Poets who died in the war. A line broken by a bullet Young poets who died on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War. Teacher's word. Historical information about the war
POETERS DIE AT THE FRONT
AFANASIEV VYACHESLAV NIKOLAEVICH
(1903 – 1943)
Having joined the ranks of the people's militia, the poet participated in battles with fascist german invaders on the outskirts of the capital, fought with the enemy as part of a partisan detachment in the Smolensk region. In the battle for the liberation of Smolensk, Vyacheslav Afanasyev died in September 1943.
Caught by the last meta
And, not having time to sing everything,
I bless this land
When you have to die.
I bless her for the air
Breathing which I was bold
For bright rivers living water,
Where body and soul freshened,
For a field of sultry wheat,
For villages and cities
For our wealth, where is stored
Grain and my labor.
I bless the earth expanses
For the fact that I lived in a bright age,
Loved her seas and mountains,
How could free man,
What did the people learn here
Sing songs of clear simplicity
And decorate nature with labor
In the name of happiness and dreams.
KOTOV BORIS ALEKSANDROVICH
(1909 – 1943)
The hero of the USSR. According to the conclusion of the medical commission, he was released from military service. However, when the war began, the poet went to the front as a volunteer. He was the commander of the mortar crew of the 737th infantry regiment of the 47th Army on the Voronezh Front. Distinguished himself during the crossing of the Dnieper. On August 28, 1943, he wrote the poem "The Last Letter", which became his last poetic work: on September 29, 1943, in a battle on the Dnieper bridgehead, Boris Kotov died, having accomplished a heroic deed. Posthumously in 1944 he was awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
When the enemy comes
Purple evening creeps
The west is on fire.
With a shaggy roof the wind
Fighting in the yard.
Aspens creak, ring,
Thunderstorm - like a long-range battle.
harsh pictures
They stand in front of me:
... The dugout crushes the back,
And the call of a bullet takes off.
Behind the liquid aspen
A machine gun fires.
Night pours burning hail,
The night pours lead into us,
And death with a heavy look
Stared at the face.
And flashes of rifles
The whole world is in bloom.
And suddenly the word rushed:
"Forward!".
Now it's all in the past:
Night, volleys and shrapnel,
shot hat,
Soldier's overcoat.
Now other sounds...
But if the enemy comes,
I'll take a rifle in my hands
And I'll even out!
SHULCHEV VALENTIN IVANOVICH
(1914 – 1943)
From the first days of the war, Valentin Shulchev was at the front: a correspondent for the newspaper For the Glory of the Motherland!, a fighter in the detachment of the First Kursk Partisan Brigade. In the battle near Kharkov, he was wounded, captured, but he managed to escape. Once again in the ranks, the warrior poet fought the enemy with a vengeance. In moments of calm, he wrote poems, songs, ditties, which were memorized by soldiers by heart and distributed through the trenches.
February 21, 1943 in a battle on the outskirts of Kursk, saving a wounded comrade, the poet died. On his chest, under his tunic, friends found a notebook where he wrote down poems.
Oryol region
excerpt from a poem
Log house - wide open shutters -
Surrounded by blue midnight.
There, an old one approaches the window,
Far-distant slurred dream.
There, over the gray swamp creeps
All in crimson smoke moon,
And the old woman mumbles something
There is one on the steep porch.
Night waved a falling star.
Along the rattling water,
under the flying moon
He walks alone in the night.
The windows in the old house are dimming.
A black bayonet at his shoulder.
White wax, or stearin,
Floats, tearing, a candle.
Death torment unspeakable
The silent mouth is skewed.
Incomparable guerrilla
Two bandits lead forward.
Light and shade. And an eerie noise.
The haze of visions and dreams is full.
Hanging on curtains all month long
Not a curtained window.
Night waved a falling star.
Are you sleeping, old lady? Where is your son?
Above the thundering water,
at the pine tree
He lies slanting under the wind.
He is waist-deep in purple blood,
Dressed in tin dew.
Quietly rises above him lilac
And unearthly damp dawn.
The moon is hiding. Shadows, shadows...
Twilight looks from all angles,
The haze of indistinct is full of visions,
Distant rustles, vague dreams.
A star has flown through
Above the water, above the pine stump.
Do you sleep? - "I'm sleeping. I do not know anything.
I won't say anything about him."
But he crawls on wet grasses,
Cautious and unsociable.
Twisted and bloody
The trail follows him like a path.
Washed by pre-dawn dew,
He returns home
unfinished, unfinished,
Bloody but straight.
He is unexpected and unexpected,
Faithful to the right, big war,
With a red banner and revolver
Rises on a horse.
And evil troubles end.
The darkness is leaving like a bird in flight...
Over the village of his "Victory"
The golden dawn rises.
POETERS RETURNING FROM THE WAR
BUT IN DIFFERENT YEARS OF THE LOST LIFE
GOLOVANOV SERGEY IVANOVICH
(1917 – 1976)
When the Great Patriotic War began, he went to the front, fought the enemy from the first to the last day - Victory Day. He reached Prague with battles, was awarded military orders and medals more than once.
Infantry advances
In the blaze of gunfire
The infantry is coming straight...
Here is a guy (he was a sailor in the past)
Carries a red-hot, sharp bayonet -
He brings revenge on the enemy.
In battle, he scorned the danger.
And, throwing off the helmet on the run,
He suddenly put on a peakless cap.
Stepped into a thunderstorm - into fire and smoke,
There, to the raging river.
The boy jealously behind him
Runs with a grenade in his hand.
He was adopted by the regiment
(Mother died, father soldier).
When he left the convoy
Didn't see a single fighter.
Here everyone is called to battle.
And everyone knows: there is no death!
The Russian infantry is coming.
The infantry has many years...
The infantry is very few years old ...
Even in the village, fumes are flowing,
There is still snow all around...
Before the conflagration of the soldiers
Stopped suddenly.
The soldier is a little surprised
Seeing the doll under the ashes.
The doll's hair is scorched
And the blue apron is torn.
Unable to look away
He silently looks at the doll.
- Where is my daughter? the soldier asked.
Ash is silent.
- Where is my daughter? he asked again
No homeless pipe...
He silently put the doll
At the roadside post.
She's here in plain sight now.
Let the children take care of the doll.
And without closing inquisitive eyes,
Introduced his daughter to a soldier.
She's beyond the enemy line
Where the long-desired ones are waiting for us,
A tear with a thin hand
Erases from mother's eyes.
And he believes with his mother: he will come
Father back to the village...
- There, to the west, only forward
My way! the soldier said.
Blizzard, stuffing into gullies,
Drives snow to someone else's border.
Waiting for a bayonet attack
I'm lying on a dusty mound.
Mom, you probably didn't forget.
As she sat with me by the fire,
She gave me steamy milk,
She wrapped me in a blanket.
And the uryoma is blown by a blizzard,
You and I chopped wood in it.
You salted my black bread cool.
Poured into a cup of fatty cabbage soup.
I see, mother, without closing my eyes:
In the golden evening silence
The lamp is lit, and you, dear,
You read Pushkin's fairy tales to me ...
Mum! The son goes to the fire,
On the shoulder he is a soldier's work.
The duffel bag does not press on the shoulders.
And when hiking, boots do not rub.
Blizzard, stuffing into gullies,
Drives snow to someone else's border.
Waiting for a bayonet attack
I'm lying on a dusty mound.
Mother
In the wide reflections of the sunset,
In the edge of the smoky, steppe,
Embracing the earth, three soldiers
They lay facing west.
Holy vengeance led the battle,
And death led to immortality.
I remember: a gray-haired woman
Came to the battlefield.
No rustle, no bird songs ...
First, in the silence of the steppe
She is according to Russian custom
She bowed to the earth.
Then she succumbed to the heroes,
As usual, the eyes...
Immortelle, sweet clover bloomed in the steppe,
And the feather-grass spilled white.
There was a woman, palm
Shielding your face from the wind.
And, forgetting about fatigue,
Forward, forward, the infantry went! ..
And each of them seemed
What was his mother...
Infantryman
Inhaling the conflagration soot,
Anger carried in battles
Lying, freezing in the trenches,
For people to live in houses
Crawling under the roar of guns
To the pillboxes of strangers in the darkness,
For people to walk again
AT full height on the ground.
DOROSHIN PAVEL ALEKSEEVICH
(1913 – 1977)
In October 1941, Pavel Doroshin went to the front. He served in the sapper troops, continued to write poems, which were published in "combat sheets".
Leaving for the front
Daughters Svetlana
If I die in battle
Don't mourn my death
Because in the death of a fighter
There is immortality and there is no end.
Believe - the enemy will be avenged for everything:
And for interrupted children's sleep,
And for childhood, a trampled garden,
And your tears will be avenged.
You then, starting to live,
new life know how to value.
And, brushing a tear from your face,
Do not mourn the death of your father.
A heart
An infantryman carried a regimental banner,
Our shrine, through fire and smoke.
And it seemed to us: the truth of our flame
A fiery sun blazed above him.
Sacred is the sweetness of the first harsh battles!
Death darted around in fear.
He fell bloodied and again
He got up and walked, lighting the way for us.
Crows circled above him in confusion,
And the warrior walked, sweeping death out of the way.
He was cheeky. Then the enemies decided
Rip a living heart out of your chest.
And the standard-bearer was surrounded by tanks,
But the infantryman seemed to have grown into the ground ...
Must be the legendary Danko in the fairy tale
So he carried a bloodied heart.
So that the son does not fight
I will endure everything: and nights in the snow,
And the scorching forge of steppe heat,
Silence before the attack, rumble,
Long separation, friend, with you;
In the huts unseen dreams
Groaning in delirium, when in the coming of spring
The wounded fell on the spot;
I will endure everything: and the bitter taste of the wave,
And the last terrible shaft of fire,
So that, born on the first day of the war,
My son has never fought.
Two
The gas chamber stopped around the corner.
The Germans worked in a hurry.
They dumped the bodies. But someone
Still breathing.
Woman in a crater dug by a bomb
So she lay - her face in the twilight:
One hand pressed to the chest of the child,
The other is clenched into a fist.
The two lay inseparably together.
The dead, they cried out for vengeance.
Now the snowdrops would bloom
And call the larks
Yes, a song would lead a round dance,
But only this is not.
For the time being, the steppe, blackening, is silent,
In the thawed patches - a trail of guns.
Tanks with a swastika - like rooks,
The flowers blocked the light.
Water flows down crooked crosses,
Their bullets overtook, burned.
Now we're attacking these places
They went through mud up to their knees.
And there is no more fighting here -
We need to get ahead.
So, snowdrops bloom,
And the larks sing!
ZHURAVLEV VASILY ANDREEVICH
(1914 – 1996)
At the very beginning of the war, he went to the front as a volunteer, having traveled from Moscow to Berlin and Prague
Mother
Once again today
I dreamed about my dead mother.
She entered my snow trench
She put her hand on my forehead
And eyes full of warmth
Quietly asked:
Son, is that you?
Yes, my dear, yes, my mother!
Can't you recognize me already?
Am I not like this anymore?
Restless and young? ..
And mother looked into my eyes
(In them, more than one tear was baked),
And mother looked at my temple
(He has more than one gray hair)
Stroked my wrinkled forehead
And she shook her head.
Then she looked into my heart
Which fought in blood and fire,
that led me into battle
Which called for revenge ...
And the mother said:
- Yes, you are all like that -
Restless and young!
I'm afraid not of mortal destiny,
Not voids of nothingness -
I'm afraid to die without doing
What I could do
The laws of being are capricious:
War ... You look - you are not there ...
And yet in the history of the Fatherland
I want my mark to remain.
I want my thought to be alive
Never died
And, so that the descendant, remembering
bloody years,
Among the famous heroes -
People of steel and fire
Among fellow citizens famous
Call me by name.
KUBANEV VASILY MIKHAILOVICH
(1921 – 1942)
The poet-warrior Vasily Kubanev lived only 21 years.
We are not alone
Berlin bandits are itching:
"In Russia, open spaces -
you won't find richer!
Immediately - as soon as you ascend to the ground -
Thousands will climb into their pockets ... ".
We moved forces to the enemy camp.
We have become a wall
we are not alone!
In downtrodden countries closed by fascists
We have legions of working-class kin.
On the black, smoky ruins of buildings,
The hating soul is not cunning,
People put up a gallows
and the inscription:
In all regions, in all languages.
We will come to them and the banner of freedom
Let's take them in our hands.
When we fought you were with us
Mouths burned with words.
Live happily
under the red banner
Get up with us.
Walk straight, breathe easy
All those who bent their backs low!
It's far from Berlin to Moscow,
And from Moscow to Berlin - close!
KUCHIN IVAN SERGEEVICH
(1924 – 2000)
In 1938 he joined the Komsomol, on a Komsomol ticket from the 9th grade he went to construction defensive structures, and in 1942 - in the army. In the same year, his first poetic publications appeared in the front-line press. As an ordinary machine gunner, he fought on the Southwestern Front, near Stalingrad. He was wounded and shell-shocked.
Ivan Kuchin was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War I degree, Red Star, medals.
Nightingales forty-five
Nightingales forty-fifth year,
How you sang in those May gardens!
Nightingale's thin throat
Freezes on the upper frets.
And then it breaks off abruptly
Starfall in the tight skies.
And the jubilant reflection of fireworks
Shining in wet eyes...
This evening in the depths of the heart
So many quivering feelings sprouted.
Embraced the victory of loved ones,
And there were no words rejected.
Iridescent tickling, peals,
Sun splashes in rocket wreaths
Tears of joy, tears of loss
And non-melting snow on the temples ...
On Victory Day
I remember the year forty-one,
I remember the forty-fifth year -
And our victorious rockets,
And our innumerable losses.
... And nature rejoices in spring:
Volleys of the sun, flashes of foliage.
Young gardens are suspended
On the rays, as on the threads of the living.
The obelisks froze in silence.
We go to them - for two, for three.
Gray-haired brother-soldiers sing
About their young peers ...
Heights became tubercles,
Relentless flight of heights!
Loopholes of defeated pillboxes,
Like hearts, they closed the flowers ...
MILOSERDOV SEMYON SEMYONOVYCH
(1921 – 1988)
A young fighter passed many front-line roads. On Belarusian soil, near Gomel, he was seriously wounded and became an invalid at the age of 23. He was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War I degree and medals.
Mother Russia
Night. In the blurry glow of the stars
Whirling the lunar web,
The bomber was torn to pieces
The sky is a bright circle.
I fell into a plantain.
I'm not meant to live.
I lie bloody, almost lifeless...
But Russia touches her forehead with her fingers:
- Get up, son.
- I injured?
Yes, injured...
And again, bandaged, I'm going with the infantry
Everything forward, everything to the west, crushing the accursed force...
Merged together in death delirium
Image of Mother and Russia.
Monument to the Fallen
These bridges and hangars
These palaces, TV towers,
These gardens and boulevards -
Monument to the fallen.
Unrecognizably bright
City of hand-to-hand fighting.
His schools and children -
Monument to the fallen.
He was reared by the bombing,
Once smelling of burning,
Smells like purple smoke
Monument to the fallen.
The regiment, dying proudly,
Corrected death and oblivion,
Lie down under the foundation of the city -
Monument to the fallen.
Apple trees of these estates,
These arable lands outside the city,
The world of housewarmings and weddings -
Monument to the fallen.
Soldier's Tale
An ominous tank dives in smoke,
He hesitates to turn on us,
It's like he's checking his nerves...
Then the commander gave me an order.
I'm crawling... And fear gnashes in my ears,
Ringing, roaring, rattling...
That tank crushed children and women, -
Will he escape retribution?
Then I became stronger than fear
He stood up and threw that there is strength,
Grenades from all over!
And the formidable tank stopped!
In the smoke, under the midday sky
They stood - do not forget forever! -
iron fear,
defeated by me
And I, I am a weak man!
SHAMOV IVAN VASILIEVICH
(1918 – 1965)
Poet, military pilot. In 1940, he left the last year of the institute and became a cadet at the Bataysk aviation school. The news of the war found him in a tent city, and in the summer of 1942 he received a baptism of fire. After the war, Ivan Shamov remained in aviation. In 1947, during the next flight, the engine failed in the air, the plane crashed to the ground. The pilot was unconscious for ten days. The doctors brought him back to life, but he was forever bedridden.
POEMS OF WAR CHILDREN
AKULOV IVAN IVANOVICH
(born in 1942)
sentinels froze
Ate in the circle of honorary posts.
Cramped for warriors mass grave
Without tesovye coffins and crosses.
- Hello, dad!
- ... hello, son!
Soon the century, as the soul dreams
Look at the native leaf -
At the military time of the baby.
You are almost twice as old as me.
In gray hair, as in snow, the head.
Apparently, I saw unmeasured grief,
If dry, like grass in a field.
Sorry,
that he did not return from the war:
I wanted, but fate let me down -
Blocked the energy of the pulse,
Killed living wings.
- Don't punish yourself, dad:
To die for the fatherland in battle
Equally righteous, holy,
How to get rid of your own family.
Yes, we are alone...
We were in trouble…
But what a family in Russia
Avoided disaster and failure
Faith in the power of good heaven.
It's you who forgive us -
too long
Your matured children
Not in a hurry to repay the debt
And a declaration of eternal love.
The birds fell silent on a cloud of blue,
May cried with the tears of a boy,
Seeing the meeting of the sad son
And a father cast in bronze.
GERASIMOV PETER SERGEEVICH
(born in 1934)
Grandma's love
granddaughter painting grandmother
In a lost village
sighing heavily
With grief on the forehead.
She sits, old woman,
Motionless like a shadow.
And the shadow is her friend -
She has both night and day.
A little kerosene breezes,
Darkness is not touched in the corners.
And a strand from under the scarf
Sticks out like a white flag.
Like a white flag before old age.
And on the wall is a portrait:
Husband - young and joyful -
From pre-war years...
GERASIN VIKTOR IVANOVICH
(born in 1939)
handful of earth
Kisses Baltika Rostock.
The zenith over the elm is clear until the ringing.
It lies in the ground, tied in a knot,
A gift chintz scarf.
A handful of earth is stored in a scarf -
That black soil from near Tambov,
His sailor in a harsh battle
Shore away from home...
The sailor fell with a hot chest,
Fell on the edge of the fire
Under the roar of the waves, under the howl of guns,
He hugged the shore...
A living seed was sleeping in the handkerchief.
Green over the steep elm.
In all winds it stands like flint,
With the blue of a sailor's eyes...
A sailor will dream of centuries
The boundlessness of the dawn sky.
And the winged postman - a bird -
Wear a bow from under Tambov.
Eternal flame
Five roads - five worries,
And sadness - steps.
Under the concrete roof
Beat, beat shadows.
Shadows are silent
The houses are burning down.
Shadows are prone
The soldiers are falling.
From the depths, from the earth
Sounds are coming...
Mother is coming, it's hard
Dropping my hands.
Here is the mountain stone -
All the support of the old.
And the eyes from the fire
It suddenly got warmer.
And from her heart
Name separated.
The fire swayed
The shadow passed by
Strong stone wings
darted wide
And to the face, and to the chest
Mother clung.
And again, and again
Beat, beat shadows...
Here both up and down
Heavy steps.
Mom
Widow's share, how difficult you are! ..
Remained widows - girls.
Didn't wear a black scarf
After receiving a funeral.
Not fenced off by blackness
From hope and expectation.
To the echelons, as if on a date,
I ran and believed: alive!
And then among the human grief
Isn't your soul torn to pieces?
Burying your grief deep
You cried with happiness with everyone ...
The wind drove the clouds to the west,
As if on the trail of an enemy ...
Didn't wear a black scarf
Because I believed in victory.
So that the names are not forgotten ...
A thunderstorm hung over the Motherland,
The earth was already on fire.
Letters flew to Tambov from the war,
That there won't be a long war.
But ahead - plenty of suffering
For generals and soldiers...
And funerals for the first widows
Already handed over the draft board.
It seemed that these black troubles
And there is no end in sight.
But faith is firm in victory
Every fighter had one.
Heroes spared no life
Do not flinch before the enemy
So that only mother-fatherland
Don't be under the enemy's boot...
More fighters slain to fall,
Until the war is over.
But if only the memory remains
And the names are not forgotten.
Obelisks are white, obelisks are black...
The ninth day of May comes again -
This is a special day for my country.
But no one will ask and no one knows
What is going on in the souls of war orphans.
But wherever I am, and whatever I do,
Everything before my eyes - explosions and fire ...
Obelisks are black, obelisks are white...
I will put my warm hand on the stone.
Under some stone in the far side
My father has been lying dead for so many years.
And my age, also lonely,
The nameless stone will visit in May ...
On the warm earth, someone's children run,
But the visions are clear in my memory:
Black obelisks, white obelisks
Time marks in the middle of the fields.
ZAMYATIN NIKOLAY MIKHAILOVICH
(1928 - 2008)
Victory
You are ours. You are our every home
You warm with your rays.
Earned by hard work
You live with us and grow old.
No need, Victory, don't get old,
Be forever, like May, young,
And do not part with the memory -
With good and bad.
You left us sometimes
One on one with trouble
frosty Russian winter,
Under the capital - Moscow.
Do you remember Vyazma and Strelna,
Blockade children of Leningrad,
The victorious swallow of Yelnya
And summaries of the battles of Stalingrad.
What kind of pain did you get
Immeasurable people's love,
And with a hammer, and with a plow,
And fiery Kursk Bulge…
Victory. Holy of Holies.
You are our bright spirituality
For old and young.
You are the glory of Russia and pride.
There are fewer of them...
The pain subsided, the soul burned out.
And I kind of look from the side:
And how many of them are left, survived
From that world damned war?
Long Live the Victory!
But without them...
Without generals, officers, privates ...
Less and less of them, less and less remains:
And what will that time be called?
When will we have someone to congratulate?
KURBATOVA TATYANA LVOVNA
(born in 1954)
Cup of Memory
Forty-one and forty-fifth
These dates are engraved in my heart.
Buchenwald clatter the tocsin
Forty-one and forty-fifth
This is our eternal memory.
This is a bullet-pierced banner
Above the Reichstag in the hands of a soldier.
Victory Day! May! Forty-fifth!
Through a broken helmet
by the sleepy river
Blue-eyed cornflowers sprouted.
Where there were battles, where the war thundered, -
Blue over the river, cornflowers, silence ...
And nothing about the past.
Only a rusty shell.
And nothing...
Only a row of twisted birches.
Only the old trench, -
It is overgrown with grass.
Only the memory of the earth
Only tears of birches ...
In the forest near the front -
breath of spring.
In dawn twilight,
in the arms of silence
Among the birches flowing like smoke
The snowdrop looks with a blue eye.
And nearby slumbers among the gray birches
Cold tank. He seemed to be rooted to the ground.
The soldiers are sleeping. They will soon fight again.
Spring frontal snowdrops.
And there is a war on the streets.
And there is a war
shoots from all guns.
And down the road
scarlet river ...
And you are a soldier - forever young.
The land was scorched by fire.
Grass weedy fields.
Get up, soldier!
It's not time to die.
Get up, son!
Your mother is waiting for you!
Fragile wings crunch,
The dusty path is empty.
Eye stones are decay.
Dead hands captured.
And all around are crosses and crosses.
Inanimate flowers wither.
And around the crow, crow
Protects your kingdom
Resurrect, raise ...
Yes, no strength.
Only a crunch is heard
Fragile wings.
Everlasting memory the fallen.
Let them sleep peacefully.
Fallen leaves time
H a falls on their shoulders.
Time erases dates.
Where are you, relatives?
Brothers, sons, soldiers,
May you sleep peacefully.
Forgiveness day
Bow to the ground.
The weight of old hands.
And so the circle of memory closes.
On a white mound - a candle light.
Our memory must have expired.
Old women in headscarves came to the graves.
Bow to you, soldiers, bow to the ground.
And tomorrow who will come to these graves?
Who will bring a candle in the palms here?
There are obelisks, you can't read the names...
Soldiers, soldiers...
And how much - God knows!
Showered photos under the snow, rain,
And we quietly walk along the graves.
By white snow, according to our memory,
According to the photograph, fallen to the ground ...
Forgive me on Forgiveness, the day we need so much,
Old women from abandoned villages,
A row of mounds sprinkled with millet.
Sorry, graves of forgotten soldiers...
Heavy sky. Is it winter, spring?
Who will remember you tomorrow?
The answer is silence.
red ball
From the post-war devastation
I came out of the low hut.
Hut - two blue windows,
The sunflower pressed against the wattle fence.
I'm so happy that I got out
How lucky I am to have survived!
What a beautiful red ball!
Now I will catch up with him.
I run - and the village looks
With the eyes of calm windows,
Keeping triangles of letters
The triangles of the lips are silent ...
Over the herbs poured juice,
Under the song soaring high
From the post-war devastation
I'm running for the red ball!
My father is short, and his friend too.
Gray hair and fate are similar to each other.
Sons - we are taller, brighter in face.
But no matter how tall and bright I may be,
I am not brighter and not higher than this sky,
Pigeon sky that became a father.
Something similar, post-war children,
We are with fathers. We drank and we are in hard times.
Hemp, like dots on a bird's egg.
I go by childhood memory. And approaching
By terrible days, I feel both pain and pity.
And I am silent at the beginning. And I cry at the end.
My father is short. I shrug my shoulders.
Another moment - and I will reach the clouds with my hands.
Do not interfere with growing neither melancholy nor trouble.
But the fathers that came out alive and dead
From the fire - above our memory and above
Heights where a star flies after a star.
Zhelanovka
Near the village of Zhelanovka
The river flows with song.
In the blue pool without a bottom
I'll throw tackle for fishing happiness.
Behind the village of Zhelanovka is a field,
Don't see the face
Don't knock on the forgotten door.
Don't go all the way
All fields cannot be crossed.
I want to know so as not to torture myself
belated pain,
Who Zhelanovka
Did you name this remote village?
And another village
Lovingly named Love.
I go to the hut
Where the old woman sits under the window.
I see joy and sorrow
On the stern face of the mother ...
In a stranger
Behind shoulders with a fishing bag,
Her son will live
In 1943 he was killed near Minsk.
I heard the shot and looked back.
The echo rolled like a ball across the fields.
I saw the poplar and recoiled:
Poplar cut in half
Survived. And under the blow of frost
He did not bow to Tsar January.
Has grown in my eyes. Silently from the slope
I respectfully look at the poplar.
As if I see in the early morning:
Quietly stands near a slender pine
An old soldier with an unhealed wound,
Just got back from the war.
Post-war years, post-war years.
A wall pasted over with a fresh newspaper of dawn.
Clear waters go from the mouth to the source,
Medals and orders shine with a shy light.
This is a medal for courage, and for capture of Berlin,
And for the victory in the Great Patriotic War.
The award was presented to the father, and he gave them to his son,
As they say in our books, - to the successor, that is, to me.
We were not yet in life when the awards were given out,
But with every atom of the body, we felt the war.
War games of childhood ... We were not happy ourselves
To the fact that we play war - we defended the country ...
We play war with my brother. Sad, uninteresting.
Is it easy if war is a disaster?
My planes are flying on iron wire,
His trains run across the unpainted floorboards.
They are bringing reinforcements, ammunition ... to the Nazis.
I rise from my chair, fasten my overcoat.
With a furious, terrible roar, with an unimaginable whistle,
Making dead loops, I go to the target.
I overturned the train. And my heart screamed:
- This is for our Motherland and for the Soviet people! ..
Then they changed places and started over.
My brother shouted even louder: “For the Motherland!” and "Forward!".
And peaceful planes flew outside the window,
And the trains left for a long distance without end.
Bees from flowering clover collected honey in honeycombs ...
My father's medals shone with a quiet, shy light.
MAKAROV ARKADIY VASILIEVICH
(born in 1940)
my generation
We are Young. Midday heat in the blood.
And the mind is sober. And good conversation.
We are children, scorched by war,
We are children illuminated by victory.
At the feast hour at the holiday of the country
We still look good.
We swear to be worthy fathers
We are the sons of that great war!
There is a soldier. He is in a stone overcoat.
I will kneel before the soldier:
“I am your blood shed near Kursk,
In a deadly battle on the Russian plain.
In a heavy hand - a machine gun bed,
And behind the back - Motherland and mother.
There is a soldier, and he is younger than me,
But I can't understand this.
Motherland honor, native pain and memory,
You are all on that, on that all shore ...
“I swear, soldier, I will not drop the banner,
I'll save your name!"
The memory of the fallen
As in words, infinitely simple,
Distinguish all your greatness?
... Get on your knees, my verse,
Before the memory of the fallen!
Silence over the native threshold,
The pain of the alarm in Khatyn mourning,
And the ranks in strict silence -
The memory of the fallen.
The memory of the fallen burns with an eye,
Snowfalls and blinding rain.
And the little one that flickers outside the window -
The memory of the fallen.
So live, man, and create,
Raise a full cup of life ...
And darling, your hands -
The memory of the fallen.
You ring, lark, ring
In the spring over open arable land.
The sun in the sky, like an eternal flame, -
The memory of the fallen.
Book of Memory
Brutal and long war.
Her hero - slain in hand-to-hand combat
Cheerful brown-eyed foreman.
And that soldier who was reputed to be unknown -
The old woman is quietly waiting for him in the night,
Considering myself a young bride,
Yes, the groom is still not coming from the front ...
Living memory that for all ages.
And quivering, heartfelt pain
Suddenly the printed line will burn.
I will open the book and read:
My name is on that list!
But I live, love, dream...
And all the names here can not be counted -
The names of those who protected us loved ones -
Gathered them together binding ...
And in half of Europe - obelisks,
And how many of them are still missing!
And to perpetuate everyone,
These scarlet volumes have been published.
Read. This is not the place for speech.
Read to the heart and mind
Those lines of sad saints came,
Where next - the commander and the soldier ...
Under the peaceful sky, kids frolic,
And the alarm sounds to the memory of the saint.
How's life, old man?
Better than in a trench!
From the conversation of the veterans
Gray hair - like orders,
Like the smoke of Khatyn...
So there were times
Bitter wormwood.
There were, for sure. But a long time ago.
Don't break copies!
Is it difficult? Doesn't matter
Better than in a trench.
Gray hair - like orders,
A sign of optimism...
But suddenly the war will dream,
Trizna for the dead.
Suddenly dream of a terrible battle
And the last cartridge ...
In that battle, he became gray-haired,
as if fresh snow winter,
And the day was summer.
Gray hair - like orders,
Like a sister's robe...
The war has not ended
That terrible fight goes on.
YOUNG POTTS DIE ON THE FRONTS OF THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR
The dead won't thank me
Just kiss the breeze
Or a ray of sunshine
Gently lies between these lines...
Ilya Tokov
Andrukhaev Khusen, 20 years old
Artemov Alexander, 29 years old
Bagritsky Vsevolod, 19 years old
Bogatkov Boris, 21 years old
Vakarov Dmitry, 24 years old
Viktoras Valaitis, 27 years old
Vintman Pavel, 24 years old
Gorodissky Zakhar, 20 years old
Guryan (Khachaturyan) Tatul, 29 years old
Zanadvorov Vladislav, 28 years old
Kaloev Khazby, 22 years old
Quicinia Levarsa, 29 years old
Kogan Pavel, 24 years old
Krapivnikov Leonid, 21 years old
Kulchitsky Mikhail, 23 years old
Lebedev Alexey, 29 years old
Livertovsky Joseph, 24 years old
Loboda Vsevolod, 29 years old
Lukyanov Nikolai, 22 years old
Mayorov Nikolay, 22 years old
Ovsyannikov Nikolai, 24 years old
Podarevsky Eduard, 24 years old
Podstanitsky Alexander, 22 years old
Polyakov Evgeny, 20 years old
Razikov Evgeny, 23 years old
Razmyslov Ananiy, 27 years old
Rimsky-Korsakov Vsevolod, 25 years old (died in the Leningrad blockade)
Rozenberg Leonid, 22 years old
Strelchenko Vadim, 29 years old
Suvorov Georgy, 25 years old
Surnachev Mikola, 27 years old
Tikhachek Arian, 19 years old
Ushkov Georgy, 25 years old
Fedorov Ivan, 29 years old
Shersher Leonid, 25 years old
Shulchev Valentin, 28 years old
Esenkojaev Kuseyin, 20 years old
Who else do you know?
They left at dawn
[Text: Dmitry Shevarov/RG]
We still found those yards from where they went to the front. Front gardens, sheds, a linden under the window, a lorry that raised clouds of dust in our street - a lot around was antediluvian, that is, pre-war.
And that lilac, at which the graduates of 1941 said goodbye, showered its color on us when we played war. After the rain, dark water with stars swirled in the pre-war barrel. In the evening, leaving the yard all covered in dust and abrasions, suddenly a mysterious wind from the garden touched our flushed faces, and it seemed to us that there, in the garden, someone was crying softly and these were not leaves under the moonlight, but girlish shoulders were trembling.
The night butterfly inaudibly beats against the glass, trembles. So the agenda trembles in the mother's hand. The cherished notebook for poetry is not yet in the backpack, but under the pillow.
In May, evening twilight turns too quickly into morning. Shut up, alarm clocks. Don't rattle, washstand. Shut up, loudspeakers. A locomotive with a red star on its chest, stay still on the siding ... Let me finish the verses.
I hate to live without undressing,
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
To forget the tired hunger.
Chilling, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
From home do not receive an answer,
Change junk for black bread.
I'm sad about the overcoat,
I see smoky dreams
No, they failed me
Return from War.
Days fly by like bullets
Like shells - years ...
Still not returned
Will never return.
And where can I go?
A friend was killed in the war.
And the silent heart
It began to beat in me.
***
I did not smoke for long, for a long time - in the war.
(A small piece of that life, but dear!)
Until now, for some reason, I suddenly hear:
"Friend, leave "sixty" or "forty"!
And you can’t refuse - you let it finish.
Smiling, chatting with the fighters.
And some new strong thread
It arose then between the hearts.
And for those who smoke, they are already eagerly watching,
He won't be able to refuse.
If someone says:
"Be a friend, soldier!" -
And leave not "forty", so "twenty".
There was something heartbreaking about
How they shared terry at a halt.
So then they shared the last bandage,
They gave their lives for a friend...
And in everyday battles I was able to resist,
Even if it hurts and it's hard,
Because they shared with me again,
As at the front, the last puff.
***
I've seen melee so many times,
Once upon a time. And a thousand - in a dream.
Who says that war is not scary,
He knows nothing about the war.
Lesson Objectives:
Educational:
To acquaint with the poets who died in the war, through the performance of excerpts from their works;
To form an idea of the war through the lyrics of poets who died in the war.
Developing:
Develop an interest in the history of your country;
Develop a skill expressive reading.
Educational:
Cultivate patriotism;
Foster a culture of listening;
Raise respect for veterans.
The file contains a presentation for a literature lesson, a lesson script and audio recordings of songs for intros.
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"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 atmosphere of immersion in wartime;
Pay attention to the courage and heroism of poets;
To help hear passionate poems full of love for the Motherland and hatred for enemies.
Educational:
- to acquaint with the poets who died in the war, through the performance of excerpts from their works;
- to form an idea of the war through the lyrics of poets who died in the war.
Developing:
- develop an interest in the history of their country;
- to develop the skill of expressive reading.
Educational:
- educate patriotism;
- foster a culture of listening;
- to develop a respectful attitude towards veterans.
During the classes
1. The word of the teacher. Historical information about the war.
- At dawn on June 22, 1941 Nazi Germany, violating the non-aggression pact, 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, almost an entire generation of men was destroyed by the war.
There are many tragic pages in the poetry of the period of the Great Patriotic War.
Through the decades, poets who died during the Great Patriotic War make their way to us. Forever they will remain nineteen and twenty years old. 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 fate. Their "lines, pierced by bullets" remained forever alive, remained the memory of the war, and the fact that these lines will never be corrected or completed, imposes a special seal on them - the seal 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 to death in fascist dungeons. He was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
Boris Kotov, Hero of the Soviet Union, died while crossing the Dnieper. Under Leningrad, Vsevolod Bagritsky remained forever, near Smolensk - Boris Bogatkov, Nikolai Mayorov, near Stalingrad - Mikhail Kulchitsky. Pavel Kogan, Georgy Suvorov, Dmitry Vakarov fell heroically...
(A fragment of the song “Cranes” by M. Bernes, music by J. Frenkel, words by R. Gamzatov sounds.)
(Lyrics of song 1, verse 2.)
Sometimes it seems to me that the soldiers
From the bloody fields that did not come,
Not in our land once perished,
And they turned into white cranes.
They are still from the time of those distant
Isn't that why so often and sadly
Are we silent, looking at the sky?
2. Lyrics of poets who died in the war. (Performance of students, reading poetry.)
Today we will read the poems of poets who died in the war. Understand how much we have lost! How much they gave us! Eternal memory to them!
(6 slides)
- The war, in the very thick of which Jalil found himself, was cruel and merciless. And death, about which the poet wrote more than once, stood behind him - Musa, he felt her icy breath with the back of his head. Beatings, torture, bullying - all this was a rough everyday reality. And the blood caked on his temples was his own hot blood. This gives rise to a sense of the authenticity of Jalil's poetry - poetry in which pain, torment, the heaviness of bondage are directed to the bright triumphant song of life. After all, the worst thing happened to him - captivity. In July 1942, on the Volkhov front, seriously wounded in the shoulder, Musa Jalil fell into the hands of the enemy. “Sorry, Motherland! exclaims the poet, 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 smell of prey, close,
The wolves prowl all night long.
Torture, interrogation, bullying, the expectation of an imminent death - this is the background against which the Moabit Notebooks were created.
Love for life, hatred for the fascism that opposes it, confidence in victory, tender messages to his wife and daughter - these are their contents. The poem is riddled with bitterness and hatred. The life of Musa Jalil ended on January 25, 1944.
(A fragment of the song VIA “Ariel” by V. Yarushin “Silence” sounds, music and words 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 today,
Mourns for those who are not with us today.
- The poet Boris Kotov died in the war. In 1942, he volunteered for the front, contrary to the decision of the medical commission, which recognized him as unfit for military service. Wrote poetry on the battlefield.
(The student reads a fragment from the poem “When the Enemy Comes.”)
Now other sounds...
But when the enemy comes,
I'll take a rifle in my hands
And I'll even out!
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. On September 27, 1943, Sergeant Kotov Boris Alexandrovich, when crossing the Dnieper in the area of the southern outskirts of Keleberd, 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 combat formations northwest of vil. Bakers. Noticing the accumulation of enemy infantry, Sergeant Kotov, setting his mortar in an open position, opened well-aimed direct fire. The Germans advanced in columns, supported by fire from the Ferdinand self-propelled gun. Having shot 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 ranks of the enemy and, when the Germans leaned back and fled, pursued the enemies. With his courage Comrade. Kotov dragged along the rest of the fighters. A fragment of a mine comrade. Kotov was killed. He died a heroic death in the struggle for his homeland.
Worthy of the posthumous highest degree of distinction - the title of "Hero of the Soviet Union".
(A fragment of the song VIA “Ariel” by V. Yarushin “Silence” sounds, music and words by L. Gurov)
2nd verse of the song.
This fight, he's already behind, a bloody fight.
Again, someone is no longer with us,
There was someone left in a foreign land,
There was someone left on a foreign land, that land ...
– Under Leningrad forever remained Vsevolod Bagritsky. He began writing poetry at an early age. From the first days of the war, V. Bagritsky rushed to the front. His poems were included in all anthologies of the genre so beloved by Soviet literary criticism "poets who fell in the Great Patriotic War."
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 was appointed 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 stamina, he easily endured all the hardships of army life, was at the front all the time, monitored the conduct of hostilities, and appeared in the newspaper editorial office only to submit another article.
While fighting, Bagritsky firmly believed in the victory of the Red Army over fascism, this is clearly indicated by the lines of a letter written from the front to his mother: “Our victory will free the world from the worst atrocity of war for a long time.”
Unfortunately, military career Bagritsky lasted only two months - on February 26, 1941 he died. Fulfilling the task of 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 shot down two German fighters the other day. At this time, the bombing began, and both of them died. Obviously, the death of the poet came instantly - a fragment pierced his spine. The next day, February 27, the dead Vsevolod Bagritsky was brought to the unit. He also had a field bag pierced by shrapnel, in which they found a notebook of verses and last letter mother.
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
To forget the tired hunger.
Chilling, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
From home do not receive an answer,
Confuse plans, numbers and paths,
Twenty. (1941)
(A fragment of the song VIA “Flame” by S. Berezin “At the village of Kryukovo” sounds, music by Y. Fradkin, lyrics by S. Ostrova.)
1st verse:
The furious forty-first year went on the attack.
A platoon dies near the village of Kryukovo.
All ammo ran out, no more grenades.
Only seven young soldiers survived.
- Died near Smolensk - Boris Bogatkov and Nikolai Mayorov. Boris Bogatkov prefers to voluntarily join the infantry, immediately to the front. But I didn’t have time to fight properly, I didn’t have time to really grapple with the enemy, and here is a severe shell shock and a hospital. Pen and pencil became his weapons, and his poetic gift called our people to work and struggle. Boris spent the night sitting in his modest little room, drawing lines of new poems and evil ditties that branded the fascist beast in his notebook.
FINALLY!
I have all this in advance
How I waited for her! Finally
Here it is, desired, in the hands! ..
Youth in girl's hands
hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
Flashed on the fronts now.
Led the guys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
So, having lived in the world for a little over twenty years, the Siberian poet, Komsomol warrior Boris Andreevich Bogatkov died.
Mayorov Nikolai: 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, which came to internal maturity in the late 30s. Born in the village of Durovka, Syzran district, Simbirsk province, in a family of workers.
We missed the sky and water.
traces are marked with iron -
where our life course is depicted
We were tall, fair-haired,
about the people who left, not loving,
He died as he himself predicted: in battle. A volunteer scout died without finishing his last cigarette, without finishing last poem, not loving, not waiting for the book of his poems, not graduating from the university, not finishing his studies at the Literary Institute, not opening all the possibilities. Everything in his life remained unfinished...
(A fragment of the song VIA “Flame” by S. Berezin “At the village of Kryukovo” sounds, (music by Y. Fradkin, lyrics by S. Ostrova).)
That far-off year blazed away with fires.
A rifle platoon was marching near the village of Kryukovo.
Saluting, frozen, stand
There are seven soldiers on guard at the mournful 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, with the rank of junior lieutenant, he left for the front.
Dreamer, visionary, lazy envious!
What? Are bullets in a helmet safer than drops?
And the riders whistle past
propeller-spinning sabers.
I used to think "lieutenant"
sounds like this: "Pour us!"
And, knowing the topography,
he stomps on the gravel.
War is not fireworks at all,
but just hard work
black with sweat
the infantry glides over the arable land.
And clay in the stomping stomp
to the marrow of the bones of frozen feet
turns on boots
the weight of bread in a monthly ration.
On fighters and buttons like
scales of heavy orders.
Not for the order.
There would be a motherland
with daily Borodino.
(A fragment of Yu. Bogatikov’s song “At a Nameless Height” sounds, music by V. Basner, lyrics by M. Matusovsky.)
1st verse:
Burning grove under the mountain
And the sunset burned with her
There were only three of us left.
Out of eighteen guys
How many good friends
Lying left on the ground
At an unfamiliar village
On an unnamed height
At an unfamiliar village
At an unnamed height.
- Pavel Kogan, Georgy Suvorov, Dmitry Vakarov fell heroically ... when the war began, and Suvorov ended up on the Leningrad front.
Book of poems by Georgy Suvorov The Word of a Soldier was signed for publication a few months after his death. Later, it was repeatedly reprinted and replenished. The poem “Even at dawn, black smoke swirls ...” became widely known.
Even in the morning black smoke swirls
Above your ruined dwelling.
And the charred bird falls
Overtaken by furious fire.
We still dream of white nights,
Like messengers of lost love
Living mountains of blue acacias
And in them enthusiastic nightingales.
Another war. But we firmly believe
What will be the day - we will drink the pain to the bottom.
The wide world will open the doors to us again,
Silence will rise with the new dawn.
Last enemy. Last accurate shot.
And the first glimpse of the morning, like glass.
My dear friend, but still, how quickly
How quickly our time has passed!
In memories we will not grieve,
Why cloud the clarity of days with sadness.
We lived our good age as people -
And for people...
The name of the front-line poet Georgy Suvorov is equally known on the banks of the Yenisei and the Neva. Born in March 1919 in the village of Abakansky (now the city of Krasnoturansk), he laid down his head on February 13 near Narva. In his field bag were found two notebooks of poems, most of them
unpublished. At the end of September 1941, Georgy Suvorov was sent to the front. Starting 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 the ranks. 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, collections 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 “Common graves” sounds, words and music by V. Vysotsky.
Crosses are not placed on mass graves,
And widows do not weep at 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 no personal fate here -
All destinies are merged into one.
3. Final word.
And this is not all the poets who did not return from the battle. Their life was cut short at the very beginning of their creative way. Of course, the death of any person is always a loss, but the death of a poet is the death of an entire poetic universe, a special world created by him and leaving with him...
They will live forever in our hearts and in our memories. Glory to the warriors - poets who gave their lives for the sake of peace on earth.
4. Homework: V.P. Astafiev "A photograph in which I am not."
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"Poets who did not return from the war"
"Poets,
not returning from the war
1418 days and nights
27 million dead
"Cranes"
Lyrics by Rasul Gamzatov, music by Jan Frenkel)
Musa Jalil
I will not bow my knees, executioner, before you,
Although I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison,
My hour will come - I will die. But know that 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 draft board 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 Severe front-line everyday life. Jalil was at the forefront all the time, 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 cuvette, which quickly filled with water. AT unconscious Musa was taken prisoner, for a long time he was on the verge of life and death. It was taken out by prisoners of war who knew their poet well.
Later, Musa Jalil was thrown into the camp, then prisons, fascist dungeons went: Moabit, Spandau, Pletzensee. In a camp near Radom, in 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 conducted political work among the prisoners, issued leaflets, distributed his poems calling for resistance and struggle. On the denunciation of a provocateur, he was captured by the Gestapo and imprisoned in solitary confinement in the Moabit prison in Berlin. Neither cruel torture, nor the promises of freedom, life and well-being, nor the 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 the Plötzensee prison in Berlin.
"Before Judgment"
(Tatar poet Musa Jalil in the Moabit prison in Berlin 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 the Moabit prison.
Two notebooks have been preserved containing 93 poems. The poems were written in the Tatar language in the first notebook in Arabic, in the second in Latin script.
Courage will last forever.
In 1946, a former prisoner of war, Nigmat Teregulov, brought a notebook with six dozen poems by Jalil to the Writers' Union of Tatarstan. A year later, a second notebook arrived from the Soviet consulate in Brussels. The Belgian patriot Andre Timmermans took her out of the Moabit prison and, fulfilling the last will of the poet, sent poems to his homeland.
Glorify your name with struggle,
So that it is not silent on the lips!
On the square, near the Volga, there is a monument to the courage of a soldier and the feat of the poet - Hero of the Soviet Union, laureate of the Lenin Prize Musa Jalil. His fiery lines are carved on granite:
My life rang the song among the people,
My death will sound like a song of struggle.
Sculptor V.E.Tsigal. 1967
The last song
What a distant land
Spacious and unobtrusive!
Only my prison
Dark and stinking.
A bird is flying in the sky
She soars up to the clouds!
And I'm lying on the floor
My hands are chained.
A flower grows freely
He is full of fragrance
And I wither in prison:
I'm out of breath.
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
On September 27, 1943, Sergeant Kotov Boris Alexandrovich, when crossing the Dnieper in the area of the southern outskirts of Keleberd, was the first to deliver his mortar to the firing position and opened rapid fire on the enemy.
Cold at midnight, hot at noon
The wind wants to sweep away all the dust.
Remains working Kharkiv
Milestone passed on the way.
Wars on the left and wars on the right
In the center is a death carousel.
And thoughtful Poltava
It lies before us as a goal.
The cry of an old woman and the cry of a girl
On the ruins of the hut stands.
I envy Shurka now,
What is fighting in the Donbass.
...........................
Shura - Alexander, the poet's brother.
Vladimir Balykin
In memory of Boris Kotov
The enemy pours burning hail,
Buravit Dnepr with lead
And death with a heavy look
Stared at the face.
On enemy flashes
You rushed forward
Out on the right bank
Your mortar platoon.
And the mines flew
And the enemy trembled immediately ...
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.
Died while performing a combat mission on February 26, 1942 in the village of Dubovik, Leningrad Region
I hate to live without undressing,
Sleep on rotten straw.
And, giving to the frozen beggars,
To forget the tired hunger.
Chilling, hiding from the wind,
Remember the names of the dead
From home do not receive an answer,
Change junk for black bread.
Confuse plans, numbers and paths,
Rejoice that he lived less in the world
Twenty. (1941)
Bogatkov Boris Andreevich (1922-1943)
In the fall of 1941, he volunteered for the front. In 1942, after a shell shock, he was commissioned and returned to Novosibirsk. Worked in "Windows TASS". He achieved admission to the 22nd Guards Siberian Volunteer. 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 Patriotic War I degree. The name of B. Bogatkov is forever listed in the lists of the 22nd Siberian Guards Division. One of the main highways of Novosibirsk is named after him.
Died 1 1 August 1 9 4 3 near Smolensk.
FINALLY!
A new suitcase half a meter long,
Mug, spoon, knife, bowler...
I have all this in advance
To be on time as scheduled.
How I waited for her! Finally
Here it is, desired, in the hands! ..
Flew, noisy childhood
In schools, in pioneer camps.
Youth in girl's hands
hugged and caressed us
Youth with cold bayonets
Flashed on the fronts now.
Youth to fight for everything dear
Led the guys into the fire and smoke,
And I hasten to join
To matured peers!
Nikolai Petrovich Mayorov
Born in the village of Durovka, Syzran district, Simbirsk province, in a family of workers.
In October 1941, he volunteered for the front. He was a political commissar of the machine-gun company of the 1106th rifle regiment of the 331st division. Killed 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 heavy and direct.
Not everything will die, not everything will go into the catalog.
But only let under my name
a descendant will distinguish in archival trash
a piece of hot, faithful land to us,
where we went with charred mouths
and courage, like a banner, carried.
We burned bonfires and turned back the rivers
We missed the sky and water.
Stubborn life in every man
traces are marked with iron -
so the omens of the past sunk into us.
And how we loved - ask the wives!
Centuries will pass, and portraits will lie to you,
where our life course is depicted
We were tall, fair-haired,
you read in books like a myth,
about the 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, with the rank of junior lieutenant, he left for the front.
Mikhail Kulchitsky died near Stalingrad in January 1943.
Georgy Kuzmich Suvorov
At the end of September 1941, Georgy Suvorov was sent to the front. Starting 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 the ranks. 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. Buried near the place of death.
Vsevolod Loboda was born in Kyiv in the family of a Russian language teacher and an opera singer. As a teenager, he began to compose - poems and stories. In 1930, after graduating 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 journals "Literary Study", "Bonfire".
At the beginning of the war he worked on the radio, then went to the front. He was a machine gunner and an artilleryman. Freelance contributor to the divisional newspaper. He wrote poems and songs that were still sung in the regiments after his death and after the war. ""... He was found by a stray bullet. He walked across... the field in a wind-blown cloak.
And he fell ... In the medical battalion, where Loboda was taken that day, and where, as I was told, he died on the same day, I was not there, I saw him only lying in the tent of the medical officer, where I went through a hole in this green camp tent crawled up to him. He was unconscious, lying on his side, with a thickly bandaged head, and moaning ... " This is how his brother-soldier, writer Vasily Subbotin, remembered the last meeting with the poet Vsevolod Loboda, who, years later, found the alleged burial place of Vsevolod Nikolaevich Loboda - not far from the city of Dobele in Latvia.
Start
The forest split hard
Gray and gloomy.
Under every tree there is a vent
Breathed in a storm...
Trunks and people are hot,
But we are excited.
We shout to the gunners:
"More,
Hit again!”
The deafened earth trembles.
What strength
Streams and groves and fields
Mixed up!
And straight to victory
Behind the company
Either in a plastunsky way, then 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 limit
In songs your name will ring!
For the people you fought 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 the Victory and return home,
to the motherland. But they remained in their poems, songs, deeds, they are in our memory. In the meantime, people remember the heroes - they are alive. Bright memory to all who died in the Great Patriotic War
Perhaps the most terrible grief of the twentieth century. How many Soviet soldiers died in its bloody battles, defending their homeland with their breasts, how many remained disabled! .. But although the Nazis had the advantage for most of the war, they still won Soviet Union. Have you ever wondered why? After all, compared with the Germans Soviet army did not have many combat vehicles and thorough military training. The desire to defend themselves was caused by works and writers who inspired soldiers to exploits. It's hard to believe, but even in those troubled times, there were many talented people among the Soviet people who knew how to express their feelings on paper. Most of them went to the front, where their fate was different. The terrible statistics are impressive: on the eve of the war in the USSR there were 2186 writers and poets, of which 944 people went to the battlefield, and 417 did not return from there. Those who were younger than everyone were not yet twenty, the oldest were around 50 years old. If not for the war, perhaps they would now be equated with the great classics - Pushkin, Lermontov, Yesenin and others. But, as the catch phrase from the work of Olga Berggolts says, "no one is forgotten, nothing is forgotten." The manuscripts of both dead and surviving writers and poets that survived during the war were placed in printed publications in the post-war period, which were replicated throughout the USSR. So, what kind of people are the poets of the Great Patriotic War? Below is a list of the most famous of them.
Poets of the Great Patriotic War
1. Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
At the very beginning, she wrote several poster poems. Then she was evacuated from Leningrad until the first blockade winter. For the next two years she has to live in Tashkent. During the war she wrote many poems.
2. Olga Bergholz (1910-1975)
During the war she lived in besieged Leningrad, working on the radio and every day supporting the courage of the inhabitants. Then her best works were written.
3. Andrei Malyshko (1912-1970)
Throughout the war, he worked as a special correspondent for such front-line newspapers as "For Soviet Ukraine!", "Red Army" and "For the Honor of the Motherland." He set out his impressions of this time on paper only in the post-war years.
4. Sergei Mikhalkov (1913-2009)
During the war he worked as a correspondent for such newspapers as "Stalin's Falcon" and "For the Glory of the Motherland". He retreated to Stalingrad along with the troops.
5. Boris Pasternak (1890-1960)
For most of the war, he lived in evacuation in Chistopol, financially supporting all those in need.
6. Alexander Tvardovsky (1910-1971)
He spent the war at the front, working in a newspaper and publishing his essays and poems in it.
7. Pavlo Tychina (1891-1967)
During the war, he lived in Ufa, doing active work Tychyna's articles published during this period inspired Soviet soldiers to fight for the country.
These are all the most famous poets of the Great Patriotic War. Now let's talk about their work.
Poetry of the period of the Great Patriotic War
Most of the poets devoted their time to creativity, mainly in that time many works were written, later awarded various prizes in literature. The poetry of the Great Patriotic War has the appropriate themes - horror, misfortune and grief of war, grief for the dead Soviet soldiers, a tribute to the heroes who sacrifice themselves to save the Motherland.
Conclusion
A huge number of poems were written in those troubled years. And then they created more. This despite the fact that some poets of the Great Patriotic War also served at the front. And yet the theme (for both poetry and prose) is the same - their authors fervently hope for victory and eternal peace.
Front-line poets, a term that was born during the Great Patriotic War. Young Soviet poets who ended up at the front by the will of fate and their own will wrote poetry. These verses reflect the harsh reality of those days.
Some poets died at the front, leaving behind poems about the Great Patriotic War, while others lived longer. However, life after the front was short for many, as one of the front-line poet Semyon Gudzenko said, "We will not die of old age, we will die of old wounds."
Who can better and more accurately express what happened during those war years than someone who himself witnessed and participated in these terrible events?
In this article, we tried to collect the most powerful poems of front-line poets about the Great Patriotic War, about events and people who turned out to be the history of this terrible time.
Semyon Gudzenko
MY GENERATION
We are clean before our battalion commander, as before the Lord God.
Overcoats turned red from blood and clay on the living,
blue flowers bloomed on the graves of the dead.
Blossomed and fell off... The fourth autumn passes.
Our mothers are crying, and our peers are silently sad.
We did not know love, did not experience the happiness of crafts,
we got to share the hard fate of the soldiers.
My weather has no poetry, no love, no peace -
only power and envy. And when we return from the war,
we will love everything in full and write, peer, such
that fathers-soldiers will be proud of sons.
Well, who won't come back? Who doesn't have to give in?
Well, who was struck down by the first bullet in forty-one?
A peer of the same age will sob, a mother will beat on the threshold, -
my weather has no poetry, no peace, no wives.
Who will come back - dolubit? Not! The heart is not enough
and the dead do not need the living to love for them.
There is no man in the family - no children, no owner in the hut.
Can the sobs of the living help such grief?
We do not need to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone.
Who went on the attack, who shared the last piece,
He will understand this truth - it is to us in the trenches and cracks
came to argue in a grumbling, hoarse bass voice.
Let the living remember and let the generations know
this harsh truth of the soldiers, taken with battle.
And your crutches, and a mortal wound through,
and graves over the Volga, where thousands of young people lie, -
this is our destiny, it is with her that we swore and sang,
went on the attack and tore the bridges over the Bug.
We do not need to feel sorry, because we would not feel sorry for anyone,
We are clean before our Russia and in difficult times.
And when we return - and we return with victory,
all, like devils, are stubborn, like people, tenacious and evil, -
let us brew beer and roast meat for dinner,
so that tables break everywhere on oak legs.
We will bow at the feet of our dear, suffering people,
kiss mothers and girlfriends that waited, loving.
That's when we return and win with bayonets -
we will love everything, the same age, and we will find a job for ourselves.
1945
A. Tvardovsky
I know it's not my fault
The fact that others did not come from the war,
The fact that they - who is older, who is younger -
Stayed there, and it's not about the same thing,
That I could, but could not save, -
It's not about that, but still, still, still...
When you pass through the columns
In the heat, and in the rain, and in the snow,
Then you'll understand
How sweet is the dream
What a joyful night.
When you go through the war
You will understand sometimes
How good is bread
And how good
A sip of raw water.
When you go this way
Not a day, not two, soldier
Still you will understand
How precious is the house
Like a father's corner is holy.
When - the science of all sciences -
In battle you will comprehend the battle, -
Still you will understand
How dear friend
How precious each one is -
And about courage, duty and honor
You will not repeat in vain.
They are in you
What are you
Whatever you can be.
The one with whom, if you want to be friends
And do not lose friendship
As they say,
Can live
And you can die.
It is our duty to carry the bright memory of the exploits performed by our compatriots during the Great Patriotic War.
War Poems Our Children Learn, perhaps the best way to cultivate a sense of patriotism for our Motherland.
Musa Jalil
SPRING IN EUROPE
You drowned in blood, fell asleep under the snow,
Come to life, countries, peoples, regions!
Enemies tortured, tortured, trampled you,
So get up to meet the spring of life!
No, there has never been such a winter
Not in the history of the world, not in any fairy tale!
You've never been so deep
The chest of the earth, bloody, half-dead.
Where the fascist wind swept deadly,
There wilted flowers and ran out of keys,
Songbirds fell silent, thickets crumbled,
The rays of the sun faded and faded.
In those parts where the enemy's boots walked,
Life fell silent, froze, waiting for deliverance.
At night, only fires blazed in the distance,
But not a drop of rain fell on the field.
The fascist came into the house - the dead man was carried out.
There was an expensive fascist - the blood flowed dear.
The executioners did not spare the old men and women,
And the cannibal oven devoured the children.
About such a frenzy of evil persecutors
In scary tales, legends do not say
words
And in the history of the world of such suffering
Man has not experienced for a hundred centuries.
No matter how dark the night is, it is still getting light.
No matter how cold the winter is, spring comes.
Hey Europe! Spring is coming for you
She shines brightly on our banners.
Under the heel of the fascist half-dead,
To life, orphan countries, get up! It's time!
You future freedom beams glowing
The sun of our land stretches in the morning.
This sunny, new spring is approaching
Everyone feels Czech, and Pole, and French.
You bring the long-awaited release
The mighty winner is the Soviet Union.
Like birds flying north again
Like the waves of the Danube breaking the ice
A word of encouragement flies to you from Moscow,
Sowing light along the road - Victory is coming!
Spring will come soon...
In the abyss of the fascist night,
Like shadows, the partisans stand up to fight...
And under the spring sun
this time is near! --
Winter of grief Danube ice carry away.
Let joy hot tears break through
In these spring days from millions of eyes!
Let in millions of weary hearts
ignite
Revenge and the thirst for freedom are still hot! ..
And living hope will wake up millions
On a great rise, unprecedented in centuries,
And the coming spring glowing banners
They will turn red in the hands of free peoples.
February 1942 Volkhov Front
Front-line poets belong to a special caste among all poets. People who do not know how to lie, embellish and adjust. Poems about the Great Patriotic War, which were created by front-line poets, are difficult to read without tears. This poetry is so strong that while reading you feel a lump come to your throat, the scenes described in these verses hit the imagination deeply and strongly.
V. Strelchenko, A. Tvardovsky, B. Slutsky, Yu. Levitansky, S. Gudzenko, Yu. Drunina, E. Vinokurov and many more names and surnames of famous poets who were published in books and magazines, and those that were not known to the general public, published in local newspapers in Russia. All of them, despite their "poetic caliber", were one, the poets who were united by war and poetry. 
***
Oboishchikov Kronid Alexandrovich
BALLAD OF LOVE
In the icy sky we flew
The sunset was northern in blood,
We have experienced everything in those years,
They didn't just experience love.
She was looking for us in the blizzards.
And we, stricken by war,
How the birds fell on the rocks
And our cry beat over the wave.
And our youth matured
Away from youthful joys.
There were no women there, so sorry
They could show us.
And many have never
Do not kiss hot lips.
And at the German flight base,
We knew there was a special club.
And there were rumors among us
That there is a question of love.
From all over Europe there were whores
To make life easier for pilots.
Once a member of the Military Council,
A gray-haired admiral with a scar,
For a political conversation
Gathered us from the planes.
He said that our cause is right.
We will win.
And that in the regiment the guys are brave
And we will reward them soon.
And Kolka Bokiy, looking impudently
Point blank to the boss in the eyes,
Suddenly he slashed: “The Fritz have women,
Why can't we?
We, too, are dying young.”
But suddenly he stopped, fell silent,
Only the wind of northern Russia
His dashing tuft shook.
And we all looked with fear,
Reproaching my friend for this agility,
And the admiral gave Kolka his hand
And he began to speak strangely:
“What an idea! I approve!
Let's set up a brothel.
That's just, brothers, I do not know
Where can we find girls with you?
"Do you have a sister? he asked Kolka.
- Where does she live? - In Chita.
- Is your mother alive? And how old is she?”
Our friend covered his face in shame.
And hang your head low
"I'm sorry..." he whispered softly.
Oh, how smart and honest he was -
A gray-haired admiral with a scar.
He knew youth, her aspirations,
Burning, daring, passions power,
But he knew both loyalty and patience,
And supported - did not let fall.
And after we learned women
Leaving the deaf polar places.
And fast weddings were played,
There were thousands of them, brides.
In a drunken conversation circled,
Until the third they drank roosters,
Forgetting that in the Barents Sea -
One hundred thousand best suitors. 
***
Kezhun Bronislav Adolfovich
cornflowers
Under fire, on the river bank,
Tired arrows lay down.
Golden rye sparkled nearby,
And cornflowers were blue in the rye.
And the fighters, no longer hearing the buzz
And without feeling stuffy,
Like an unseen miracle
We were happy to look at the flowers.
Blue sky, unbearable
Blazing like flames
Like the eyes of children, the eyes of loved ones,
Cornflowers looked at the soldiers.
In a moment, overpowering fatigue,
The chain of shooters went on the attack again,
It seemed to them that Russia is looking
Blue eyes of cornflowers.
In this article, we will remember these people, look through their poems about the Great Patriotic War with their eyes at the events of those times. Each poem, each line will leave a trace in your soul, because these lines are burned out by the war and trials that befell the people of the Great Patriotic War. 
TROYANKER Raisa Lvovna
(1909, Uman - 1945, Murmansk)
TO THE MOST NATIVE
I don't know what color
You, dear, have eyes.
I probably won't meet you
Don't tell you anything.
Indeed, I would like to know
Who are you: technician, shooter, signalman,
Maybe you're a fast-winged pilot
Maybe you are a marine radio operator?
Well, if this note -
Land or water
Brought to you, the closest,
Inseparable forever.
I don't know how it was
Bright hospital, lamps, night ...
The doctor said: "The strength is running out,
Only blood can help him…”
And they brought her - dear,
Almighty like love
Taken in the morning, zero,
I have given blood for you.
And she ran through her veins
And saved you, golden one,
The enemy bullet is powerless
Before the power of such love.
Became scarlet pale lips,
What would you like to call me...
Who am I? Donor, comrade Lyuba,
There are a lot of people like me.
Even if I don't know
What's your name dear
Anyway, I'm your own
Anyway, I'm always with you.
Leonid Khaustov
TWO HEARTS
A harsh lot fell to the lieutenant,
And, tormented, he cut off the connection with the past.
He crawled out of the war, in fact,
Rolling on homemade roller skates.
He didn't write a single line to his wife.
What to write? Everything is clear without that.
And at home waiting indefinitely
She lived, not believing in his death.
When she used to get
In the mail, an unnamed transfer,
That heart was pounding,
That this is from him, that he lives.
And people managed to find him,
And so she came to him.
... Underneath the steel rollers gleamed,
And gray hair cast steel.
Biting my lips, and laughing and crying,
She ran into the city military registration and enlistment office,
And from the bottom up - how could it be otherwise? —
His confused gaze was fixed.
And a woman is a holy mercy of fate, -
Still not believing in my happiness
Silently fell on her knees
And she walked towards him on her knees. 
***
Mikhail Dudin (1916 - 1993)
nightingales
We'll talk about the dead later.
Death in war is common and harsh.
And yet we catch air with our mouths
With the death of comrades. Not a word
We don't speak. Without looking up
We dig a hole in the damp earth.
The world is rough and simple. Hearts burned. in us
Only ashes remain, yes stubbornly
The weathered cheekbones are brought together.
Three hundred and fifty days of the war.
Even the dawn did not tremble on the leaves,
And for the sake of warning, machine guns were fired ...
Here is the place. Here he died
My comrade from the machine gun company.
It was useless to call doctors,
He wouldn't make it until dawn.
He didn't need anyone's help.
He was dying. And realizing this
He looked at us, and silently waited for the end,
And somehow smiled clumsily.
The tan first faded from the face,
Then it, darkening, petrified.
***
Alexander Artyomov
BANNER
The stone, heated by ruptures, is already cooling down,
The hurricane that has been raging in the morning is already calming down.
Last throw. From the last trenches with bayonets
Fighters knock out and drive from the top of the enemy.
Like dead snakes entangled the hill of the trench,
Concrete nests sloping strewn slope,
And, stretching their cold long necks to the sky,
Broken cannons look sullenly at the sunset.
And the commander stood up on the land conquered by us,
Pitted by shells and scorched by fire,
And he shouted to the guys: “Comrades, we need a banner! ..”
The machine gunner got up, staggering from the ground. On him
Pieces of a tunic soaked in sweat hung,
Spattered with blood. He calmly took out a handkerchief,
He pressed him to the wound, burnt by the lead of a machine gun,
And an unprecedentedly bright flower flared up on the hill.
We tied a crimson banner tightly to the bayonet,
It began to play, beat in a strong wind.
The machine gunner circled his friends with blue eyes
And he quietly said: “I may die today,
But I will be proud, already weakened, tired,
Until the last sigh of the fact that he did not grow shy in battle,
That my blood has become the banner of our courage,
That I managed to die for my homeland with dignity ... "
Over the dark earth and over the stone sentinel chain,
Over the frail bush, mowed down by a hail of lead,
It burned like a star between the rocks of Zaozernaya height
A sacred banner drenched in the blood of a fighter.
<1939>
Vladivostok 
***
Leonid Khaustov (1920 - 1980)
SUN OF VICTORY
Morning of the ninth of May
In that forty-fifth year.
The sun, burning fogs,
It got in our sight.
It went to far distances,
In every window.
In every soldier's medal
It flashed hot.
What did it illuminate? —
lacerated wounds of the earth,
Our brotherly graves
Grief for every family
Broken brick over ashes
Next to the empty barn...
I'm glad to remember this
You are not given, young.
Your generous dawns,
Proud love triumph -
All this is the sun of Victory,
All this is a reflection of him!
May 1972
The more we know about the Great Patriotic War and the people who lived then, the stronger will be the memory of generations and the desire to preserve the world, the desire to remain strong and help each other. Let this poetry be a symbol of the strength, will and inflexibility of the people who then defended the world in which we live today.
"I do not accept eternity,
Why was I buried?
I didn't want to go to the ground
From my native land."
Vsevolod Bagritsky
