At dawn on June 22, 1941, the most destructive war of the 20th century began. More than 27 million Soviet people died in the Great Patriotic War. Of the men born in 1923, only 3% are still alive. Almost an entire generation of men was destroyed by the war.
There are many tragic pages in the poetry of the Great Patriotic War period.
Through the decades, poets who died during those war years make their way to us. They will forever remain nineteen and twenty years old. There were many of them who did not return, they were different in the strength and nature of their poetic talent, in character, in affection, in age, but they were forever united by a common destiny.
Their lines, pierced by bullets, remained forever alive, remained a memory of the war, and the fact that these lines will never be corrected or added to, puts a special stamp on them - the stamp of eternity...
Let us remember at least a few poets who died on the battlefield.
We must not forget the feat of Mussa Jalil, who was tortured in fascist dungeons. He was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. Vsevolod Bagritsky remained near Leningrad forever, and Boris Bogatkov remained near Smolensk.
Musa Jalil
In the thick of a cruel and merciless war, Musa found himself. And death, which the poet wrote about more than once, stood behind him; he felt its icy breath on the back of his head. Beatings, torture, bullying - all this was a harsh everyday reality. And the blood caked on his temples was his own hot blood.
From here arises a feeling of the authenticity of Jalil’s poetry - poetry in which pain, torment, the severity of captivity are directed into the bright, triumphant song of life. The worst thing happened to him - captivity.
In July 1942, on the Volkhov front, Musa Jalil, seriously wounded in the shoulder, fell into the hands of the enemy. “Sorry, Motherland! - the poet exclaims, swearing. “My anger towards the enemy and love for the Fatherland will come out of captivity with me.”
People shed blood in battles:
How many thousands will die in a day!
Smelling the scent of prey, close,
Wolves prowl all night long
From the series “Moabite Notebooks”
Torture, interrogation, bullying, anticipation of imminent death - this is the background against which the “Moabite Notebooks” were created. Love of life, hatred of fascism, confidence in victory, tender messages to his wife and daughter - the contents of the notebooks. The life of Musa Jalil ended on January 25, 1944.
We have reached us two small notebooks, the size of a child’s palm, with Jalil’s Moabite verses. The first of them contains 62 poems and two fragments, the second contains 50 poems. Twenty of them, obviously those that the poet considered the most important, are repeated in both notebooks. Thus, the Moabite cycle contains 92 poems and two passages.
Jalil's notebook is sewn from scattered scraps of paper and filled with neat Arabic script.
On the cover it is written in German with a chemical pencil (to divert the eyes of Hitler’s jailers): “Dictionary of German, Turkic, Russian words and expressions. Musa Jalil. 1943-44." On the last page the poet left his will: “To a friend who knows how to read Tatar and will read this notebook. This was written by the famous Tatar poet Musa Jalil..."
The second notebook is thinner than the first. The stitched part contains only 33 poems, after which the poet left a bitter inscription: “In captivity and imprisonment - 1942.9-1943.11 - wrote one hundred and twenty-five poems and one poem. But where should I write? They die with me."
Last song.
Earth!.. I wish I could take a break from captivity, be in a free draft...
But the walls freeze over the groans, the heavy door is locked.
Oh, heaven with a winged soul! I would give so much for a swing!..
But the body is at the bottom of the casemate and the captured hands are in chains.
How freedom splashes with rain on the happy faces of flowers!
But the breath of weakening words fades away under the stone arches.
I know that in the embrace of light the moment of existence is so sweet!
But I'm dying... And this is my last song.
August 1943
Vsevolod Bagritsky
The son of the poet Eduard Bagritsky, Vsevolod, remained near Leningrad forever. He began writing poetry in early childhood. From the first days of the war, Bagritsky was eager to go to the front. His poems were included in all anthologies of the “poets who fell in the Great Patriotic War” genre, so beloved by Soviet literary criticism.
It disgusts me to live without undressing, to sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars, forgetting the annoying hunger.
Feeling numb, hiding from the wind, remembering the names of the dead,
You don’t get an answer from home, you have to exchange junk for black bread.
On the eve of 1942, V. Bagritsky, together with the poet P. Shubin, was assigned to the newspaper of the Second Shock Army, which was coming from the south to the rescue of besieged Leningrad. He died on February 26, 1942 in the small village of Dubovik, Leningrad Region, while recording the story of a political instructor.
V. Bagritsky was buried near the village of Sennaya Kerest, near Chudov. On the pine tree under which Vsevolod is buried, a somewhat paraphrased quatrain from Marina Tsvetaeva is carved:
I don't accept eternity
Why was I buried?
I didn't want to go to the ground so bad
From my native land.
Boris Bogatkov
A Siberian poet died near Smolensk, having lived in the world for just over twenty years. His literary legacy 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 that was coming to inner maturity in the late 30s.
Wandering in this whirlwind away from home and relatives
I walked half a step away from death, just so they could survive.
And he believed fiercely and boldly, dividing the cigarette into two:
Both the Russian spirit and Russian verse are indestructible in this world.
He died as he himself predicted: in battle. The volunteer scout died without finishing his last cigarette, without finishing his last poem, without falling in love, without waiting for a book of his poems, without graduating from university, without completing his studies at the Literary Institute, without discovering all his possibilities. Everything in his life remained unfinished...
We'll hug at the train. Sincere and big
Your sunny eyes will suddenly become clouded with sadness.
Squeezing beloved, familiar hands to the nails,
I’ll repeat this goodbye: “Honey, I’ll be back.
I should go back, but if... If this happens,
That I will no longer see my harsh native country, -
I have one request for you, friend, my simple heart
Give it to an honest guy who returned from the war.”
Is it possible to list the names of poets who did not return from battle? Their lives were cut short at the very beginning of their creative journey. Of course, the passing of any person is always a loss, but the passing of a poet is the death of an entire poetic Universe, a special world created by him and passing away with him...
They will forever live in our hearts and in our memories. Warriors are poets who gave their lives for peace on earth and sang their last songs for us.
There are no crosses on mass graves,
And widows do not cry for them,
Someone brings bouquets of flowers to them,
And the Eternal Flame is lit.
Here the earth used to rear up,
And now - granite slabs.
There is not a single personal destiny here -
All destinies are merged into one.
Vladimir Vysotsky “Mass Graves”
Poets at war.
Dedicated to the 65th anniversary of the Victory...
The event is held in the assembly hall. On the stage there is a “memorial plaque” with the names of the dead poets who will be discussed; above it is the topic of the class hour in large letters; chairs that will be filled by gradually appearing “poets” in military uniform; in the center there is a small table with cut candles that will be lit; in front of the stage there is a table for the presenters.
The song “Cranes” is played (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov).
Leading.
The military storm has long passed. For a long time now, thick rye has been sprouting in the fields where hot battles took place. But the people keep in their memory the names of the heroes of the past war. The Great Patriotic War... Our story is about those who fearlessly and proudly stepped into the glow of war, into the roar of cannonade, stepped and did not return, leaving a bright mark on the earth - their poems.
^ Presenter (reads A. Ekimtsev’s poem “Poets”).
Somewhere under the radiant obelisk,
From Moscow to distant lands,
Guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky is sleeping,
Wrapped in a gray overcoat.
Somewhere under a cool birch tree,
What flickers in the lunar distance,
Guardsman Nikolai Otrada sleeps
With a notebook in hand.
And to the rustle of the sea breeze,
That the July dawn warmed me,
Sleeps without waking Pavel Kogan
It's been almost six decades now.
And in the hand of a poet and a soldier
And so it remained for centuries
The very last grenade -
The very last line.
The poets are sleeping - eternal boys!
To the belated first books
Write the preface in blood!
Leading.
Before the Great Patriotic War, there were 2,186 writers and poets in the USSR, 944 people went to the front, 417 did not return from the war.
Presenter.
48 poets died on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. The oldest of them - Samuil Rosin - was 49 years old, the youngest - Vsevolod Bagritsky, Leonid Rosenberg and Boris Smolensky - were barely 20. As if foreseeing his own fate and the fate of many of his peers, the eighteen-year-old Boris Smolensky wrote:
I'll be there all evening today
Choking in tobacco smoke,
Tormented by thoughts about some people,
Died very young
Which at dawn or at night
Unexpectedly and ineptly
They died without finishing the uneven lines,
Without loving,
Without finishing,
Not finished...
A year before the war, characterizing his generation, Nikolai Mayorov wrote about the same thing:
We were tall, fair-haired,
^ The melody “Holy War” (music by A. Alexandrov) sounds, two “poets” appear on the stage and read their poems.
Georgy Suvorov.
And for the people.
^ Nikolai Mayorov.
We know all the regulations by heart.
What is destruction to us? We are even higher than death.
In the graves we lined up in a squad
And we are waiting for a new order. Let it go
They don't think that the dead don't hear,
When descendants talk about them.
The “poets” sit on the outer chairs and light a candle.
Leading.
By the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, Boris Bogatkov, who grew up in a teacher’s family, was not yet 19 years old. From the very beginning of the war, he was in the active army, was seriously shell-shocked and demobilized. The young patriot seeks to return to the army, and he is enlisted in the Siberian Volunteer Division. The commander of a platoon of machine gunners, he writes poetry and creates the division's anthem. Having raised soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovskaya Heights (in the Smolensk-Yelnya area). Posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree.
On Boris Bogatkov appears on stage and reads the poem “Finally!”
A new suitcase half a meter long,
Mug, spoon, knife, pot...
I saved all this in advance
To appear on time when summoned.
How I was waiting for her! And finally
Here she is, the desired one, in her hands!.. ...
Childhood has flown by and faded away
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth with girlish hands
She hugged and caressed us,
Youth with cold bayonets
Sparkling on the fronts now.
Youth fight for everything dear
She led the boys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To my mature peers.
The “poet” lights a candle on the table and sits down on a chair.
The melody of the song “Dark Night” sounds (music by N. Bogoslovsky, lyrics by V. Agatov).
Presenter.
The poems of Joseph Utkin are imbued with deep lyricism. The poet was a war correspondent during the Great Patriotic War. Joseph Utkin died in a plane crash in 1944 while returning to Moscow from the front.
^ Joseph Utkin appears and reads the poem “It’s midnight on the street...”.
It's midnight outside.
The candle burns out.
High stars are visible.
You write a letter to me, my dear,
To the blazing address of war.
How long have you been writing this, darling?
Finish and start again.
But I'm sure: to the leading edge
Such love will break through!
We've been away from home for a long time. The lights of our rooms
Wars are not visible behind the smoke.
But the one who is loved
But the one who is remembered
Like home - and in the smoke of war!
Warmer at the front from affectionate letters.
Reading, behind every line
You see your beloved
We'll be back soon. I know. I believe.
And the time will come:
Sadness and separation will remain at the door.
And only joy will enter the house.
The “poet” lights a candle on the table and sits down on a chair. Pavel Kogan appears with a guitar and Mikhail Kulchitsky.
Leading.
In the summer of 1936, in one of the Moscow houses on Leningradsky Prospekt, a song was heard that has been the anthem of romantics for more than 60 years.
^ Pavel Kogan sings “Brigantine”, Mikhail Kulchitsky sings along with him.
Presenter.
The author of these lines was future student of the Gorky Literary Institute Pavel Kogan. And in September 1942, the unit where Lieutenant Kogan served fought near Novorossiysk. On September 23, Pavel received an order: at the head of a group of scouts, get into the station and blow up the enemy’s gas tanks... A fascist bullet hit him in the chest. Pavel Kogan's poetry is imbued with deep love for the Motherland, pride in his generation and anxious forebodings of a military thunderstorm.
^ Pavel Kogan (reads an excerpt from the poem “Lyrical Digression”).
We were all sorts of things.
But, in pain,
We understood: these days
This is our fate,
Let them be jealous.
They will invent us as wise,
We will be strict and direct,
They will decorate and powder,
And yet we will get through!
But, to the people of the united Motherland,
It is hardly given to them to understand
What a routine sometimes
She led us to live and die.
And may I seem narrow to them
And I will insult their all-worldliness,
I'm a patriot. I am Russian air,
I love the Russian land,
I believe that nowhere in the world
You can't find a second one like this,
So that it smells like this at dawn,
So that the smoky wind on the sands...
And where else can you find these?
Birch trees, just like in my land!
I would die like a dog from nostalgia
In any coconut heaven.
But we will still reach the Ganges,
But we will still die in battles,
So that from Japan to England
My homeland was shining.
The “poet” lights his candle and sits down on a chair.
Leading.
Under the walls of Stalingrad in January 1943, a talented poet, student of the Literary Institute, friend of Pavel Kogan, Mikhail Kulchitsky, died.
^ Mikhail Kulchitsky reads the poem “Dreamer, visionary, lazy, envious!..”.
Dreamer, visionary, lazy, envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the horsemen rush by with a whistle
Sabers spinning with propellers.
I used to think: Lieutenant
It sounds like “pour it for us”
He stomps on the gravel.
War is not fireworks at all,
It's just hard work,
When - black with sweat - up
Infantry slides through the plowing.
And clay in the slurping tramp
Freezing feet to the marrow
Turns up on chebots
The weight of bread for a month's ration.
The fighters also have buttons
Scales of heavy orders,
Not up to the order.
There would be a Motherland
With daily Borodino.
The “poet” lights a candle and sits down next to Pavel Kogan.
Presenter.
History student and poet Nikolai Mayorov, political instructor of a machine gun company, was killed in a battle near Smolensk on February 8, 1942. A friend of Nikolai Mayorov’s student years, Daniil Danin, recalled about him: “He did not recognize poetry without a flying poetic thought, but he was sure that for reliable flight it needed heavy wings and a strong chest. So he himself tried to write his poems - earthly, durable, suitable for long-distance flights.”
^ Nikolai Mayorov reads the poem “There is a sound of metal in my voice.”
I entered life hard and straight.
Not everyone will die. Not everything will be included in the catalogue.
But only let it be under my name
A descendant will discern in the archival trash
A piece of hot land faithful to us,
Where we went with charred mouths
And they carried courage like a banner.
We were tall, brown-haired.
You will read in books like a myth,
About people who left without loving,
Without finishing the last cigarette.
The melody “At a Nameless Height” sounds (music by V. Basner, lyrics by M. Matusovsky).
Leading.
Lieutenant Vladimir Chugunov commanded a rifle company at the front. He died on the Kursk Bulge, raising fighters to attack. On the wooden obelisk, friends wrote: “Vladimir Chugunov is buried here - warrior - poet - citizen, who fell on July 5, 1943.”
^ Vladimir Chugunov appears and reads the poem “Before the Attack.”
If I'm on the battlefield,
Letting out a dying groan,
I'll fall in the sunset fire
Struck by an enemy bullet,
If a raven, as if in a song,
The circle will close on me, -
I want someone the same age
He stepped forward over the corpse.
The “poet” lights a candle and sits down on a chair.
Presenter.
A participant in the battles to break the blockade of Leningrad, commander of a platoon of anti-tank rifles, Guard Lieutenant Georgy Suvorov was a talented poet. He died on February 13, 1944 while crossing the Narova River. The day before his heroic death, 25-year-old Georgy Suvorov wrote lines that were pure in feeling and highly tragic.
^ Georgy Suvorov appears on stage and reads the poem “Even in the morning, black smoke swirls...”.
Even in the morning black smoke billows
Over your ruined home.
And the charred bird falls,
Overtaken by mad fire.
We still dream about white nights,
Like messengers of lost love,
Living mountains of blue acacias
And they contain enthusiastic nightingales.
Another war. But we stubbornly believe
Whatever the day will be, we will drink the pain to the dregs.
The wide world will open its doors to us again,
With the new dawn there will be silence.
The last enemy. The last well-aimed shot.
And the first glimpse of morning is like glass.
My dear friend, but still how quickly,
How quickly our time passed.
We will not grieve in memories,
We lived our good life as people -
And for the people.
^ Lights a candle and sits on a chair.
The melody of the song “We need one victory” sounds (music and lyrics by Bulat Okudzhava).
Leading.
24-year-old senior sergeant Grigor Akopyan, a tank commander, died in 1944 in the battles for the liberation of the Ukrainian city of Shpola. He was awarded two Orders of Glory, the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree, and the Red Star, and two medals “For Courage.” He was posthumously awarded the title “Honorary Citizen of the City of Shpola.”
^ Grigor Hakobyan appears on stage.
Grigor Hakobyan reads the poem “Mom, I will return from the war...”.
We, dear, will meet you,
I will snuggle in the midst of peaceful silence,
Like a child, cheek to your cheek.
I’ll snuggle up to your tender hands
Hot, rough lips.
I will dispel the sadness in your soul
With kind words and deeds.
Believe me, mom, it will come, our time,
We will win the holy and right war.
And the world that saved us will give us
And an unfading crown and glory!
^ Lights a candle and sits down on a chair.
The melody of the song “Buchenwald Alarm” sounds (music by V. Muradeli, lyrics by A. Sobolev).
Presenter.
The poems of the famous Tatar poet, who died in Hitler's dungeon, Musa Jalil, who was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union, are world famous.
Leading.
In June 1942, on the Volkhov front, Musa Jalil, seriously wounded, fell into the hands of the enemy. In the poem “Forgive me, Motherland!” he wrote bitterly:
Forgive me, your private,
The smallest part of you.
I'm sorry that I didn't die
The death of a soldier in this battle.
Presenter.
Neither terrible torture nor the imminent danger of death could silence the poet or break the inflexible character of this man. He hurled angry words into the faces of his enemies. His songs were his only weapon in this unequal struggle, and they sounded like an indictment of the stranglers of freedom, they sounded like faith in the victory of his people.
^ Musa Jalil appears reads the poem “To the Executioner.”
I will not bend my knees, executioner, before you,
Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison.
When my time comes, I will die. But know this: I will die standing,
Although you will cut off my head, villain.
Alas, not a thousand, but only a hundred in battle
I was able to destroy such executioners.
For this, when I return, I will ask for forgiveness,
I bowed my knees at my homeland.
^ Stands silently.
Leading.
Musa Jalil spent two years in the dungeons of the “stone bag” of Moabit. But the poet did not give up. He wrote poems full of burning hatred for enemies and ardent love for the Motherland. He always considered the poet's word a weapon of struggle, a weapon of victory. And he always sang with inspiration, in a full voice, with all his heart. Throughout his entire life, Musa Jalil dreamed of walking with songs that “nourish the earth,” with songs like the sonorous songs of a spring, with songs from which the “gardens of human souls” bloom. Love for the Motherland sounds like a song in the poet’s heart.
^ Musa Jalil reads an excerpt from the poem “My Songs.”
Heart with the last breath of life
He will fulfill his firm oath:
I always dedicated songs to my fatherland,
Now I give my life to my fatherland.
I sang, sensing the freshness of spring,
I sang when I went into battle for my homeland.
So I'm writing the last song,
Seeing the executioner's ax above you.
The song taught me freedom
The song tells me to die as a fighter.
My life rang like a song among the people,
My death will sound like a song of struggle.
^ He lights his candle and sits down on a chair.
Presenter.
Jalil's humane poetry is an indictment of fascism, its barbarity and inhumanity. 67 poems were written by the poet after he was sentenced to death. But they are all dedicated to life, in every word, in every line the living heart of the poet beats.
^ Musa Jalil reads the poem “If life passes without a trace...”.
If life passes without a trace,
In lowness, in captivity, what an honor!
There is beauty only in freedom of life!
Only in a brave heart there is eternity!
If your blood was shed for your Motherland,
You will not die among the people, horseman,
The traitor's blood flows into the dirt,
The blood of the brave burns in the hearts.
Dying, the hero will not die -
Courage will remain for centuries.
Glorify your name by fighting,
So that it does not fall silent on your lips!
Leading.
After the Victory, the Belgian Andre Timmermans, a former prisoner of Moabit, donated small notebooks, no larger than the palm of his hand, to Musa Jalil’s homeland. On the leaves, like poppy seeds, are letters that cannot be read without a magnifying glass.
Presenter.
The Moabite Notebooks are the most amazing literary monument of our era. For them, the poet Musa Jalil was posthumously awarded the Lenin Prize.
Leading.
Let there be a moment of silence. Eternal glory to the fallen poets!
^ A minute of silence. Everyone gets up.
Presenter.
They did not return from the battlefield... Young, strong, cheerful... Unlike each other in particulars, they were similar to each other in general. They dreamed of creative work, of ardent and pure love, of a bright life on earth. The most honest of the honest, they turned out to be the bravest of the brave. They entered the fight against fascism without hesitation. This is written about them:
^ They left, your peers,
Without clenching your teeth, without cursing fate.
But the path was not short:
From the first battle to the eternal flame...
The song “Red Poppies” is playing (music by Y. Antonov, lyrics by G. Pozhenyan).
While the song is playing, the “poets” stand up one by one, go to the table, each extinguish their candle and leave the stage.
Leading.
Let there be silence in the world,
But the dead are in the ranks.
The war is not over
For those who fell in battle.
Dead, they remained to live; invisible, they are in formation. The poets are silent, the lines torn by a bullet speak for them... For them, the poems continue to live, love and fight today. “May these people always be close to you, like friends, like family, like you yourself!” - said Julius Fucik. I would like you to apply these words to all the dead poets, whose poems helped you learn something new, helped you discover the beautiful and bright, helped you look at the world with different eyes. The dead poets, like tens of thousands of their peers, who achieved so little in life and did so immeasurably much, giving their lives for their Motherland, will always be the conscience of all of us living.
As long as hearts are knocking,
Remember!
At what cost
Happiness has been won -
Please,
Remember!
The melody of the song “Cranes” sounds (music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov). Students leave the hall to the music.
A. Ekimtsev A. Ekimtsev POETS POETS Somewhere under the radiant obelisk, Far from Moscow, guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky is sleeping, wrapped in a gray overcoat. Somewhere under a cool birch tree that flickers in the distant moonlight, guardsman Nikolai Otrada is sleeping with a notebook in his hand. And to the rustle of the sea breeze, Warmed by the July dawn, Pavel Kogan sleeps without waking for exactly nineteen years. And in the hand of a poet and a soldier And so it remained for centuries The very last grenade The very last line. The poets, the eternal boys, are sleeping! They should get up at dawn tomorrow to write Prefaces in blood to the belated first books! Somewhere under the radiant obelisk, Far from Moscow, guardsman Vsevolod Bagritsky is sleeping, wrapped in a gray overcoat. Somewhere under a cool birch tree that flickers in the distant moonlight, guardsman Nikolai Otrada is sleeping with a notebook in his hand. And to the rustle of the sea breeze, Warmed by the July dawn, Pavel Kogan sleeps without waking for exactly nineteen years. And in the hand of a poet and a soldier And so it remained for centuries The very last grenade The very last line. The eternal boy poets are sleeping! They should get up at dawn tomorrow to write Prefaces in blood to the belated first books!
Boris Bogatkov was not yet 19 years old. Boris Bogatkov was not yet 19 years old. The commander of a platoon of machine gunners, he writes poetry and creates the division's anthem. Having raised soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovskaya Heights (in the Smolensk Elnya area). Posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree. The commander of a platoon of machine gunners, he writes poetry and creates the division's anthem. Having raised soldiers to attack, he died a heroic death on August 11, 1943 in the battle for Gnezdilovskaya Heights (in the Smolensk Elnya area). Posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree. Boris Bogatkov Boris Bogatkov A new suitcase half a meter long, a mug, a spoon, a knife, a pot... I stocked all this up in advance, so that I could appear on time on the summons. How I was waiting for her! And finally, here she is, the desired one, in her hands! Youth with girlish arms Hugged and caressed us, Youth with cold bayonets Sparkled at the fronts now. Youth to fight for everything native Has led the children into fire and smoke, And I hasten to join my mature peers.
Pavel Kogan ...I saw and experienced so much villages burned by the Germans, women whose children were killed, and, perhaps most importantly, people in liberated villages who did not know for joy where to put us, what to treat us with. We always thought we understood everything. We understood, but with our heads. And now I understand with my heart. And so that not a single reptile wanders around our beautiful land, so that no one dares to call our brave and intelligent people a slave, for our love with you I will die, if necessary. ... I saw and experienced so much villages burned by the Germans, women whose children were killed, and, perhaps most importantly, people in liberated villages who did not know with joy where to put us, what to treat us with. We always thought we understood everything. We understood, but with our heads. And now I understand with my heart. And so that not a single reptile wanders around our beautiful land, so that no one dares to call our brave and intelligent people a slave, for our love with you I will die, if necessary. Pavel Kogan was born in 1918 into the family of an employee in Kyiv. Since 1922 he lived in Moscow. Here he graduated from school and in 1936 entered the Moscow Institute of Philosophy, Literature and Art (IFLI). In 1939 he moved to the Literary Institute, continuing to study by correspondence at IFLI. He was a passionate man, recalls David Samoilov. He treated people just as warmly as he did poetry. He was in love with his friends, but if he didn’t love someone, he didn’t recognize any merit in him. Pavel Kogan was born in 1918 into the family of an employee in Kyiv. Since 1922 he lived in Moscow. Here he graduated from school and in 1936 entered the Moscow Institute of Philosophy, Literature and Art (IFLI). In 1939 he moved to the Literary Institute, continuing to study by correspondence at IFLI. He was a passionate man, recalls David Samoilov. He treated people just as warmly as he did poetry. He was in love with his friends, but if he didn’t love someone, he didn’t recognize any merit in him. Letter from the front
“WE” “WE” There is such precision in our days, That boys of other centuries Will probably cry at night About the time of the Bolsheviks. And they will complain to their dear ones that they were not born in those years, when the water rang and smoked, collapsing onto the shore. They will invent us again A fathom slanting, a firm step And they will find the right foundation, But they will not be able to breathe like that, How we breathed, how we were friends, How we lived, how in a hurry We composed bad songs About amazing deeds. There is such precision in our days that boys of other centuries will probably cry at night About the time of the Bolsheviks. And they will complain to their dear ones that they were not born in those years, when the water rang and smoked, collapsing onto the shore. They will invent us again A fathom slanting, a firm step And they will find the right foundation, But they will not be able to breathe like that, How we breathed, how we were friends, How we lived, how in a hurry We composed bad songs About amazing deeds. We were all sorts of things, not very smart at times. We loved our girls, Jealous, tormented, passionate. We were all sorts of things. But, suffering, We understood: in our days, We have suffered such a fate, That let them envy. They will invent us as wise, We will be strict and straightforward, They will embellish and powder, And yet we will make our way! We were all sorts of things, not very smart at times. We loved our girls, Jealous, tormented, passionate. We were all sorts of things. But, suffering, We understood: in our days, We have such a fate that let them envy. They will invent us as wise, We will be strict and straightforward, They will embellish and powder, And yet we will make our way!
Mikhail Kulchitsky Dreamer, visionary, lazy, envious! What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops? And the horsemen rush by with the whistling sound of sabers spinning like propellers. I used to think: Lieutenant Sounds like pouring us a drink, And, knowing the topography, He stomps on the gravel. War is not fireworks at all, It’s just hard work, When the infantry glides upward through the plowing, black from sweat. Dreamer, visionary, lazy, envious! What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops? And the horsemen rush by with the whistling sound of sabers spinning like propellers. I used to think: Lieutenant Sounds like pouring us a drink, And, knowing the topography, He stomps on the gravel. War is not fireworks at all, It’s just hard work, When the infantry glides upward through the plowing, black from sweat. March! And the clay in the slurping stomp To the marrow of the bones of frozen feet Folds into the boots With the weight of bread for a month's ration. March! And the clay in the slurping stomp To the marrow of the bones of frozen feet Folds into the boots With the weight of bread for a month's ration. The fighters also have buttons like the Scales of Heavy Orders. Not up to the order. There would be a Motherland on the fighters and buttons like the Scales of heavy orders. Not up to the order. There would be a Motherland Mikhail Valentinovich Kulchitsky was born in 1919 in Kharkov. After graduating from ten years of school, he worked for some time at the Kharkov Tractor Plant. After studying for a year at Kharkov University, he transferred to the second year of the Literary Institute. Gorky.
Vsevolod Bagritsky Poet Vsevolod Eduardovich Bagritsky, the son of a poet and the poet himself, was born in Odessa. In 1926, the Bagritsky family moved near Moscow. After school, Vsevolod studied at the State Theater Studio. He started writing poetry very early. The poet Vsevolod Eduardovich Bagritsky, the son of a poet and the poet himself, was born in Odessa. In 1926, the Bagritsky family moved near Moscow. After school, Vsevolod studied at the State Theater Studio. He started writing poetry very early. He entered the active army only after persistent requests, in January 1942, because he was exempt from military service for health reasons. Vsevolod Bagritsky was appointed to the army newspaper “Courage” on the Volkhov Front. He entered the active army only after persistent requests, in January 1942, because he was exempt from military service for health reasons. Vsevolod Bagritsky was appointed to the army newspaper “Courage” on the Volkhov Front. We lay in the snow for two days. Nobody said: I’m cold, I can’t. We saw and our blood boiled. The Germans were sitting around hot fires. But when winning, you must be able to Wait, be indignant, wait and endure. The dawn was rising through the black trees, and darkness was descending through the black trees. But lie quietly, since there is no order, the minute of battle has not yet come. We lay in the snow for two days. Nobody said: I’m cold, I can’t. We saw and our blood boiled. The Germans were sitting around hot fires. But when winning, you must be able to Wait, be indignant, wait and endure. The dawn was rising through the black trees, and darkness was descending through the black trees. But lie quietly, since there is no order, the minute of battle has not yet come. The rocket floats up and the darkness bursts. Now don't wait, comrade! Forward! We surrounded their dugouts, We took half of them alive... And you, corporal, where are you running? The bullet will catch up with your heart. The battle is over. Now relax, answer letters... And hit the road again! The rocket floats up and the darkness bursts. Now don't wait, comrade! Forward! We surrounded their dugouts, We took half of them alive... And you, corporal, where are you running? The bullet will catch up with your heart. The battle is over. Now relax, answer letters... And hit the road again!
Nikolai Mayorov Nikolai Mayorov was born in Ivanovo into a working-class family. After graduating from school, he entered the history department of Moscow State University, and from 1939 he also began attending a poetry seminar at the Literary Institute. He started writing early and published his first poems in a university press. In the summer of 1941, together with other students, on the construction of anti-tank ditches near Yelnya. In October 1941, he achieved enlistment in the active army. Nikolai Mayorov was born in Ivanovo into a working-class family. After graduating from school, he entered the history department of Moscow State University, and from 1939 he also began attending a poetry seminar at the Literary Institute. He started writing early and published his first poems in a university press. In the summer of 1941, together with other students, on the construction of anti-tank ditches near Yelnya. In October 1941, he achieved enlistment in the active army. We burned fires and turned back rivers. We missed the sky and water. The traces of stubborn life in every person are marked with iron. Thus, signs of the past have sunk into us. Ask our wives how we loved! Centuries will pass, and the portraits will lie to you, Where the course of our life is depicted. We were tall, brown-haired. You will read in books, like a myth, About people who left without loving, Without finishing the last cigarette... We burned fires and turned back rivers. We missed the sky and water. The traces of stubborn life in every person are marked with iron. Thus, signs of the past have sunk into us. Ask our wives how we loved! Centuries will pass, and the portraits will lie to you, Where the course of our life is depicted. We were tall, brown-haired. You will read in books, like a myth, About people who left without loving, Without finishing the last cigarette...
Musa Jalil In May 1945, a soldier of one of the units of the Soviet troops that stormed Berlin, in the courtyard of the fascist prison Moabit, found a note that said: In May 1945, a soldier of one of the units of the Soviet troops that stormed Berlin, in the courtyard of the fascist prison Moabit found a note that said: “I, the famous Tatar writer Musa Jalil, am imprisoned in the Moabit prison as a prisoner facing political charges, and will probably be shot soon. If any Russian gets hold of this recording, let them say hello from me to my fellow writers in Moscow.” The news of the Tatar poet’s feat came to his homeland. “I, the famous Tatar writer Musa Jalil, am imprisoned in the Moabit prison as a prisoner facing political charges, and will probably soon be shot. If any Russian gets hold of this recording, let them say hello from me to my fellow writers in Moscow.” The news of the Tatar poet’s feat came to his homeland. After the war, poems from the “Moabit Notebook” were published. After the war, poems from the “Moabit Notebook” were published. If life passes without a trace, In baseness, in captivity, what an honor! There is beauty only in freedom of life! Only in a brave heart there is eternity! If your blood was shed for your Motherland, You will not die among the people, horseman, The blood of a traitor flows into the dirt, The blood of the brave burns in the hearts. Dying, the hero will not die. Courage will remain for centuries. Glorify your name with struggle, So that it does not fall silent on your lips! If life passes without a trace, In lowness, in captivity, what an honor! There is beauty only in freedom of life! Only in a brave heart there is eternity! If your blood was shed for your Motherland, You will not die among the people, horseman, The blood of a traitor flows into the dirt, The blood of the brave burns in the hearts. Dying, the hero will not die. Courage will remain for centuries. Glorify your name with struggle, So that it does not fall silent on your lips!
Musa Jalil I will not bend my knees, executioner, before you, Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison. My time will come and I will die. But know this: I will die standing, Although you will cut off my head, villain. I will not bend my knees, executioner, before you, Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison. My time will come and I will die. But know this: I will die standing, Although you will cut off my head, villain. Alas, not a thousand, but only a hundred in battle I was able to destroy such executioners. For this, when I return, I will ask for forgiveness, bending my knees, from my homeland. Alas, not a thousand, but only a hundred in battle I was able to destroy such executioners. For this, when I return, I will ask for forgiveness, bending my knees, from my homeland.
From the Moabite Notebook “Friend! Don’t worry that we are dying early... We are not one of those who could turn away from the path. We are dying at the forefront, There is nothing to reproach us with before death.” "Friend! Don’t worry that we are dying early... We are not one of those who could turn away from the path. We are dying at the forefront, There is nothing to reproach us with before death.” “...Having raised loyalty to the Motherland like a banner, Dzhigit went through fire and water. Not with a machine gun, not with a horse, but with an oath to his people” “...Having raised loyalty to the Motherland like a banner, Dzhigit went through fire and water. Not with a machine gun, not with a horse, but with an oath to his people" (Moabit notebook, November 1943) (Moabit notebook, November 1943)
Semyon Gudzenko Semyon Petrovich Gudzenko (March 5, 1922, Kyiv February 12, 1953, Moscow) Soviet front-line poet. Semyon Petrovich Gudzenko (March 5, 1922, Kyiv February 12, 1953, Moscow) Soviet front-line poet. In 1939 he entered IFLI and moved to Moscow. In 1941 he volunteered to go to the front, and in 1942 he was seriously wounded. After being wounded he was a front-line correspondent. He published his first book of poems in 1944. After the end of World War II, he worked as a correspondent for a military newspaper. In 1939 he entered IFLI and moved to Moscow. In 1941 he volunteered to go to the front, and in 1942 he was seriously wounded. After being wounded he was a front-line correspondent. He published his first book of poems in 1944. After the end of World War II, he worked as a correspondent for a military newspaper.
From the notebooks of soldier Semyon Gudzenko: “Wounded. In the stomach. I lose consciousness for a minute. Most of all I was afraid of a wound in the stomach. Maybe in the arm, leg, shoulder. I can’t walk. They’re taking me on a sleigh.” “Before the attack,” 1942 When they go to death, they sing, but before that you can cry. After all, the most terrible hour in battle is the hour of waiting for an attack. The snow is pitted with mines all around, all blackened with mine dust. A breakup and a friend dies. And that means death passes by. Now it’s my turn, I’m the only one being hunted. Damn the forty-first year - you, infantry frozen in the snow. It seems to me that I am a magnet, that I attract mines. The gap - and the lieutenant wheezes, and death passes by again. But we are no longer able to wait, and we are led through the trenches by numb enmity, piercing our necks with a bayonet. The fight was short. And then they drank ice-cold vodka, And I picked out someone else’s blood from under my nails with a knife.
They did not return from the battlefield... Young, strong, cheerful... Unlike each other in particulars, they were similar to each other in general. They did not return from the battlefield... Young, strong, cheerful... Unlike each other in particulars, they were similar to each other in general. They dreamed of creative work, of ardent and pure love, of a bright life on earth. They dreamed of creative work, of ardent and pure love, of a bright life on earth. The most honest of the honest, they turned out to be the bravest of the brave. The most honest of the honest, they turned out to be the bravest of the brave. They entered the fight against fascism without hesitation. This is written about them: They entered the fight against fascism without hesitation. This is written about them: They left, your age, without gritting their teeth, without cursing fate. But the path was not short: From the first battle to the eternal flame...
Front-line poets, a term that was born during the Great Patriotic War. Young Soviet poets who found themselves at the front by fate and their own free 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, others lived longer. However, life after the front was short for many, as one of the front-line poets Semyon Gudzenko said, “We will not die of old age, we will die of old wounds.”
Who can express more powerfully and more accurately what happened during those war years than one who himself witnessed and participated in these terrible events?
In this article, we tried to collect the most powerful poems by front-line poets about the Great Patriotic War, about the events and people who turned out to be the history of this terrible time.
Semyon Gudzenko
MY GENERATION
We are pure before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God.
The living ones' overcoats were reddened with blood and clay,
Blue flowers bloomed on the graves of the dead.
They bloomed and fell... The fourth autumn is passing.
Our mothers cry, and our peers are silently sad.
We did not know love, we did not know the happiness of crafts,
we suffered the difficult fate of soldiers.
My weather has no poetry, no love, no peace -
only power and envy. And when we return from the war,
Let's love everything to the fullest and write, my peer, something like this,
that their sons will be proud of their soldier fathers.
Well, who won't come back? Who won't have to share?
Well, who was hit by the first bullet in 1941?
A girl the same age will burst into tears, a mother will begin to hibernate on the threshold, -
The people of my age have no poetry, no peace, no wives.
Who will return - will love? No! There's not enough heart for this,
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 house.
Will the sobs of the living help such grief?
There is no need to feel sorry for us, because we wouldn’t feel sorry for anyone.
Who went on the attack, who shared the last piece,
He will understand this truth - it comes to us in the trenches and crevices
she came to argue with a grumpy, hoarse Basque.
Let the living remember, and let generations know
this harsh truth of soldiers taken in battle.
And your crutches, and the mortal wound through and through,
and graves over the Volga, where thousands of young people lie, -
this is our destiny, it was with her that we fought and sang,
they went on the attack and tore bridges over the Bug.
There is no need to feel sorry for us, because we wouldn’t feel sorry for anyone either,
We are pure before our Russia and in difficult times.
And when we return, and we will return with victory,
everyone is like devils, stubborn, like people, tenacious and evil, -
let them brew us some beer and roast some meat for dinner,
so that tables on oak legs would break everywhere.
We bow at the feet of our dear and suffering people,
We will kiss mothers and girlfriends who waited, lovingly.
That's when we return and achieve victory with bayonets -
We’ll love everything, we’ll be the same age, and we’ll 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 - 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...
When you pass the path of the columns
In the heat, and in the rain, and in the snow,
Then you'll understand
How sweet the dream
What a joyful night's sleep.
When you go through the war,
Sometimes you will understand
How good is the bread?
And how good
A sip of raw water.
When you come this way
Not a day, not two, soldier,
You'll understand again
How expensive is the house?
How sacred is your father's corner.
When - the science of all sciences -
In battle you will experience battle, -
You'll understand again
How dear a friend
How dear each one is -
And about courage, duty and honor
You won’t repeat it in vain.
They are in you
What you are
Whatever you can be.
The one with whom you can be friends
And don't lose friendship
As the saying goes,
You can live
And you can die.
It is our duty to carry on the bright memory of the exploits performed by our compatriots during the Great Patriotic War.
Poems about war that our children learn, perhaps the best way to cultivate a sense of patriotism for our Motherland.
Musa Jalil
IT'S SPRING IN EUROPE
You drowned in blood, fell asleep under the snow,
Come to life, countries, peoples, lands!
Your enemies tortured you, tortured you, trampled you,
So get up to meet the spring of life!
No, there has never been a winter like this
Not in the history of the world, not in any fairy tale!
You've never frozen so deeply,
A chest of earth, bloody, half-dead.
Where the fascist wind blew dead,
There the flowers withered and the springs dried up,
The songbirds fell silent, the thickets crumbled,
The sun's rays have become scarce and faded.
In those regions 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 arable land.
A fascist entered the house and they carried out the dead man.
The dear fascist walked - blood flowed along the road.
The executioners did not spare old men and women,
And the cannibalistic oven devoured the children.
About such a frenzy of evil persecutors
In terrible fairy tales, in legends it is not said
words
And in the history of the world of such suffering
Man has not experienced this in a hundred centuries.
No matter how dark the night is, it still dawns.
No matter how frosty winter is, spring comes.
Hey Europe! Spring is coming for you,
It shines brightly on our banners.
Half-dead under the fascist heel,
To life, orphan countries, arise! It's time!
Glowing rays of future freedom for you
The sun of our earth stretches out in the morning.
This sunny, new spring is approaching
Everyone feels Czech, and Pole, and French.
Brings you long-awaited liberation
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 is flying to you from Moscow,
Sowing light along the way - Victory is coming!
It will be spring soon...
In the abyss of the fascist night,
Like shadows, the partisans rise to fight...
And under the spring sun -
the time is near! --
The winter of grief will be carried away by the Danube ice.
Let the hot tears of joy break through
In these spring days from millions of eyes!
Let in millions of weary hearts
will light up
Revenge and thirst for freedom are still hot!..
And living hope will awaken millions
On a great rise, unprecedented in centuries,
And the dawn banners of the coming spring
They will turn red in the hands of free peoples.
February 1942 Volkhov Front
Front-line poets are considered a special caste among all poets. People who don't 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 rising in your throat, the scenes described in these poems hit your imagination deeply and strongly.
V. Strelchenko, A. Tvardovsky, B. Slutsky, Yu. Levitansky, S. Gudzenko, Yu. Drunina, E. Vinokurov and many many more names and surnames of famous poets who were published in books and magazines, and those who were not known to the general public, published in local newspapers in Russia. All of them, despite their “poetic caliber,” were one whole, poets who were united by war and poetry. 
***
Oboishchikov Kronid Aleksandrovich
BALLAD OF LOVE
We flew in the icy sky,
The northern sunset was in the blood,
We experienced everything in those years,
The only thing we didn't experience was love.
She was looking for us in the snowstorms.
And we, struck down by war,
How the birds fell on the rocks
And our cry beat over the wave.
And our youth matured
Far from youthful joys.
There were no women there, what a pity
They could show themselves to us.
And many have never
They didn't 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 love, the question is resolved.
There were whores from all over Europe,
To make life easier for pilots.
Once a member of the Military Council,
Gray-haired admiral with a scar,
For political conversation
He gathered us at the planes.
He said that our cause is just.
We will win.
And that the guys in the regiment are brave
And we will reward them soon.
And Kolka Bokiy, looking impudently
Point-blank in the boss's eyes,
Suddenly he slashed: “The Fritz have women,
Why can't we?
We, too, are dying young.”
But suddenly he stopped short, fell silent,
Only the wind of northern Russia
His dashing cowlick shook.
And we all looked with fear,
I reproach my friend for this agility,
And the admiral gave Kolka his hand
And he began to speak strangely:
“What an idea! I approve!
We'll set up a brothel in no time.
But, brothers, I don’t 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? How old is she?”
Our friend covered his face in shame.
And hanging my head low,
“Sorry…” he whispered quietly.
Oh how smart and honest he was -
A gray-haired admiral with a scar.
He knew youth, its aspirations,
Burning, daring, passion power,
But he knew both loyalty and patience,
And he supported me and didn’t let me fall.
And then we recognized the women
Leaving the remote polar places.
And the weddings took place quickly,
There were thousands of them, brides.
In a drunken conversation we were spinning,
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,
The tired shooters lay down.
Golden rye sparkled nearby,
And the cornflowers turned blue in the rye.
And the fighters, no longer hearing the buzz
And without feeling stuffy,
Like an unprecedented miracle,
They looked at the flowers joyfully.
Blue heavenly, unbearable
Blazing like lights
Like the eyes of children, the eyes of loved ones,
Cornflowers looked at the fighters.
In a moment, overcoming fatigue,
The chain of riflemen went on the attack again,
It seemed to them that Russia was looking
Blue eyes of cornflowers.
In this article we will remember these people, look through their poems about the Great Patriotic War through their eyes at the events of those times. Every poem, every line will leave a mark on your soul, because these lines are burned out by the war and the trials that befell the people during the Great Patriotic War. 
TROYANKER Raisa Lvovna
(1909, Uman - 1945, Murmansk)
TO THE DEAREST
I don't know what color
You, dear, have eyes.
I probably won't meet you,
There's nothing to tell you.
True, I would really like to know
Who are you: technician, shooter, signalman,
Maybe you're a fast-winged pilot,
Maybe you are a naval radio operator?
Well, if this note -
Land or water
Brought to you, the closest one,
Inseparable forever.
I don't know how it was:
Bright hospital, lamps, night...
The doctor said: “My 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 the blood for you.
And it flowed through my veins
And saved you, golden one,
The enemy's bullet is powerless
Before the power of love like this.
Pale lips turned scarlet,
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 even know
What's your name, dear?
I'm still your darling,
It doesn't matter - I'm always with you.
Leonid Khaustov
TWO HEARTS
The lieutenant faced a harsh lot,
And, tormented, he severed his connection with the past.
He essentially crawled out of the war,
Rolling on homemade roller skates.
I didn’t write a single line to my wife.
What should I write? Everything is clear without that.
And at home waiting indefinitely
She lived without believing in his death.
When she used to receive
There is a nameless transfer in the mail,
That heart was beating feverishly,
What is it - from him, that he lives.
And people managed to find him,
And so she came to him.
...Under him the steel rollers glittered,
And the gray hair cast steel.
Biting my lips and laughing and crying,
She ran into the city military registration and enlistment office,
And from bottom to top - how could it be otherwise? —
His confused gaze was fixed.
And the woman is fate’s holy mercy,—
Still not believing my luck,
Silently dropped to her knees
And on her knees she moved towards him. 
***
Mikhail Dudin (1916 - 1993)
NIGHTINGALE
We'll talk about the dead later.
Death in war is common and harsh.
And yet we gasp for air
When comrades die. Not a word
We don't talk. Without looking up,
We dig a hole in damp soil.
The world is rough and simple. Hearts burned. In us
Only ashes remain, but stubbornly
The weathered cheekbones are drawn together.
Three hundred and fiftieth day of the war.
The dawn has not yet trembled on the leaves,
And machine guns were used to make an impression...
This is the place. Here he died -
My comrade from the machine gun company.
It was useless to call doctors here,
He wouldn't even last 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 he smiled ineptly.
The tan faded from my face first,
Then it darkened and turned to stone.
***
Alexander Artyomov
BANNER
The stone heated by the explosions is already cooling,
The hurricane that has been thundering since the morning is already subsiding.
Last throw. From the last trenches with bayonets
The fighters knock out and drive the enemy from the top.
Like dead snakes, they entangled the hill of the trench,
Concrete nests strewn the slope,
And, stretching out their cold long necks to the sky,
Broken cannons look gloomily into the sunset.
And the commander stood on the land we had conquered,
Pitted by shells and scorched by fire,
And he shouted to the guys: “Comrades, we need a banner!..”
The machine gunner rose, staggering, from the ground. On him
There were shreds of sweat-soaked tunic hanging
Spattered with blood. He calmly took out his handkerchief,
Pressed him to the wound burned by the lead of the machine gun,
And an unprecedentedly bright flower flashed on the hill.
We tied the crimson banner tightly to the bayonet,
It began to play and beat in the strong wind.
The machine gunner looked around his friends with blue eyes
And he said quietly: “I may die today,
But I will be proud, already weak, tired,
Until my last breath, because I didn’t give up in battle,
That my blood has become the banner of our courage,
That I was able to die for my fatherland with dignity...”
Above the dark earth and above the stone sentinel chain,
Over the frail bush, mowed down by a hail of lead,
Burnt like a star between the rocks at Zaozernaya heights
The 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 the fogs,
It stood in our sight.
It went to distant distances,
Looking out every window.
In every soldier's medal
It sparkled hotly.
What did it illuminate? —
The lacerated wounds of the earth,
Our mass graves
Every family has grief
Broken brick over ash
Next to the empty barn...
I'm glad I remember this
It’s not given to you, young people.
Your generous sunrises,
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 peace, 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 don't accept eternity,
Why was I buried?
I didn't want to go to the ground so bad
From my native land."
Vsevolod Bagritsky
Lesson objectives:
Educational:
To introduce poets who died in the war through the performance of excerpts from their works;
To form an idea of war through the lyrics of poets who died in the war.
Educational:
Develop an interest in the history of your country;
Develop expressive reading skills.
Educational:
Foster patriotism;
Foster a culture of listening;
Foster respect for veterans.
The file contains a presentation for a literature lesson, a lesson script and audio recordings of songs for screensavers.
View document contents
"Lesson"
Lesson-concert "He did not return from the battle..." Poems of poets who died in the war...
Lesson objectives:
Get acquainted with the work of poets who died in the Second World War;
Create an immersive atmosphere in wartime;
Pay attention to the courage and heroism of the poets;
Help you hear passionate poems full of love for the Motherland and hatred for enemies.
Educational:
– introduce poets who died in the war through the performance of excerpts from their works;
– to form an idea of war through the lyrics of poets who died in the war.
Educational:
– develop interest in the history of your country;
– develop expressive reading skills.
Educational:
– cultivate patriotism;
– cultivate a culture of listening;
– develop a respectful attitude towards veterans.
During the classes
1. The teacher's word. Historical information about the war.
– At dawn on June 22, 1941, Nazi Germany, violating the non-aggression treaty, invaded our country without declaring war. For our compatriots, this war was a liberation war for the freedom and independence of the country. More than 27 million Soviet people died in the Great Patriotic War; of the men born in 1923, only 3% survived; practically an entire generation of men was destroyed by the war.
There are many tragic pages in the poetry of the Great Patriotic War period.
Through the decades, poets who died during the Great Patriotic War make their way to us. They will forever remain nineteen and twenty years old. There were many of them who did not return, they were different in the strength and nature of their poetic talent, in character, in affection, in age, but they were forever united by a common destiny. Their “lines, pierced by bullets” remained forever alive, remained a memory of the war, and the fact that these lines will never be corrected or added puts a special stamp on them - the stamp of eternity...
Today we will remember the poets who died on the fields of the Great Patriotic War. We must not forget the feat of Mussa Jalil, who was tortured in fascist dungeons. He was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
Boris Kotov, Hero of the Soviet Union, died during the crossing of the Dnieper. Vsevolod Bagritsky remained forever near Leningrad, Boris Bogatkov and Nikolai Mayorov remained near Smolensk, Mikhail Kulchitsky remained near Stalingrad. Pavel Kogan, Georgy Suvorov, Dmitry Vakarov fell heroically...
(A fragment of the song “Cranes” by M. Bernes is played; music by Y. Frenkel, lyrics by R. Gamzatov.)
(Lyrics of song 1, verse 2.)
Sometimes it seems to me that the soldiers
Those who did not come from the bloody fields,
They once did not die in our land,
And they turned into white cranes.
They are still from those distant times
Isn’t that why it’s so often and sad
Do we fall silent while looking at the heavens?
2. Lyrics of poets who died in the war. (Students’ speech, poetry reading.)
Today we will read poems by poets who died in the war. Let's understand how much we have lost! How much they gave us! Eternal MEMORY to them!
(6 slides)
“The war, in the thick of which Jalil found himself, was cruel and merciless. And death, which the poet wrote about more than once, stood behind Musa, he felt its icy breath on the back of his head. Beatings, torture, bullying - all this was a harsh everyday reality. And the blood caked on his temples was his own hot blood. From here arises a feeling of the authenticity of Jalil’s poetry - poetry in which pain, torment, the severity of captivity are directed into the bright, triumphant song of life. After all, the worst thing happened to him - captivity. In July 1942, on the Volkhov front, Musa Jalil, seriously wounded in the shoulder, fell into the hands of the enemy. “Sorry, Motherland! - the poet exclaims, swearing. “My anger towards the enemy and love for the Fatherland will come out of captivity with me.”
(The student reads the poem “Moabite Notebooks.”)
People shed blood in battles:
How many thousands will die in a day!
Smelling the scent of prey, close,
Wolves prowl all night long.
Torture, interrogation, bullying, anticipation of imminent death - this is the background against which the “Moabite Notebooks” were created.
Love of life, hatred of fascism opposing it, confidence in victory, tender messages to his wife and daughter - this is their content. The poem is permeated with bitterness and hatred. The life of Musa Jalil ended on January 25, 1944.
(A fragment of the VIA “Ariel” song by V. Yarushin “Silence” is heard, music and lyrics by L. Gurov.)
1st verse of the song.
Nightingales, sing no more songs, nightingales.
In a moment of sorrow, let the organ sound.
Sings about those who are not here today,
Grieves for those who are no longer with us today.
– The poet Boris Kotov died in the war. In 1942, he volunteered to go to the front, contrary to the decision of the medical commission, which declared him unfit for military service. Wrote poetry on the battlefield.
(The student reads a fragment from the poem “When the enemy comes.”)
Now there are different sounds...
But if the enemy comes,
I'll take the rifle in my hands
And I’ll straighten my step!
These lines became his oath. Boris Kotov was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union in 1944 and awarded the Order of Lenin and a medal. Sergeant Kotov Boris Aleksandrovich On September 27, 1943, when crossing the Dnieper in the area of the southern outskirts of Celeberd, he was the first to deliver his mortar to the firing position and opened rapid fire on the enemy.
On September 29, 1943, the enemy launched a dangerous counterattack on the right flank of our battle formations northwest of the village. Bakers. Noticing a concentration of enemy infantry, Sergeant Kotov, installing his mortar in an open position, opened accurate direct fire. The Germans advanced in columns, supported by fire from the Ferdinand self-propelled gun. Having shot through the supply of mines, Sergeant Kotov armed himself with a rifle and grenades, and when our infantry rose to counterattack, Comrade. Kotov rushed at the Germans and engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Destroying enemies with a grenade, rifle and butt, Comrade. Kotov caused panic in the enemy ranks and, when the Germans retreated and fled, pursued the enemies. With his courage, Comrade. Kotov pulled the rest of the fighters with him. A mine fragment from Comrade. Kotov was killed. He died a heroic death in the fight for his homeland.
Worthy of the posthumous highest degree of distinction - the title “Hero of the Soviet Union”.
(A fragment of the VIA “Ariel” song by V. Yarushin “Silence” is heard, music and lyrics by L. Gurov)
2nd verse of the song.
This battle, it is already over, is a bloody battle.
Again someone is no longer with us,
Someone remained on someone else's land,
Someone remained on someone else's land, that land...
– Vsevolod Bagritsky remained near Leningrad forever. He began writing poetry in early childhood. From the first days of the war, V. Bagritsky was eager to go to the front. His poems were included in all anthologies of the “poets who died in the Great Patriotic War” genre, so beloved by Soviet literary criticism.
Having been refused, the young poet was not going to give up and, following the example of some of his friends, on December 6, 1941, he wrote a statement to the Political Directorate of the Red Army, in which he asked to be accepted into the front-line press. This time, Bagritsky’s request was granted: he received an appointment to the army newspaper “Courage” of the Second Shock Army of the Volkhov Front, which was heading from the south to liberate besieged Leningrad. Thus, on December 23, 1941, Bagritsky went to the front, where he led the life of an ordinary army journalist: he went to the German rear and wrote poetry and articles. It was easy to serve Vsevolod, having learned perseverance, he easily endured all the hardships of army life, was at the front all the time, monitored the conduct of hostilities, and appeared at the newspaper editorial office only to submit the next article.
While fighting, Bagritsky firmly believed in the victory of the Red Army over fascism, this is clearly evidenced by the lines of a letter written from the front to his mother: “Our victory will free the world for a long time from the most terrible atrocity of the war.”
Unfortunately, Bagritsky's military career lasted only two months - on February 26, 1941, he passed away. Carrying out an assignment for the editorial office of the newspaper “Courage,” he went to the village of Dubovik (Chudovo, Leningrad Region) to record the stories of a pilot who recently shot down two German fighters. At this time the bombing began, and both of them died. Obviously, the poet's death occurred instantly - a shrapnel pierced his spine. The next day, February 27, the dead Vsevolod Bagritsky was brought to the unit. He also had a field bag, punctured by shrapnel, in which they found a notebook of poems and the last letter to his mother.
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
Forget boring hunger.
Stiff, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead,
No answer from home,
Confuse plans, numbers and paths,
Twenty. (1941)
(A fragment of the VIA “Flame” song by S. Berezin “At the village of Kryukovo” is heard, music by Y. Fradkin, lyrics by S. Ostrova.)
1st verse:
The furious year 1941 was on the attack.
A platoon dies near the village of Kryukovo.
All the cartridges are gone, there are no more grenades.
Only seven young soldiers remained alive.
– They died near Smolensk – Boris Bogatkov and Nikolai Mayorov. Boris Bogatkov prefers to voluntarily join the infantry, straight to the front. But he didn’t have time to fight properly, didn’t have time to really grapple with the enemy, and now he suffered a severe concussion and ended up in the hospital. The pen and pencil became his weapon, and his poetic gift called our people to work and struggle. Boris sat all night long in his modest room, writing in notebooks lines of new poems and evil ditties that branded the fascist beast.
FINALLY!
I saved all this in advance
How I was waiting for her! And finally
Here she is, the desired one, in her hands!..
Youth with girlish hands
She hugged and caressed us,
Youth with cold bayonets
Sparkling on the fronts now.
She led the boys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
Thus, having lived in the world for just over twenty years, the Siberian poet, Komsomol warrior Boris Andreevich Bogatkov died.
Mayorov Nikolay: his literary legacy 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 that was coming to inner maturity in the late 30s. Born in the village of Durovka, Syzran district, Simbirsk province, into a family of workers.
We missed the sky and water.
traces are marked with iron -
where the course of our life is depicted
We were tall, fair-haired,
about people who left without loving,
He died as he himself predicted: in battle. The volunteer scout died without finishing his last cigarette, without finishing his last poem, without loving, without waiting for a book of his poems, without graduating from university, without finishing his studies at the Literary Institute, without discovering all his possibilities. Everything in his life remained unfinished...
(A fragment of the VIA “Flame” song by S. Berezin “Near the village of Kryukovo” is heard (music by Y. Fradkin, lyrics by S. Ostrova).)
That distant year burned with fires.
A rifle platoon was marching near the village of Kryukovo.
Giving honors, frozen, they stand
There are seven soldiers on guard at the sad hill.
– Mikhail Kulchitsky died near Stalingrad. 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 and went to the front with the rank of junior lieutenant.
Dreamer, visionary, lazy, envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the horsemen rush by with a whistle
sabers spinning with propellers.
I used to think: "Lieutenant"
sounds like this: “Pour it for us!”
And, knowing the topography,
he stomps on the gravel.
War is not fireworks at all,
but it’s just hard work,
black with sweat
infantry slides through the plowing.
And clay in the slurping tramp
frozen feet to the core
turns into chebots
weight of bread per month's ration.
The fighters also have buttons
scales of heavy orders.
Not up to the order.
There would be a Motherland
with daily Borodino.
(A fragment of Y. Bogatikov’s song “At a Nameless Height” is heard, music by V. Basner, words by M. Matusovsky.)
1st verse:
The grove under the mountain was burning
And the sunset burned with her
There were only three of us left
Out of eighteen guys
How many of their friends are good
Left lying on the ground
Near an unfamiliar village
On a nameless height
Near an unfamiliar village
At an unnamed height.
– Pavel Kogan, Georgy Suvorov, Dmitry Vakarov fell heroically... when the war began, and Suvorov found himself on the Leningrad front.
Book of poems by Georgy Suvorov“The Soldier’s Word” was signed for publication a few months after his death. Later it was reprinted and expanded several times. The poem “Even at dawn black smoke billows...” became widely known.
Even in the morning black smoke billows
Over your ruined home.
And the charred bird falls,
Overtaken by mad fire.
We still dream about white nights,
Like messengers of lost love,
Living mountains of blue acacias
And they contain enthusiastic nightingales.
Another war. But we stubbornly believe
What day will happen - we will drink the pain to the dregs.
The wide world will open its doors to us again,
With the new dawn there will be silence.
The last enemy. The last well-aimed shot.
And the first glimpse of morning is like glass.
My dear friend, but still how quickly,
How quickly our time passed!
We will not grieve in memories,
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness?
We lived our good life as people -
And for people...
The name of the front-line poet Georgy Suvorov is equally known on the banks of the Yenisei and Neva. Born in March 1919 in the village of Abakanskoye (now the city of Krasnoturansk), he died on February 13 near Narva. In his field bag two notebooks of poems were found, most of them
unpublished. At the end of September 1941, Georgy Suvorov was sent to the front. Having started the Great Patriotic War as an ordinary Red Army soldier, he rose to the rank of lieutenant. He spent the first months of the war in the ranks of the famous Panfilov division, was wounded in the battle near Yelnya, but from the beginning of 1942 he was back in service. After the hospital, in the spring of 1942, he was transferred to Leningrad, where he commanded a platoon of anti-tank rifles of the 45th Guards Rifle Division and worked in the divisional newspaper “For the Motherland.” Around this time, selections of his poems were published in the magazines “Zvezda” and “Leningrad”.
During the construction of the Narva Reservoir, the remains of Georgy Suvorov were transferred to a mass grave in the city of Slantsy, Leningrad Region.
The song by V. Vysotsky “Mass Graves” is played, words and music by V. Vysotsky.
There are no crosses on mass graves,
And widows do not cry for them,
Someone brings bouquets of flowers to them,
And the Eternal Flame is lit.
Here the earth used to rear up,
And now - granite slabs.
There is not a single personal destiny here -
All destinies are merged into one.
3. Final word.
And these are not all the poets who did not return from the battle. Their lives were cut short at the very beginning of their creative journey. Of course, the passing of any person is always a loss, but the passing of a poet is the death of an entire poetic Universe, a special world created by him and passing away with him...
They will forever live in our hearts and in our memories. Glory to the warriors - the poets who gave their lives for peace on earth.
4. Homework: V. P. Astafiev “Photograph in which I am not.”
View presentation content
"Poets who did not return from the war"
"Poets,
those who did not return from the war"
1418 days and nights
27 million dead
"Cranes"
Poems by Rasul Gamzatov, music by Ian Frenkel)
Musa Jalil
I will not bend my knees, executioner, before you,
Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison,
When my time comes, I will die. But know this: I will die standing,
Although you will cut off my head, villain.
Musa Jalil (Zalilov Musa Mustafovich) - Tatar poet, anti-fascist hero
On the second day of the war, Musa arrived at the military registration and enlistment office and asked to be sent to the front. In July 1941 he was drafted into the Red Army. Until July 1942 he worked as a war correspondent for the army newspaper “Courage”.
1942 The harsh everyday life at the front began. Jalil was always on the front line, where it was difficult. On June 26, 1942, the Nazis fired continuously at our positions. In one of the counterattacks near the village of Myasnoy Bor, Musa Jalil was seriously wounded. He lay in a ditch, which quickly filled with water. In an unconscious state, Musa was captured and for a long time was on the verge of life and death. It was prisoners of war who knew their poet well.
Later, Musa Jalil was thrown into a camp, followed by prisons and fascist dungeons: Moabit, Spandau, Pletzensee. In a camp near Radom, Poland, Jalil led an underground organization of prisoners of war. While in the Spandau concentration camp, he organized a group that was supposed to prepare an escape. At the same time, he carried out political work among prisoners, issued leaflets, and distributed his poems calling for resistance and struggle. Following the denunciation of an agent provocateur, he was captured by the Gestapo and imprisoned in solitary confinement in the Berlin Moabit prison. Neither cruel torture, nor promises of freedom, life and prosperity, nor death row broke his will and devotion to the Motherland. Then he was sentenced to death. On August 25, 1944, he was executed by guillotine in Plötzensee prison in Berlin.
"Before the verdict"
(Tatar poet Musa Jalil in the Berlin Moabit prison in 1944)
Source: Chervonnaya S.M. Kharis Yakupov. - L.: Artist of the RSFSR, 1983
Dying, the hero will not die -
"Moabite notebook"- a cycle of poems by Musa Jalil, written by him in Moabit prison.
Two notebooks containing 93 poems have survived. The poems were written in the Tatar language in the first notebook in Arabic, in the second - in Latin script.
Courage will remain for centuries.
In 1946, former prisoner of war Nigmat Teregulov brought a notebook with sixty poems by Jalil to the Union of Writers of Tatarstan. A year later, a second notebook arrived from the Soviet consulate in Brussels. The Belgian patriot Andre Timmermans carried her out of the Moabit prison and, fulfilling the poet’s last wish, sent the poems to his homeland.
Glorify your name by fighting,
So that it does not remain silent on the lips!
On the square, near the Volga, stands a monument to the courage of a soldier and the feat of a poet - Hero of the Soviet Union, laureate of the Lenin Prize Musa Jalil. His fiery lines are carved on granite:
My life rang like a song among the people,
My death will sound like a song of struggle.
Sculptor V.E. Tsigal. 1967
The last song
How far away is the land?
Spacious, unobtrusive!
Only my prison
Dark and stinking.
A bird flies in the sky,
She soars to the clouds!
And I'm lying on the floor:
My hands are cuffed.
A flower grows in the wild,
It's full of fragrance
And I'm fading in prison:
I can't breathe.
I know how sweet it is to live
O victorious power of life!
But I'm dying in prison
This song is my last. (1943)
Aleksandrovich
Sergeant Kotov Boris Aleksandrovich On September 27, 1943, when crossing the Dnieper in the area of the southern outskirts of Celeberd, he was the first to deliver his mortar to the firing position and opened rapid fire on the enemy.
It's cold at midnight, hot at noon,
The wind wants to sweep away all the dust.
Worker Kharkov remains
A milestone passed along the way.
Wars on the left and wars on the right,
In the center is a death carousel.
And pensive Poltava
It lies before us like a goal.
An old woman's cry and a girl's cry
There is a hut on the ruins.
I envy Shurka now,
That there is fighting in Donbass.
...........................
Shura - Alexander, brother of the poet.
Vladimir Balykin
In memory of Boris Kotov
The enemy rains down burning hail,
Buravit Dnepr with lead
And death with a hard look
Stared at his face.
To enemy flares
You rushed forward
Came out to the right bank
Your mortar platoon.
And the mines flew
And the enemy immediately trembled...
In the name of a bright life
You took a step forward...
Bagritsky
Vsevolod
Eduardovich
From the first days of the war, he sought to be sent to the front, although he was removed from the military register due to severe myopia. In October 1941, he was released from military service for health reasons and was evacuated to Chistopol. In January 1942, after persistent requests, he was appointed to the newspaper “Courage” of the Second Shock Army of the Volkhov Front.
Killed while performing a combat mission on February 26, 1942 in the village of Dubovik, Leningrad Region
I hate living without undressing,
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
Forget boring hunger.
Stiff, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead,
No answer from home,
Exchange junk for black bread.
Confuse plans, numbers and paths,
Rejoice that you lived less in the world
Twenty. (1941)
Bogatkov Boris Andreevich (1922-1943)
In the fall of 1941, he volunteered to go to the front. In 1942, after a shell shock, he was discharged and returned to Novosibirsk. Worked at TASS Windows. He achieved enrollment in the 22nd Guards Siberian Volunteers. divisions. He commanded a platoon of machine gunners. He died in the battle for the Gnezdilovsky Heights in the Smolensk direction, raising a platoon to attack under heavy fire with a song of his own composition. Posthumously awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st degree. The name of B. Bogatkov is forever included in the lists of the 22nd Guards Siberian Division. One of the main highways of Novosibirsk is named after him.
Died August 1 1 9 4 3 near Smolensk.
FINALLY!
A new suitcase half a meter long,
Mug, spoon, knife, pot...
I saved all this in advance
To appear on time when summoned.
How I was waiting for her! And finally
Here she is, the desired one, in her hands!..
Childhood has flown by and faded away
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth with girlish hands
She hugged and caressed us,
Youth with cold bayonets
Sparkling on the fronts now.
Youth fight for everything dear
She led the boys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To your mature peers!
Nikolai Petrovich Mayorov
Born in the village of Durovka, Syzran district, Simbirsk province, into a family of workers.
In October 1941, he volunteered for the front. He was a political instructor of a machine gun company of the 1106th Infantry Regiment of the 331st Division. He died at the front near the village of Barantsevo, Smolensk region. He was buried in a mass grave in the village of Karmanovo, Gagarinsky district, Smolensk region.
I entered life hard and straight.
Not everything will die, not everything will be included in the catalogue.
But only let it be under my name
a descendant will discern in the archival trash
a piece of hot land faithful to us,
where we went with charred mouths
and courage was carried like a banner.
We burned fires and turned back rivers
We missed the sky and water.
Stubborn life in every person
traces are marked with iron -
This is how the signs of the past sunk into us.
And how we loved - ask our wives!
Centuries will pass, and portraits will lie to you,
where the course of our life is depicted
We were tall, fair-haired,
you read in books like a myth,
about people who left without loving,
without finishing the last cigarette...
Mikhail Kulchitsky
(1919 - 1943)
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 and went to the front with the rank of junior lieutenant.
Mikhail Kulchitsky died at Stalingrad in January 1943.
Georgy Kuzmich Suvorov
At the end of September 1941, Georgy Suvorov was sent to the front. Having started the Great Patriotic War as an ordinary Red Army soldier, he rose to the rank of lieutenant. He spent the first months of the war in the ranks of the famous Panfilov division, was wounded in the battle near Yelnya, but from the beginning of 1942 he was back in service. After the hospital, in the spring of 1942, he was transferred to Leningrad, where he commanded a platoon of anti-tank rifles of the 45th Guards Rifle Division and worked in the divisional newspaper “For the Motherland.” Around this time, selections of his poems were published in the magazines “Zvezda” and “Leningrad”
He died on February 13, 1944 while crossing the Narva River during the battles for the Narva bridgehead. He was buried not far from the place of death.
Vsevolod Loboda was born in Kyiv in the family of a Russian language teacher and an opera singer. In adolescence, he began to compose poems and stories. In 1930, after graduating from high school, Vsevolod moved to Moscow. Studied at FZU. Worked at a factory. In 1935 he entered the Literary Institute. Wrote poetry. Published in the magazines “Literary Studies” and “Koster”.
At the beginning of the war he worked on the radio, then went to the front. He was a machine gunner and artilleryman. Freelance employee of a divisional newspaper. He wrote poems and songs, which were still sung in the regiments both after his death and after the war. ""...A stray bullet found him. He walked across... a field in a cape blown by the wind.
And he fell... In the medical battalion, where Loboda was taken that day, and where, as they told me, he died that same day, I was not, I only saw him lying in the medical service tent, where I went through a hole in the green of this camp crawled towards him in the tent. He was unconscious, lying on his side, with his head thickly bandaged, and moaning..." This is how his fellow soldier, writer Vasily Subbotin, remembered his last meeting with the poet Vsevolod Loboda, who years later found the supposed burial place of Vsevolod Nikolaevich Loboda - not far from the city of Dobele in Latvia.
Start
The forest split heavily
Gray-haired and gloomy.
There's a vent under every tree
It was breathing like a storm...
Trunks and people are hot,
But we're excited.
We shout to the gunners:
"More,
Hit again!..”
The deafened earth trembles.
What power
Streams and groves and fields
Mixed it up!
And here's to victory straight away
Behind the company there is a company
Either on your bellies or running
The infantry went.
Your life has died down to the end -
You went into battle and were killed in battle.
But glory will have no limits,
Your name will ring out in songs!
You fought for the people in battle -
He will remember your courage!
Musa Jalil
Victory Day
Not all soldiers of the Great Patriotic War were destined to live to see Victory and return home,
to the homeland. But they remained in their poems, songs, exploits, they are in our memory. In the meantime, people remember the heroes - they are alive. Happy memory to all those who died in the Great Patriotic War
