There is a cliff where I play. The essay “The epic nature of Tvardovsky’s poems Alexander Tvardovsky is a cliff where I’m playing
POET OF NATIONAL LIFE
(literary evening dedicated to the work of A.T. Tvardovsky)
Teacher of Russian language and literature
highest qualification category
secondary school No. 153
Kirovsky district of Kazan
Kuzmina Elvira Valentinovna
Literary evening, dedicated to the work of A.T. Tvardovsky, was held with students in grades 7-9 on the 100th anniversary of the birth of the wonderful Russian poet.
In the center of the office there is a table covered with a velvet tablecloth. On the table are the attributes of the life of a front-line correspondent - an old-style camera, a soldier's helmet, a flask, a notebook; portrait of A.T. Tvardovsky, flowers.
Next to the table there is a chair on which lies a soldier’s overcoat (during the staging of the chapter “Death and the Warrior” from the poem “Vasily Terkin”, the student playing the role of Vasily Terkin throws this overcoat over his shoulders).
The whole class is involved in the event: 4 presenters, 8 readers, 16 students who perform roles in skits.
The entire literary composition is accompanied by music in tune with general theme events, and a slide show with fragments from the poet’s life.
On the board are the words of K. Kuliev: “Tvardovsky is an artist with a wise heart and a clear conscience, devoted to poetry until his last breath, a man of great civic courage and honesty.”
Progress of the evening.
Teacher's opening speech.
There are artists whose creative destiny becomes part of the people's destiny. Without their works, it is not only impossible to imagine the stages and paths of development of our literature, but also to deeply understand the features and patterns of development of reality itself. Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky belongs to such artists.
Our literary composition is dedicated to this wonderful poet.
It should be recalled that 2010 marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of A.T. Tvardovsky. The entire literary community celebrates this date. Today we invite you to remember the facts of the life of this amazing person, to comprehend the tragic moments of the poet’s life, to listen to the poems of A.T. Tvardovsky, kind, sensitive, bright.
The READER reads the poem “There is a cliff where I play…”:
There is a cliff where I play
Covered himself with sand.
There is a lawn near the barn -
I ran around there barefoot.
There is a river - there I swam,
As it happened, without breathing.
There I picked green sycamore,
The lashes were woven from reeds.
There is a birch tree half-length,
That birch tree in the yard
Where I once carved
The letters SASHA on the bark...
But throughout the glorious fatherland
There is no such corner
There is no such land that equals
I didn't care.
A portrait of A.T. appears on the screen. Tvardovsky.
1st presenter.
He was a poet
...the truth of things.
Truth that hits right into the soul,
If only it were thicker
No matter how bitter it may be.
Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky was a national poet. Democracy and culture came together in it.
His gaze, direct and open, usually eye to eye, calls for reciprocal sincerity. His large figure exuded unfussy dignity. His speeches were characterized by thoughtful simplicity and cheerful slyness, designed for quick mutual understanding. The jokes were right on target, but they were rarely mean.
2nd presenter.
The peculiarity of the personality of the poet A.T. Tvardovsky, according to the statements of everyone who knew the poet, collaborated with him in newspapers, magazines, and met him, is not only that he was a highly educated person, a “voracious reader,” an outstanding literary figure, editor and critic, but full of dignity and modesty, honesty and purity, sincerity and simplicity, a citizen of his country.
A.T. was born. Tvardovsky in the Smolensk region, in 1910, on June 21, “on the farmstead of the Stolpovo wasteland,” this was the name in the papers of a piece of land acquired by his father Trifon Gordeevich Tvardovsky... This area was quite wild, away from the roads, and his father, a wonderful blacksmith, Soon he closed the forge, deciding to live off the land. But every now and then I had to turn to the hammer: rent someone else’s forge and anvil, working half-and-half (sharing with others).
A poem is sung by a reader "RURAL MORNING» :
The bell rings from the forge,
The sound is ringing down the street.
Given at the well
At the fences, at the gates.
Friendly, morning, healthy
The sound is ringing down the street.
The horseshoe struck loudly,
The ice crunched under the horseshoe;
The stream gurgled under the ice,
Everything around was ringing;
The icicle tinkled subtly,
Developing under the window;
The milk rings in the dishes,
Cattle hit the wall with their horns, -
The ringing comes from everywhere -
The anvil gives the tone.
3rd presenter.
In the life of the family there were occasional glimpses of relative prosperity, but in general life was meager and difficult... The father was a literate man and even well-read in a village way. The book was not uncommon in the house . “We often devoted entire winter evenings to reading a book out loud. My father knew many poems from memory. In addition, he loved and knew how to sing, and even excelled in the church choir from a young age.”
A slide appears on the screen with a portrait of A.T. Tvardovsky’s mother, Maria Mitrofanovna. A beautiful, gentle melody sounds, which either fades or intensifies.
4th presenter.
A.T.'s mother Tvardovsky, Maria Mitrofanovna, in his own words, was always very impressionable and sensitive, not even without sentimentality, to many things that were outside the practical, everyday interests of the peasant household, the troubles and worries of the housewife in a large large family. “She was moved to tears by the sound of a shepherd’s trumpet somewhere in the distance behind our farm bushes and swamps, or the echo of a song from distant fields, or, for example, the smell of the first young hay, the sight of some lonely tree.”
A musical fragment is played, against the background of which a participant in the evening reads a poem by A.T. Tvardovsky "SONG».
I don’t remember and I don’t know
This old song is me.
Well, listen, dear mother,
Mitrofanovna is mine.
Under the needle on the record
A song suddenly appears
How we went out to eat
Girls, women across the meadow.
So you shuddered, guest,
I see you recognize the song...
Ears of corn hang over the boundary,
Rye is quietly moving in the field.
Lonely in the sultry field
Day you bow, mother.
We need a handful of cornfields,
Go through the blade of grass.
Woman's song. It's a woman's business.
The sickle in your hand becomes heavy.
And the child's cry is timid
Barely audible in the distance.
You sat down, young one,
Under a hot shock.
You forgot yourself, humming
This song is above me.
The field is dull, sleepy, hot
The rye is standing, don’t stop.
...Why are you crying? Is it a pity for the songs?
Or that bitter life?
Or a grown son
What can't you hold to your chest?
There's a machine singing on the table,
And the old mother is silent.
SCENE. (Students play the roles of Tvardovsky A.T., mother, father, teacher).
Tvardovsky: I started writing poetry before I mastered basic literacy.
I remember well that my first poem, denouncing my peers, the destroyers bird's nests, I tried to write it down, not yet knowing all the letters of the alphabet and, of course, having no idea about the rules of versification. There was no mode, no row, nothing of the verse, but I clearly remember that there was a passionate, heart-pounding desire for all this - the mode, the row, and music - the desire to give birth to them, and immediately.
In different ways favorably and differently my parents were concerned about the fact that I began to write poetry .
Father: I really like that my son is a poet. But I know from books that writing does not promise great benefits; there are also unfamous writers, penniless, living in attics and starving. They are often unhappy. And you really want your children to be happy.
Mother: And I feel that something will come of Sasha, he will be famous.
Tvardovsky:
When I was about 13 years old, I once showed my poems to a teacher. Not joking at all, he said:
Teacher: Well, my friend, it’s no good writing like that now. Everything you say is too clear.
Tvardovsky: And how is it necessary? ?
Teacher: But it is necessary that at no point can one understand what and what is being said. These are modern literary requirements. Here, look at the magazines with samples. See how people write! That's how it should be. And you? Everything is clear, transparent as day!
Tvardovsky: For some time I persistently strived for incomprehensibility in my poems. I did not succeed for a long time, and then I experienced, perhaps, the first bitter doubt in my abilities. I remember that I did write something like that, but now I can’t remember a single line from it and I don’t even know what it was about.
1st presenter. Training A.T. Tvardovsky was interrupted, essentially, with the end of rural school. The years appointed for normal and consistent study are gone. As an 18-year-old boy, he arrived in Smolensk, where he could not get a job, since he did not yet have any specialty. I had to accept a pittance of literary earnings as a source of livelihood and knock on the doorsteps of editorial offices. Tvardovsky understood the unenviability of his position, but he could not return to the village, and his youth allowed him to see only good things ahead, in the near future.
2nd presenter. When Tvardovsky’s poems were published in the Moscow “thick” magazine “October”, he came to Moscow. But the aspiring poet was occasionally published, someone approved of his experiments, supported his “childish” hopes, but life did not work out in Moscow either. And A.T. Tvardovsky returns to Smolensk, where he enters the Pedagogical Institute. This period coincided with difficult trials for his family: his parents and brothers were dispossessed and exiled. The tragic fate of his father and other victims of collectivization is described in A.T. Tvardovsky’s poem “By the Right of Memory.” Everything that happened in the village then concerned him most closely in the everyday, social, moral and ethical sense.
A slide appears on the screen with a portrait of brother A.T. Tvardovsky. The poem “BROTHERS” sounds.
About seventeen years ago
We were small kids .
We loved our farm
Your own garden
Your own well
Your own spruce tree and cones.
Father, loving us by the grasp,
He called them not children, but sons.
He planted us on both sides of himself
And he talked to us about life.
Well, sons?
What sons?
How are you, sons?
And we sat with our chests out,
I'm on one side
Brother on the other hand
Like big married people.
But in his barn at night
The two of us fell asleep timidly.
A lonely grasshopper was screeching,
And the hot hay rustled...
We used to be baskets of mushrooms,
They wore them white from the rain.
We ate acorns from our oak trees -
When I was a child, acorns were delicious!..
About seventeen years ago
We loved and knew each other.
What are you doing, brother?
How are you brother?
Where are you, brother?
On which White Sea Canal?
Tvardovsky: (the words are spoken by a student who plays the role of a poet in all scenes)
These years of study and work in Smolensk are forever marked for me by high spiritual elation. No comparison could exaggerate the joy I experienced then for the first time of being introduced to the world of ideas and images that were revealed to me from the pages of books whose existence I had previously had no idea about. Taking time away from books and studies, I went to collective farms as a correspondent for regional newspapers. He delved into everything that was new system rural life. I wrote articles, kept all sorts of notes, each time noting something new to myself.”
3rd presenter. A serious stage in his poetic work was the poem “The Country of Ant,” dedicated to collectivization. With this work, which met with an approving reception from readers and critics, he begins the count of his writings, which can characterize him as a writer. The publication of this book caused significant changes in the poet’s personal life. In 1939 he graduated from MIFLI, published a book of new poems “Rural Chronicle”.
Slides appear on the screen depicting A.T. Tvardovsky as a war correspondent.
4th presenter.
In the fall of 1939, A.T. Tvardovsky was drafted into the army. He took part in the liberation campaign of our troops in Western Belarus. After being discharged, he was soon called up to the reserves and, already in the rank of officer, but in the same position as a special correspondent for a military newspaper, participated in the war with Finland. Months of front-line work in the harsh winter of 1940 to some extent preceded for him the military impressions of the Great Patriotic War. And Tvardovsky’s participation in the creation of the feuilleton character “Vasya Terkin” was, in essence, his main work during the Patriotic War.
Illustrations from A.T. Tvardovsky’s poem “Vasily Terkin” appear on the screen.
1st presenter.
During the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945, the poet worked in front-line newspapers, publishing poems and essays in them. The poem “Vasily Terkin” became very widely known. Main character books - not only Vasily Terkin, but also the people at war. And in the actions and actions of V. Terkin, the moral character of a warring people emerges: endurance, love of jokes, endurance, ingenuity, an open and generous soul, ready to help in any situation.
TVARDOVSKY: (The words are spoken by a student playing the role of a poet)
« A book about a fighter,” whatever its actual literary significance, was true happiness for me during the war years: it gave me a feeling of the obvious usefulness of my work, a feeling of complete freedom to handle poetry and words in a naturally formed, relaxed form of presentation. “Terkin” was for me my lyrics, my journalism, song and teaching, anecdote and saying, heart-to-heart conversation and remark on occasion.
2nd presenter.
And how the fighters waited for the continuation of “Vasily Terkin.” The book inspired, called for heroism, and helped to survive in unbearable situations. The soldiers rewrote the text of the poem, knew it by heart and understood that in each of them there was something from Vasily Terkin himself.
P there are two scenes from the poem by A.T. Tvardovsky "VASILY TERKIN".
1 staging - chapter “About the reward” (5 people participate: V. Terkin, 2 girl friends, 2 boy friends).
No guys, I'm not proud.
Without thinking into the distance,
So I’ll say: why do I need an order?
I agree to a medal.
For a medal. And there’s no hurry.
This would end the war
I wish I could come on vacation
To the native side.
Will I still be alive? - Hardly.
Fight here, don’t guess.
But I will say about the medal:
Give it to me then.
Provide, since I am worthy.
And you all must understand :
The simplest thing is
The man came from the war.
So I came from the stop
To your dear village council.
I came, and there was a party.
No party? Okay, no.
I'm going to another collective farm and to a third -
The whole area is visible.
Somewhere I'm in the village council
I'll go to the party.
(A party is depicted. Cheerful, mischievous music of those years sounds, and two girls-girlfriends dance fervently, involving in their dance either a student playing the role of Vasily Terkin, or two boy friends participating in this scene.)
And, showing up for the evening,
Although not a proud man,
I wouldn't smoke shag,
I wish I could get Kazbek.
And I would sit, guys,
There, my friends,
Where as a kid I hid it under a bench
Your feet are bare.
And I would smoke a cigarette,
I would treat everyone around me,
And for any questions
I would not answer suddenly.
(Two boy friends enter into dialogue)
Like, what? - Anything happened.
Is it still difficult? - Like when.
Have you gone on the attack many times?
Yes, it happened sometimes.
And the girls at the party
Let's forget all the guys
If only the girls would listen,
How the belts squeak on me.
And I would joke with everyone,
And there would be one between them...
And a medal for this time
Friends, this is what I need!
The girl is waiting, at least don’t torment me,
Your words, your glance...
But, let me, in this case
Is the order also okay?
Here you are sitting at the party,
And the girl is the color.
No, said Vasily Terkin
And sighed. And again: - No.
No, guys, what is the order there?
Without thinking into the distance,
I told you I'm not proud
I agree to a medal...
Stage 2 - chapter (abbreviated) “Death and the Warrior” (5 people participate: Vasily Terkin, Death, two orderlies, author).
For the distant hills -
The heat of battle went away,
In the snow Vasily Terkin
Unpicked lay.
The snow under him, covered with blood,
I picked it up in a pile of ice.
Death bowed to the head:
Well, soldier, come with me.
I'm your friend now
I'll take you nearby,
White blizzard, white blizzard
I'll cover up the trail with a blizzard.
Terkin trembled, freezing,
There is a snowy bed.
I didn't call you, Kosaya,
I'm a soldier still alive.
Death, laughing, bent down lower:
Full, full, well done,
I know, I see:
You are alive, but not a tenant.
Passing by the shadow of death
I touched your cheeks
And you don’t even notice
That there is dry snow on them.
Don't be afraid of my darkness,
The night, believe me, is no worse than the day...
But why do you need
Do you need it from me personally?
Death seemed to hesitate
She deviated from him.
I need... such a little,
Well, almost nothing.
We need one sign of consent,
Why are you tired of saving your life?
Why are you praying for the hour of death...
So, will you sign yourself?
Death thought.
Well then, -
Subscribe and rest.
No, fire me. More valuable to yourself.
Don't bargain, dear.
You're still on the decline.-
Death moved to the shoulder.-
Still my lips tightened
My teeth are getting cold...
Look, it's almost nightfall.
The dawn is burning in the cold.
I mean, in short
And you shouldn't freeze in vain...
I'll be patient.
What are you, stupid!
After all, you’re lying there, everything’s cramped.
I would immediately put a sheepskin coat on you,
So that it’s already warm forever.
I see, you believe. Here come the tears
I'm dearer to you now.
You're lying, I'm crying from the cold,
Not out of your pity.
What from happiness, what from pain -
Doesn't matter. And the cold is fierce.
There was drifting snow in the field.
No, they won't find you...
And why do you need it, think about it.
If anyone picks it up
You'll wish you hadn't died
Here, on the spot, without hassle...
You're kidding, Death, you're weaving a snare -
He turned his shoulder away with difficulty.
I just want to live,
I haven't even lived yet...
And if you get up, it’s of little use, -
Death continued, laughing.
And then you get up - all over again:
Cold, fear, fatigue, dirt...
And melancholy, soldier, in addition:
How is it at home, what's going on with your family?
Now I’ll complete the task -
I’ll finish the German and go home.
So. Let's say. But for you
And what to come home to?
The earth is stripped bare
And looted, mind you...
And with Death to man
It became too much to argue.
He was already bleeding
Frozen. Night was falling...
On one condition of mine,
Death, listen... I'm not averse...
And we are tormented by cruel melancholy,
Lonely, and weak, and small,
He is with a prayer, or with a reproach
He began to persuade:
I'm not the worst and I'm not the best
That I will die in the war.
But at the end of it, listen,
Will you give me a day off?
Will you give me that last day,
On the holiday of world glory,
Hear the victorious fireworks,
What will be heard over Moscow?
Will you give me a little that day
Walk among the living?
Will you give it to me through one window?
Knock on the edge of relatives?
And when they come out onto the porch, -
Death, and Death, is still there for me
Will you let me say one word?
Just a word?
No. I'm not giving it...
Terkin trembled, freezing
There is a snowy bed.
So go away, Oblique,
I'm a soldier still alive.
I will cry, howl in pain,
Die in the field without a trace,
But of your own free will
I will never give up...
The snow rustles, two people approach,
The crowbar clanged against the shovel.
There is still a warrior left,
We won't remove everyone by night...
People look: that’s the thing!
They see: that’s right, the soldier is alive!
What do you think!
Let's take him to the ambulance...
And I thought for the first time
Death, watching from the side:
“Why are they alive?
They are friendly among themselves.
That's why with a loner
You have to be able to cope,
Reluctantly you give a reprieve.”
And, sighing, Death fell behind.
The song “RUSSIAN GUY” is played (performed by students class).
3rd presenter.
At the height of the Great Patriotic War, he wrote the poem “Two Lines” about a boy fighter who was killed in Finland in the winter of 1940:
The reader performs the poem “TWO LINES”
From a shabby notebook
Two lines about a boy fighter,
What happened in the forties
Killed on ice in Finland.
It lay somehow awkwardly
Childishly small body.
The frost pressed the overcoat to the ice,
The hat flew far away.
It seemed that the boy was not lying down,
And he was still running,
Yes, he held the ice behind the floor...
Among the great cruel war,
Why - I can’t imagine -
I feel sorry for that distant fate
Like dead, alone,
It's like I'm lying there
Frozen, small, killed
In that unknown war,
Forgotten, small I lie.
And this is not just a painful, cruel memory of something that is actually painful to remember. This is a noble, jealous concern so that in the face of ever new, enormous events, the one who honestly laid down his life in the “unfamous war” will not be forgotten. One of the poems from 1940 says about the hero:
Before he could reach, he was struck down,
But even that step was expensive.
A poem soundsA.T. Tvardovsky “I KNOW IT’S NOT MY FAULT...” The reading is accompanied by a sad melody.
I know it's not my fault
That others
Didn't come back from the war
The fact that they are
Who is older, who is younger -
Stayed there
And it’s not about the same thing,
That I could, but failed to save them, -
It's not about
But still, still, still...
A poem by A.T. Tvardovsky is staged "MOTHER OF THE HERO"(2 students participate: mother, postman)
MOTHER:
From a remote village
An old woman's mother writes to the regiment.
Olena Lapteva writes:
He asks to write down the truth.
Describe, reply soon, -
Either simple or customized:
What took so long, son Gregory
Doesn't he write to her? What's wrong with him?
How is he, dear, where is he, blood? -
You can't fall asleep until it's light at night,
Don't forget. - Is he alive and well?
Or anything at all?..
The land is not close, the world is not a home.-
Mother doesn't hear anything.
Or is the post office to blame?
Is it true or not - just to know...
Day after day they go, they pass,
Everyone is guessing about the answer.
It’s like my heart feels lighter,
Then it comes - there is no urine.
Will the cat wash itself?
Will the knife fall to the floor?
Will the snow crunch under the window?
And - not believing - the heart waits.
The hour has come. It was freezing.
I heard from the hallway -
The letter carrier creaked close
Your leather bag.
And in unspeakable anguish
She clasped her hands on her chest.
Pass by, oh dear,
Don't go to the threshold.
POSTMAN:
Here's the letter. Letter about my son.
The pain took my breath away.
I asked for the whole truth,
Is it easy to recognize her?
How to read a letter like this?
Only joy from the first words:
“Your son Laptev, brave warrior,
Alive, and cheerful, and healthy.
We are pleased to inform you today,
What a rare feat he is
The highest award
Awarded by decree.
He stands, Hero, on guard,
And on our behalf,
From the regiment, thank you,
To you for your brave son.
We send him greetings, son,
He’ll write it down himself...”
Under the last line even
Signed down: Commissioner...
What has passed - a minute, an hour,
Or has the year gone up in smoke?
There has never been so much happiness
Immediately, suddenly, in one house ,
And it came to the old memory
All that the mother can remember...
Good for the commissioner too
Send such news.
4th presenter.
The life of the people in its many manifestations - such is the beautiful image of Tvardovsky’s muse.
Perhaps, after Nekrasov, whom Tvardovsky, together with Pushkin, considers his mentors and teachers, there has not been such a variety of human characters in Russian poetry. What many types of Russian women populate the poet’s lyrics alone! And, perhaps, the most heartfelt of them is the image of the mother. Now this is a woman listening to a record with a song, as if resurrecting her long-ago youth, now the mother of a fallen hero, now another, just thinking about what her son will grow up to be. This image reaches the peak of drama in the cycle “In Memory of the Mother,” which captures all the complex conflicts of her fate and her filial grief, which has not weakened over the years.
The reader reads a poem by A.T. Tvardovsky « IN MEMORY OF MOTHER" to the sounds of a gentle melody.
We say goodbye to our mothers
Long before the deadline -
Even in our early youth,
Still at my native threshold,
When do we need handkerchiefs, socks
Kind hands will lay them down,
And we, fearing delay,
We are eager for the appointed separation.
The separation is even more unconditional
For them it comes later,
When we talk about filial will
We hasten to notify them by mail
And sending them cards
Some unknown girls
From a generous soul we allow
Love their daughters-in-law in absentia.
And there - behind the daughters-in-law - are the grandchildren...
And suddenly a telegram calls
For the very last parting
That old grandmother's mother .
Slides with portraits of the poet in different years of his life appear on the screen.
1st presenter.
In his work, Tvardovsky truthfully and passionately captured the most important key stages in the life of the people. The nationality and accessibility of his poetry are achieved through a rich variety of means of artistic expression. The poet translated poems from Belarusian, Ukrainian and other languages. His works have been translated into many foreign languages.
It should be said that the gaze of the lyrical hero in Tvardovsky’s poetry is directed not so much at nature as from nature - therefore, Tvardovsky does not have many landscape poems. In the poems “Confession” and “I wish I could live as a solitary nightingale,” nature appears primarily as a sad and affectionate reminder of something dear, left in the distance.
A poem sounds “I WOULD LIVE FOR EVERY TIME AS A LONE NIGHTINGALE.”The reading of the poem is accompanied by a display of landscapes of the Smolensk region.
I wish I could live forever as a lonely nightingale
In this land of grassy roads,
Click loudly line by line,
Prepare cycles of poems for future use.
About the variety of herbs of untouched meadows.
Shepherd's dawns, mushroom grounds.
About kind-hearted bearded foresters.
About springs and evening sunsets
Girlish braids and night dews...
I wish I could live and sing in this reserve,
Away from crowded roads,
Content with the small, short-range echo,
This is happiness. Yes, sorry, not for me.
The heart is completely involved in another,
As if someone has been assigned to him since birth
Take on a difficult task with all your heart,
Fight, rage and get into trouble.
And keep up, straining to the point of passion,
With pain, with anxiety about the present day.
And find restless happiness
Not in yesterday, but precisely in it...
Yes! But I will say: without this path,
Where I leave today's trace,
And without dew on the forest cobweb -
In memory of tender childhood years -
And without another - even an insignificant - blade of grass
Live for me and sing for me? Again - no...
Not because it's a special quirk
I pay tribute in this quiet land.
It’s just that everything that is dear to me is the same to people,
I sing everything that is dear to me.
2nd presenter.
Tvardovsky did a lot of public work. He was editor-in-chief of the New World magazine, secretary of the board of the USSR Writers' Union, and vice-president of the European Writers' Community.
Tvardovsky’s poetry is an example of the original creativity of a folk artist, for whom serving the people was the meaning of his whole life, the only true happiness.
To reread Tvardovsky’s poems means to relive an entire era folk life. It is not for nothing that one can say about almost every page of the poet’s books in his words: it “will remind you of something again, which you must never forget.”
In the section for the question, could you write the text of the poem “There is a cliff where I play...” (Tvardovsky) asked by the author Echo voice the best answer is that birch tree in the yard, where I once carved the letters SASHA on the bark... But in all the glorious Fatherland there is no such corner, no such land that is not dear to me.
Answer from 22 answers[guru]
Hello! Here is a selection of topics with answers to your question: could you write the text of the poem “there is a cliff where I play…” (Tvardovsky)
Answer from Quit[active]
There is a cliff where I, while playing, sprinkled myself with sand. There is a lawn near the barn - I ran around there barefoot. There is a river - there I swam, As it happened, without breathing, There I picked green sycamore, Weaved whips from reeds. There is a birch tree half-length,
Answer from Alexandra Sulzhuk[newbie]
There is a cliff where I, while playing, sprinkled myself with sand. There is a lawn near the barn - I ran around there barefoot. There is a river - there I swam, As it happened, without breathing, There I picked green sycamore, Weaved whips from reeds. There is a birch tree half-length,
Answer from Neurosis[newbie]
There is a cliff where I, while playing, sprinkled myself with sand. There is a lawn near the barn - I ran around there barefoot. There is a river - there I swam, As it happened, without breathing, There I picked green sycamore, Weaved whips from reeds. There is a birch tree half-length,
Big Soviet encyclopedia:
Tvardovsky Alexander Trifonovich, Russian Soviet poet and public figure. Member of the CPSU since 1940. Son of a rural blacksmith. Studied at the Smolensk Pedagogical Institute; in 1939 he graduated from the Moscow Institute of History, Philosophy and Literature (MIFLI). He began writing poetry from early childhood; from 1924 - village correspondent, publishing correspondence, poems, and essays in local newspapers. The fate of the peasant during the years of collectivization is the theme of T.’s first poems “The Path to Socialism” (1931) and “Introduction” (1933), “Collected Poems. 1930-1935" (1935), the story "The Diary of a Collective Farm Chairman" (1932) - embodied with the greatest artistic force in the poem "The Country of Ant" (1936; USSR State Prize, 1941). Its hero Nikita Morgunok not only observes the picture of the “great turning point” during his wanderings, but also embodies the drama of parting with former hopes and illusions. The style of the poem uniquely refracts the symbolism and hyperbolism of the tale; her language is rich in images coming from the peasant’s perception of the world. In the lyrics of the 30s. (collections “Rural Chronicle”, 1939; “Zagorye”, 1941, etc.) T. sought to capture the changes in the characters of the people of the collective farm village, to express the feelings that owned them. Participation in the Soviet-Finnish War of 1939-40 as a correspondent for the military press prepared T.’s appeal to the theme of the Soviet warrior: the cycle of poems “In the Snows of Finland” (1939-40), prose notes “From the Karelian Isthmus” (published 1969). During the Great Patriotic War of 1941-45, T. worked in front-line newspapers, publishing poems (“Front-line Chronicle”) and essays. In the poem “Vasily Terkin (Book about a soldier)” (1941-45; USSR State Prize, 1946), the folklore figure of a lively, experienced soldier is transformed into an epically capacious image that embodies the depth, significance, diversity of thoughts and feelings of the so-called ordinary, ordinary military people time. The richness of the hero’s nature corresponds to the flexibility of the poet’s chosen genre; paintings filled with enormous tragedy are interspersed with heartfelt lyrical digressions or sly, heartfelt jokes. “This is truly a rare book,” wrote I.A. Bunin. “What freedom, what wonderful prowess, what accuracy, precision in everything and what an extraordinary folk soldier’s language - not a hitch, not a single false, ready-made, that is, literary-vulgar word!” (“Literary Smolensk”, 1956, book 15, pp. 325-26). Vividly expressing the moral ideals of the people, the book gained nationwide fame and provoked numerous imitations and poetic “sequels.”
In the post-war years, T. comprehends the historical destinies of the people, “the world is big and difficult,” more deeply and comprehensively. The poem “House on the Road” (1946; USSR State Prize, 1947) depicts with great tragic force the fate of a soldier and his family, driven away to Germany. The image of Anna, the pictures of her bitter motherhood in a foreign land achieve great power of generalization, symbolizing the invincibility of life in its struggle with violence and death. Many of T.’s post-war poems are also dedicated to the awareness of the full extent of the sacrifices and exploits of the people: “I was killed near Rzhev”, “On the day when the war ended”, etc. T.’s poem “Beyond the Distance” was wide in scope of lyrical and journalistic works. far" (1953-60; Lenin Prize, 1961), where the travel diary develops into a passionate confession of the son of the century. T.'s book reflected the public mood of the 50s in a multifaceted and multicolored way. In an effort to clearly show the modern appearance of the people, T. skillfully alternates “general” and “close-up” plans; So, next to the chapters about big events and changes in the life of the country (“On the Angara”, “So it was”) there are the chapters “Childhood Friend” and “Moscow on the Road” - stories about the destinies of individual people, each of whom is a part of the people , the great stream of history. But the main “party” in the book is led by the author himself, who confides in the reader the thoughts and feelings that concern him. In the satirical poem “Terkin in the Other World” (1963), which was met with contradictory, including negative, responses from the press, according to the author himself, “... in satirical colors those features of our reality - inertia, bureaucracy, formalism - that interfere our progress..." The collections “Poems from a Notebook” (1961) and “From the Lyrics of These Years. 1959-1967" (1967; USSR State Prize, 1971), cycle "From new poems" ("New World", 1969, No. 1). Intense thoughts about life, time, and people are also characteristic of T.’s prose (the book “Motherland and Foreign Land,” 1947; the story “The Stove Makers,” 1958, etc.); in it the acuteness of perception of reality characteristic of T. in the mosaic and often contradictory nature of its manifestations is especially clearly evident. T. proved himself to be a thoughtful critic, true to the traditions of classical literature, in the book “Articles and Notes on Literature” (1961), “The Poetry of Mikhail Isakovsky” (1969), and in articles about the work of S. Y. Marshak, I.A. Bunin, in a speech about Pushkin, in speeches at the 21st and 22nd Party Congresses, at the 3rd Congress of Soviet Writers.
The nationality and accessibility of T.’s poetry, which truthfully and passionately captured many key events folk history, are achieved through rich and varied artistic means. A simple folk style is organically fused in T.’s poetry with a high linguistic culture coming from the traditions of A.S. Pushkin and N.A. Nekrasov, the best achievements of Russian prose of the 19th-20th centuries. Realistic clarity of image, intonation flexibility, richness and bold variation in the strophic structure of poetry, skillfully and with a subtle sense of proportion used sound writing - all this is combined in T.’s poems economically and harmoniously, making his poetry one of the most outstanding phenomena of Soviet literature. T.'s works have been translated into many languages of the peoples of the USSR and foreign languages. T.’s intense social and literary activity, which was a direct continuation of his artistic creativity, left a deep imprint. Chief Editor magazine "New World" (1950-54 and 1958-70), secretary of the board of the USSR Writers' Union (1950-54 and 1959-71), vice-president of the European Writers' Community (1963-68). Deputy of the Supreme Soviet of the RSFSR of the 2nd, 3rd, 5th, 6th convocations. At the 19th Congress of the CPSU (1952) he was elected a member of the Central Audit Commission of the CPSU, at the 22nd Congress (1961) - a candidate member of the CPSU Central Committee. Awarded 3 orders of Lenin, 4 other orders, as well as medals.
In his latest poems, Tvardovsky no longer speaks on behalf of this or that character, but from the position of a contemporary, wise by experience. This creates a generalized image of a citizen-poet, responsible “for everything in the world.” “The aesthetics of Alexander Tvardovsky comes from the consciousness of the people's ideal. His muse is the voice of the people's conscience. And behind all this there is a firm conviction that the people are not a “mass”, but people, each of whom is an individual worthy of happiness.
Tvardovsky is a continuation of the great tradition of Russian literature. And the nationality of ideals, and the light of humanism, and the readiness to accept everything good as one’s own, and the feeling of open spaces, and the vastness of the distances of spiritual development,” writes V. Ognev. Summarizing what has been said, we should draw the attention of high school students to the fact that Tvardovsky’s poetry is closely connected with Russian classical literature - with Pushkin, Nekrasov, L. Tolstoy. Tvardovsky cherishes the fate of the people. It relies on popular consciousness. He poetizes the wonderful properties of the people's character. Tvardovsky understands that during his time in power the people have become different, much more conscious and enlightened than in old Russia. Recreating the people's system of thought, the character of the common man, the feelings of the peasant, speaking on behalf of the people, relying on the people's point of view, Tvardovsky elevates them. A large place in the poem “Beyond the Distance is Distance” is occupied by appeals to a friend-reader:
* ...I found support in you,
* My friend and supreme judge.
*I am so indebted to that help
* Great - whatever you interpret...
“When you read Tvardovsky,” writes S. Ya. Marshak, “it seems as if the people themselves are talking about themselves, speaking richly, colorfully, generously, sometimes mixing tears with laughter...”1
Tvardovsky is invariably faithful to the theme of high patriotism:
* But throughout the glorious Fatherland
* There is no such corner
* There is no such land that equals
* I didn’t care...
* “There is a cliff where I, while playing...”
The same theme is filled with new content in poems from 1941 to 1945:
* I accept my share like a soldier.
* After all, if we had to choose death, friends,
* That's better than dying for your native land,
*And you can’t choose...
* “Let it be until the last hour of reckoning...”
Poems of the post-war years are imbued with faith in the bright future of the people and love for the Motherland.
* Thank you, my native Earth, my father’s home,
* For everything I know from life,
* What I carry in my heart...
* And a daring impulse to your liking,
* And don’t take up the strength,
* And the right to feat is sacred
* In your name, for glory
* And happiness, Motherland...
* "Thank you, my dear…"
The poet is characterized by a “firm consciousness” of personal involvement in the people’s destiny, the consciousness of a duty honestly performed. The extraordinary simplicity and naturalness of Tvardovsky’s style is nothing more than high poetic skill, which allows the poet not only to penetrate the secret of the people’s perception of the surrounding reality, but also to express it as the people would express it. The poet himself emphasized this feature of his work:
* I am free to speak freely,
* Like the soldier with whom he was in battle,
* With whom I swallowed dust in the suffering of the march
* And whose poet am I...
It should be borne in mind that the apparent simplicity of Tvardovsky’s works is deceptive. He, as a poet of enormous magnitude, does not truly reveal himself deeply immediately, but only after repeated readings and reflection. It is important to pay attention to the many words, familiar and simple, which in Tvardovsky’s poems acquire extraordinary flexibility and ambiguity. For example, the word “earth” means: planet, country, state, Motherland, reality - horizon, piece of land, territory with land, object of labor, soil, plowing...
* And if it were destined
* On the barricades to fall,
* In what land - I don’t care,
* For our power only...
* Earth!
* From snow moisture
*It's still fresh.
* She wanders by herself
* And breathes like deja...
* Earth!
* To the west, to the east,
*North and south
* I would fall and hug Morgunok,
*Yes, there are not enough hands
Tvardovsky’s words “distance” and “home” are just as polysemantic; “road”, “fire”, etc. Focusing on simple colloquial speech, the poet introduces friendly addresses (“brother”, “buddy”, “us”). It is characterized by short, dynamic turns of speech, characteristic of oral speech. spoken language(“guns in your hands - and fight”, “but we are our people”, “somewhere there will be an edge”), short aphoristic expressions that read like proverbs.
- New!
Tvardovsky’s work captures the main milestones in the development of the Soviet country: collectivization, the Great Patriotic War, post-war revival. This is a poet - Soviet in essence, but at the same time, universal humanities also find a place in his poetry...
The works of A. T. Tvardovsky about the war are not only a memory of the past, not only a history that must not be forgotten. This is the poet’s living participation in our lives, a reminder of a person’s duty to society. The most striking work of A. T. Tvardovsky...
He lacked heresy to become a genius. F. Abramov Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky was born in the Smolensk region in nineteen hundred and ten. On long winter evenings the family loved to read aloud Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrasov,...
The turning years for the poet A. Tvardovsky were the years of the Great Patriotic War, which he went through as a front-line correspondent. During the war years, his poetic voice acquires that strength, that authenticity of experience, without which real creativity is impossible....
On June 21, 100 years ago, the poet A.T. was born (1910-1971). Tvardovsky
. Author of the poems “Vasily Terkin”, “Terkin in the Other World”, “Beyond the Distance - the Distance”, “The Country of Ant”, “By Right of Memory”, “House by the Road”. Alexander Tvardovsky has wonderful lyrical works, such as “I was killed near Rzhev”, “I know, it’s not my fault”, etc. Here are some of them.
"......Let the reader be likely
He will say with a book in his hand:
- Here are the poems, and everything is clear,
Everything is in Russian..."
Rural chronicle
***
There's a cliff where I'm playing
Covered himself with sand.
There is a lawn near the barn -
I ran around there barefoot.
There is a river - there I swam,
As it used to be, without breathing,
There I picked green sycamore,
The lashes were woven from reeds.
There is a birch tree half-length,
That birch tree in the yard
Where I once carved
The letters SASHA on the bark...
But throughout the glorious Fatherland
There is no such corner
There is no such land that equals
I didn't care.
***
Young, cheerful, important
The driver is sitting behind the wheel.
And whoever he meets, everyone
He will turn around and look.
A guy is riding, all dressed up
The dust of many villages.
The path is long, the path is good.
Lilacs are blooming in the gardens.
In a Russian embroidered shirt
He passes through a village.
He has a lilac in his pocket,
And also on the cap,
And also behind glass.
And the girl at the well
Modest nods.
The crane creaks and bends,
Water pours onto the sand.
Guy smoothly, carefully
He turned around at the fence.
- Allow me, if possible,
Get your horse watered.
She blushes and laughs,
Leaning over the bucket:
- Why? There will be water
We won't take any money from you. -
Seen you somewhere, I think?...
And the water flows again,
Scattering silver.
Everything is a picture
Well done
From shirt to boots.
He, already getting into the cockpit,
Suddenly he lifts his visor.
On the outskirts of the gate
The gray-haired grandfather opens.
And the girl at the well
Remains
Looks after:
Will it turn around or not?..
***
Stars, what should I do?
To love her like that
What did she say?
Three days have already passed
As she said:
- Love me like that
So that it becomes difficult for you.
Whatever it is for you
Everything in the world is simple,
So that you sometimes want
Jump into the water from the bridge.
So that there is no smoke, no fire,
You weren't afraid.
Love me like that
So that I love you.
Frontline chronicle
***
In a field full of streams,
And on the other side
To the same family, unforgotten
The earth smells like spring.
Hollow water and unexpectedly -
The simplest, field
That nameless grass,
As we have near Moscow.
And, trusting the acceptance,
You might think not
Not these Germans in the world,
No distances, no years.
One might say: is it really
It's true that somewhere in the distance
The wives have grown old without us,
Have the children grown up without us?..
From the lyrics of recent years
***
I know it's not my fault
The fact that others did not come from the war,
The fact that they - some older, some younger -
We stayed there, and it’s not about the same thing,
That I could, but failed to save them, -
That's not what this is about, but still, still, still...
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