quickly our time has passed!
In memories we will not grieve,
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness.
We lived our good age as people -
And for people...
Lead 2
When the war began, Suvorov ended up on the Leningrad front. Georgy Suvorov's book of poems, The Word of a Soldier, was signed for publication a few months after his death. Georgy Suvorov died on February 13, 1944
slide 18.
Presenter 1
Inspiring, romantic in its ideality, the beauty of Russia is conveyed in its own way in the lyrics of the war years Joseph Utkin . “His poems, written during the war years, are perhaps the strongest in his poetic legacy,” notes E. Dolmatovsky in his memoirs.
Lead 2
Iosif Utkin died on November 13, 1944 in a plane crash while returning to Moscow from the front. For six months he did not live to see the Victory ... In the summer of that year, before his death, he published a collection of poems “On the Motherland. About friendship. About love".
Reader
buttonholes
Could you sister
Serve the commander?
Could you buttonholes
To sew on my greatcoat?
Maybe far away, apart,
casually looking at them,
I remember with excitement the hands
Sewed them on for me.
Your heart will feel so good!
And when the war is over
And when I get back
Victory will bring you
Maybe then, sister,
Survivors of the fire
These humble buttonholes
You will be reminded of me...
1941
slide 19.
Reader
YOU WRITE A LETTER TO ME
It's midnight outside. The light is burning out.
High stars are visible.
You are writing a letter to me my dear
To the blazing address of war.
How long have you been writing it dear
Finish and start again.
But I'm sure: to the front line
Such love will break through!
We've been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
You can't see the war behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like at home - and in the smoke of war!
Warmer at the front from affectionate letters.
Reading, behind every line
You see your favorite
And you hear the motherland
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And the time will come:
Sadness and separation will remain outside the door
And only joy will enter the house.
And one evening with you
Pressing against the shoulder,
We will sit down and letters, like a chronicle of battle,
As a chronicle of feelings, reread.
1943
slide 20.
Presenter 1
Dmitry Vakarov lived only twenty-five years. His life was short but bright.
Vakarov was born in 1920 in Transcarpathia in a peasant family. The future poet spent his childhood and youth in poverty. He early began to think about the reasons for the hard life of ordinary people. Enrolling in the fall of 1941 at the Faculty of Philology of the University of Budapest, Dmitry Vakarov established a connection with the anti-fascist underground.
Lead 2
And in 1944 he was arrested by the Nazis and thrown into the Nazi concentration camp Dachau. In prison, the poet was subjected to severe torture. But nothing broke his will. Courageously enduring torment, Vakarov created combative, optimistic poems. Full of love for the native people and faith in a bright future, they cannot be read without excitement. In every line, in every word, the ardent heart of a patriot beats, a courageous fighter for the freedom and happiness of the motherland.
Reader
UNINVITED GUEST
To Moscow, he is desperately torn,
He dreams of victory.
He forgot that Russia does not give up
In battles
Never
Nobody!
He goes to the bloody feast,
Shame awaits him ahead.
In Russia he will not meet glory
Such
Will not,
Do not wait!
In a crazy and wild impulse
The executioner grinds his teeth;
The sounds of anguish are heard -
And groans
And screams
And crying.
He forgot the fate of Bonaparte,
He does not know the Russian people,
And in a drunken, nightmarish excitement
Shelves he
To the doom
Leads.
He will meet the heroes from the Aurora,
Heroes without fear, without tears.
Waiting for reptiles in Russian open spaces
Only hate
Bayonet
And frost.
He will not meet victory in Moscow,
Not a key to the Kremlin doors.
Russia will proudly answer the challenge:
Bay vile,
Uninvited
Guests!
Millions rise up to fight
From the snowdrift they go to the snowdrift.
All the Teutons will be found in Russia
And death
And the grave
And a coffin.
Slide 21.
Presenter 1
And this is not all the poets who did not return from the battle. Their life was cut short at the very beginning of their career. Of course, the death of any person is always a loss, but the death of a poet is the death of an entire poetic universe, a special world created by him and leaving with him...
Lead 2
They will live forever in our hearts and memories. Glory to the warriors - poets who gave their lives for the sake of peace on earth.
slide 22.
Presenter 1
A short thunder - a deaf collapse,
The birth of light and ozone,
Distant lightning carnival
Above a clear black horizon
Lead 2
Born, flash, blind,
Disappear before dawn.
So the lightning goes out in the steppe,
This is how stars and poets perish.
slide 23.
Presenter 1
And yet, the poet cannot die!
And the people who give birth to poets will not die!
The mind will rise to warm
Lead 2
Disappear evil and hatred in the blood
And if you have to sacrifice yourself
To perish is spiritually, from love!
Literature:
- Immortality. Poems of Soviet poets who died on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War, 1941-1945. Moscow, "Progress", 1978.
- Boris Aleksandrovich Kotov: (To the 80th anniversary of his birth) // Tamb. dates. 1989: rec. bibliography decree. - Tambov, 1988. - S. 26-27.
- Kogan Pavel. Kulchitsky Mikhail. Mayorov Nikolay. Joy Nicholas. Through me.// V.A. Schweitzer .M., Soviet writer, 1964. - 216 p.
- Soviet poets who fell in the Great Patriotic War: Academic project, 2005. - 576 p.
August 19, 1936 at five o'clock in the morning, Garcia Lorca was shot near the Spanish city of Alfacar. For a long time, the circumstances of his death remained unclear. But more recently, in April 2015, the Spanish broadcasting network Cadena SER published a previously unknown report from the archives of the Granada General Police Department for 1965, which was made at the request of a French journalist Marcel Auclair. She wanted to clarify the details of the poet's death for her book, but the document was never sent to her - the Spanish government decided not to disclose the details of the "Lorca case".
The discovered report confirmed the fact of the execution of Lorca, and contained the details of what happened: the details of the arrest of the poet, the place of his execution and the names of those present at it. Among other things, it was established that the final decision to shoot Federico was made by the governor of Granada. Jose Valdes Guzman, with the beginning of the Civil War, who supported the Francoist rebels. Despite the fact that the poet was, as he said Salvador Dali,"the most apolitical man in the world", he did not hide his republican convictions, which was the reason for the appearance of many political enemies.García Lorca really often spoke in his poems in defense of the people and called himself "the brother of all people", but at the same time he tried not to take one side or another in the war. He even had friends among his political opponents, but, alas, they could not influence his fate. The poet died at the age of 38.
The famous Polish writer and teacher died during the Second World War in the Treblinka concentration camp, along with 200 pupils of the orphanage, of which he was the director.
Janusz Korczak. Photo: Public Domain
A few months after the Germans occupied Warsaw in 1939, Korczak's Orphanage was moved to the Warsaw Ghetto. The writer, at the beginning of his professional career, declared that he would not start his own family and would devote himself entirely to working with orphans, therefore, under the current conditions, he, a 62-year-old educator, cared for them even more: he went daily in search of food and medicine for his wards , reassured them and at the same time prepared them for the most terrible trials of fate. Together with the children, he staged an Indian play, the main idea of which was the eternal, continuous cycle of birth and death. So Korczak tried to rid the orphans of the fear of death and instill in them that a new life would surely begin after it.
A month later, an order was received to deport the Orphanage to Treblinka, one of the most brutal death camps, which is almost equal to Auschwitz in terms of the number of victims. On August 5, 1942, all the children, led by a teacher, were lined up in columns and sent to the station to be transported to the camp: none of the children cried, resisted, or tried to run away.
One of the German officers learned that Janusz Korczak was the leader of this "death march" (as eyewitnesses dubbed him), and asked if he was the author of the children's book "Little Jack's Bankruptcy". Having received an affirmative answer, the German invited the writer to stay. “To betray children and let them die alone would mean somehow giving in to villainy,” the teacher answered and refused to be separated from his pupils.
Presumably the next day, Janusz Korczak, along with the orphans, died in the gas chamber.
During World War II, a Czechoslovakian journalist and writer was executed in the Plötzensee prison in Berlin. While imprisoned and subjected to terrible torture, he wrote a book about what he had to endure.
Fucik was a staunch opponent of the fascist ideology, and most of his works of the 1930s and 1940s were devoted specifically to the topic of fighting the ideas of this political movement and called for repelling the German invaders.
Julius Fucik. Photo: commons.wikimedia.org
With the outbreak of World War II and the occupation of Czechoslovakia, the writer became an active participant in the resistance movement, the purpose of which was to confront the occupying authorities. Later, he became one of the organizers of the underground Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (CC CPC) and led its underground publications, distributing his appeals to the Czech people in them. There is an opinion that the writer worked for the intelligence of the USSR and allegedly went into radio contact with Moscow daily, transmitting important intelligence information.
In April 1942, Julius Fucik was arrested by the Gestapo at a secret meeting with his comrades and sent to the Pankrac prison in Prague. For almost a year and a half spent in it, he wrote his famous book "Reporting with a noose around his neck." Two guards helped him in this: they secretly handed over pencils and paper, and then, risking their lives, took out the written sheets and hid them with different people. After his release from the concentration camp, the journalist's wife Gustina Fuchikova, to whom he managed to inform about his manuscript, managed to collect the pages numbered by Julius's hand into a book and publish it in October 1945.
On September 8, 1943, the death sentence in the case of the "major communist criminal" Julius Fucik was carried out. Subsequently, this day became the International Day of Solidarity of Journalists, Correspondents and Reporters.Antoine de Saint-Exupery
On July 31, 1944, the famous French writer and professional pilot Antoine de Saint-Exupery went on a reconnaissance flight and did not return. And only in 2008 the details of his death became known.
After France declared war on Germany in 1939, Exupery was drafted into the army and declared fit for service on the ground. A pilot by vocation, he decided to seek appointment to the aviation reconnaissance group, despite the persuasion of his friends to abandon the risky intention. “I am obliged to participate in this war. Everything I love is at stake,” he insisted.
A year later, with the beginning of the occupation of France, the writer emigrated to the United States, but in 1943 he returned to his air group again and received permission for reconnaissance flights with aerial photography. On one of these flights from the island of Corsica, the pilot did not return to base and was declared missing. There was an opinion that the plane crashed in the Alps.
In 1998, more than 50 years later, a fisherman from Marseilles found an unusual metal bracelet in the seaweed among his caught fish. It bore the following inscription: "Antoine Saint-Exupery (Consuelo) - c/o Reynal & Hitchcock, 386, 4th Ave. NYC USA" (the name of the writer, his wife, and the address of the American publisher that published The Little Prince). Two years later, a professional diver noticed the remains of an aircraft at a 70-meter depth in the Mediterranean Sea, on which, as it was later established, the writer made his last flight.
And just eight years ago, an 88-year-old German veteran pilot said that it was he who shot down the plane flown by Antoine de Saint-Exupery: “At first I pursued him, then I said to myself: if you evade the battle, I will shoot you down. I shot, hit him, the plane crashed. Right into the water. I didn't see the pilot. Only later did I find out that it was Saint-Exupery.” But at the same time, researchers note that such a victory is not listed in the archives of the German Air Force, and the downed plane itself did not have any traces of shelling. Therefore, there are still reasons to adhere to a different version of the writer's death, for example, a plane crash due to a malfunction.