Evening color script for 45 minutes. Script of a literary evening based on the works of Marina Tsvetaeva
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Marina Tsvetaeva
Marina Tsvetaeva was born on September 26, 1882 in the family of Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor at Moscow University, director of the Rumyantsev Museum of Fine Arts, and Maria Alexandrovna Mayne.
Marina Tsvetaeva's mother taught her music from childhood. "... I can say that I was born not into life, but into music."
Marina's interest in music is gradually fading away, especially after the death of her mother. She has a deeper passion - books.
“In the mother's room there was a portrait of her grandmother, the beautiful Polish woman Maria Lukinichna Bernatskaya, who died very early, at the age of 27. An enlarged photo - dark-eyed, with heavy eyelids, sad face with precise brush-drawn eyebrows, regular, sweet features, kind, bitter mouth touched ... "
Pushkin entered the life of the future poetess swiftly and imperiously and became the constant spiritual support of this proud, subtle and rebellious soul.
In 1911, the poetess met Sergei Efron in the Crimea, who later became her husband. It is to him, beloved, husband, friend, that the best poems will be dedicated.
1913 year. Crimea. Koktebel. Next to Marina Tsvetaeva are her friends, her beloved person and tiny daughter Alya. The heyday of the poetess.
M. Tsvetaeva's poems are melodic, sincere and charming, composers constantly turn to them, and then they turn into romances of amazing beauty.
The tumultuous events of 1917 separated sister Marina and Anastasia by three and a half years. In May 1921 Marina gives her sister a letter with a call to work in Moscow, a pound of flour for the road and a typewritten collection of poems
Until 1939, Marina Tsvetaeva is in exile and constantly thinks about her homeland.
Marina returns to Russia. Great trials await her at home. Arrest of daughter and husband. The beginning of the war. Deportation to Yelabuga. Complete spiritual isolation.
Sister Anastasia receives a terrible telegram in 1943: “Marina died two years ago, on the 31st of August. We kiss your heart. Lily. Zina. "
It is difficult to talk about such an immensity as a poet. Where to start? Where to end? And is it possible to begin and end at all, if what I am talking about: the Soul - is everything - everywhere - forever
Preview:
1 reader: “It is difficult to talk about such an immensity as a poet. Where to start? Where to end? And is it possible to begin and end at all, if what I am talking about: the Soul - is everything - everywhere - forever ”. / M. Tsvetaeva "The Word about Balmont" ./
2 reader: To my verses, written so early,
That I didn’t know that I was a poet,
Bursting like spray from a fountain
Like sparks from rockets
Burst in like little devils
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense,
To my poems about youth and death,
Unread poetry!
Scattered in the dust at the shops
/ Where no one took them and does not take them! /,
To my poems, like precious wines,
It will be its turn.
1 reader: “I have never oppressed or strangled in my life, but for people it is only an excuse to themselves. When this “is for themselves”, that is ... when they are themselves - everything is. " / M.TS. From a letter /
On September 26, 1882, daughter Marina was born to the family of Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor at Moscow University, director of the Rumyantsev Museum of Fine Arts, and Maria Alexandrovna Main.
Reader 2: With a red brush The day was Saturday:
The rowan was lit up. John the Evangelist.
Leaves were falling. Until now
I was born. I want to gnaw
Hundreds of Hot Rowan were arguing
Bells Bitter brush.
Reader 3: “When instead of the desired, predetermined, almost ordered Son of Alexander, only I was born, my mother said:“ At least there will be a musician ”. When the first, obviously meaningless and quite distinct, pre-year-old word turned out to be “Gamma”, my mother only confirmed: “I knew that,” and immediately began to teach me music, endlessly humming to me this very scale: “Do, musya, do , and this is re, do-re ... "I can say that I was born not into life, but into music."
Reader 4: Who is made of stone, who is made
Of clay, -
And I am silver and sparkle!
I care about treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
Who is made of clay, who is made
Of the flesh -
Thus the coffin and tombstones ...
Baptized in the baptismal font -
And in flight
Its - constantly broken!
Through every heart
Through every network
My will will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? -
You cannot make earthly salt.
Crushing on your granite knees,
I am resurrecting with every wave!
Long live the foam - the fun foam -
High sea penalty!
Reader 5: Time passed, and Marina from a chubby girl with gooseberry-colored eyes turned into a short blonde girl with a pensive look in myopic eyes. Marina's interest in music is gradually fading away, especially after the death of her mother. She developed a deeper passion - books. From the age of six, Musya / as she was called in the family /, wrote poetry, but now her love for poetry captures her entirely.
Reader 6: Anastasia Tsvetaeva, Marina's sister, recalls:
“In the mother's room there was a portrait of her grandmother, the beautiful Polish woman Maria Lukinichna Bernatskaya, who died very early - at the age of 27. An enlarged photo - dark-eyed, with heavy eyelids, sad face with precise brush-drawn eyebrows, regular, sweet features, kind, bitter mouth touched ... "
1 reader: This is how Marina says about it in her poem "Grandmother":
Oblong and hard oval,
Black dress trumpets ...
Young grandmother! - Who kissed
Your haughty lips?
Hands that are in the halls of the palace
Chopin's waltzes played ...
On the sides of the icy face -
Curls, in the form of a spiral.
Dark, straight
and a discerning look.
A look ready for defense.
Young women don't look like that.
Young grandmother, who are you?
How many opportunities have you taken away
And how many impossibilities?
Into the insatiable tear of the earth
Twenty-year-old polka!
The day was innocent
And the wind was fresh.
The dark stars are extinguished.
Granny! - This cruel rebellion
In my heart - isn't it from you? ..
Reader 2: Pushkin entered the life of the future poetess swiftly and imperiously and became a constant spiritual support of this proud, subtle and rebellious soul.
No, the drum was beating
Before a vague regiment
When we buried the leader:
Then the teeth of the princess over the dead singer
The honorable fraction was taken out.
Such an honor
What to the closest friends -
There is no place. At the headboards, at the footboards,
Both right and left - hands at the seams -
Gendarme breasts and faces.
Isn't it marvelous - and on the quietest of the lodges
To be a supervised boy?
Like something, something, something like
This honor, honorable - but too much!
Look, they say, the country, as a rumor in spite of,
The monarch cares about the poet!
Honorary - honorable - honorable - archi
Honorable - honorable - to hell!
When is this so - like thieves of a thief
Did they endure the shot?
Traitor? No. From the entrance yard -
The smartest husband of Russia.
Tsvetaeva dedicated a cycle of poems "Poems to Pushkin" and essays "My Pushkin", "Pushkin and Pugachev" to the great Russian poet.
Reader 3: Marina Tsvetaeva belonged to the people of that era, which was unusual in itself and made everyone living in it unusual. The poetess was well acquainted with Valery Bryusov, Maxim Gorky, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Boris Pasternak, Anna Akhmatova and other talented people of the 19th - early 20th centuries. She dedicated her poems to them, which were the expression of her feelings and thoughts. The lines dedicated to the poetic idol - Alexander Blok are imbued with special love:
Your name is a bird in your hand
Your name is a piece of ice on your tongue.
One single lip movement.
Your name is five letters.
The ball caught on the fly
Silver bell in the mouth.
A stone thrown into a quiet pond
Sob what your name is.
In the light clicking of the night hooves
Loud your name thunders.
And he will call him to our temple
Ringing trigger.
Your name - oh, you can't! -
Your name is a kiss in the eyes
In the gentle cold of motionless eyelids.
Your name is a kiss in the snow.
Key, icy, blue sip ...
With your name - deep sleep.
Reader 4: In 1911, the poetess met Sergei Efron in the Crimea, who later became her husband. It is to him, beloved, husband, friend, that the best poems will be dedicated.
/ Music by A. Petrov from the film "Cruel Romance" /
Reader 5: I defiantly wear his ring!
Yes, in Eternity - a wife, not on paper. -
His overly narrow face
Like a sword.
His mouth is silent, angles down,
The eyebrows are agonizingly gorgeous.
His face tragically merged
Two ancient bloods.
It is subtle by the first subtlety of the branches.
His eyes are beautifully useless! -
Under the wings of outstretched eyebrows -
Two abysses.
In his face I am faithful to chivalry,
To all of you who lived and died without fear! -
Such - in fateful times -
They compose stanzas - and go to the chopping block.
/ E. Dogi waltz sounds from the film "My affectionate and gentle animal" /
Reader 6: I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I'm not sick with you,
That never a heavy globe
Will not float under our feet.
I like that you can be funny -
Loose - and not play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Slightly touching sleeves.
I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug another
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn for not kissing you.
That my tender name, my tender, is not
You mention it neither day nor night - in vain ...
That never in the silence of the church
They will not sing over us: Hallelujah!
Thank you with both heart and hand
Because you do not know me yourself! -
Love so: for my night peace,
For the rarity of meetings at sunset hours,
For our non-walks in the moonlight,
For the sun, not over our heads, -
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me,
Because I am sick - alas! - not by you!
/ Music by E. Dogi from the TV movie "Vertical Race" /
1 reader: 1913. Crimea. Koktebel. Next to Marina Tsvetaeva are her friends, her beloved person and tiny daughter Alya. The poet's sister says: “It was the heyday of Marina's beauty. A flower raised above her shoulders, her golden-haired head, fluffy, with trickles of light curls curling at her temples, with a thick sheen above her eyebrows, trimmed like children’s hair. The clear green of her eyes, clouded by a shy, shy, shy, shy, shyly shy, shy, shy, gaze. This is not the shyness that tormented her in adolescence, when she was ashamed of her unloved appearance ... She knows her own worth in the external charm, as she knew her in the internal from childhood. "
/ Music continues playing. /
Reader 2: The sea is quietly lapping. Dark blue sea, twinkling stars and verses:
In a huge linden garden
Innocent and ancient -
I'm walking with a mandolin
In a very long dress,
Inhaling the warm scent of the cornfields
And ripening raspberries
Barely holding the bar
Old mandolin
Parting the curls ...
Rustle of tight silk
Deep-cut bodice
And the skirt is lush. -
My step is delicate and tired
And the camp, like a flexible rod,
Leans on a pedestal
Where someone is prostrated.
Fallen quiver and bow
On the green - so white!
And tramples my narrow heel
Invisible arrows.
3 reader: M. Tsvetaeva's poems are melodic, sincere and enchanting, composers constantly turn to them, and then they turn into romances of amazing beauty.
/ The romance of A. Petrov "Under the caress of a plush blanket" from the movie "Cruel Romance" /
Reader 4: The tumultuous events of 1917 separated sister Marina and Anastasia for three and a half years. In May 1921 Marina gives her sister a letter with a call to work in Moscow, a pound of flour for the road and a typewritten collection of poems:
I entrust this book to the wind
And oncoming cranes.
Long ago - to shout down parting -
I am this book like a bottle in waves,
Throwing into the whirlwind of wars.
Let her wander - with a candle for a holiday -
Like this: from hand to hand.
Oh wind, wind, my faithful witness,
Bring to the dear ones
What I do every night in my sleep
The path is from North to South.
Reader 2: Parting again: from 1922 to 1927. See you in Paris. While in exile, M. Tsvetaeva constantly thought about her homeland. In the poem addressed to Boris Pasternak, there is a note of longing and sadness:
I bow to Russian rye,
Cornfield, where the woman is frozen.
Friend! Rain outside my window
Trouble and goodness in the heart ...
You, in the sound of rains and troubles
Well, that Homer is in a hexameter,
Give me your hand - to the whole world!
Here - both of mine are busy.
Reader 6: Years go by one after another. Short and long letters. Anastasia Tsvetaeva learns that her sister and son Georgy are returning to Russia in 1939 / her husband and eldest daughter were already at home by that time /.
However, the hopes associated with the return did not materialize. Heavy blows of fate struck the poetess. The arrest of Ali's husband and eldest daughter. The beginning of the war. Deportation to Yelabuga. Constant concern for the lives of loved ones. Complete spiritual isolation. No news from friends. And thoughts, thoughts ... Incinerating the soul, leaving no room for the desire to live.
In 1943, Anastasia Tsvetaeva recalls, a terrible telegram came.
Reader 5: “I opened the sheet. It contains two lines from friends: “Marina died two years ago, on the thirty-first of August. We kiss your heart. Lily. Zina. "
/ Sounds "Requiem" by M. Tsvetaeva performed by Alla Pugacheva: "How many of them fell into the abyss ..." /
Educational event
"If the soul was born winged", based on the work of M. Tsvetaeva
The first movement (Moderato) of Concerto No. 2 for piano and orchestra by S. V. Rachmaninov is played.
Against the background of music words.
Host: “It is difficult to talk about such immensity as a poet.
Where to start? How do I finish?
And is it possible at all to begin and end,
If thenwhat I'm talking about:
The soul is everything - everywhere - forever ”.
Marina Tsvetaeva wrote - “The Word about Balmont”.
Reader: To you who have to be born
A century later, as I breathe, -
From the very depths, as condemned to death,
With my own hand - I write:
- Friend! Don't look for me! Another fashion!
Even the old people don't remember me.
- You can't reach it with your mouth! Through the Letheyskie waters
I hold out two hands.
Like two bonfires, I see your eyes
Burning to my grave - to hell
- Those who see that the hand does not move,
She died a hundred years ago.
With me in my hand - almost a handful of dust -
My poems! - I see: in the wind
Are you looking for the home where I was born - or
In which I will die.
And I'm still sad that this evening,
Today's - for so long I walked after
The setting sun - and towards
You are a hundred years old ...
Sounds "October" from the cycle "Seasons" by Tchaikovsky. Reading against the background of music.
With a red brush
The rowan was lit up.
Leaves were falling.
I was born.
Hundreds argued
Bells.
The day was Saturday:
John the Evangelist.
Me to this day
I want to gnaw
Hot rowan
Bitter brush.
– House in Trekhprudny lane, small, one-story, wooden. Seven
windows along the facade, a huge silvery poplar hung over the gate. Gates
with a wicket and a ring. And there are children's rooms at the top of the house.
– These are our rooms, mine and Ashina.
– I am Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva - younger sister Marina.
There, somewhere, the steps of our father, professor of Moscow
university, scholar and philologist.
– And these sounds.
The piano sounds.
– Marina, let's go to the hall.
– The most large room in the house - a hall. There are mirrors between the windows. On the walls
green trees in tubs. They will dream and come to life in Marina's dreams.
– In the hall - in the very center - there is a grand piano. An exorbitant grand piano, under which they crawled
little sisters, like under the belly of a giant beast.
– The piano is a black ice lake.
– The piano is my first mirror. You could peer into him like into an abyss,
breathe on its surface as if on frosted glass.
– Mother could do anything on the piano. She went to the keyboard like a swan on water.
– Mother flooded us with music. Mother filled us like a flood. She flooded
us music, like blood, blood of the second birth.
– Mother gave us drink from the open vein of lyrics, as we did afterwards, helplessly
having opened their own, they tried to water their children with the blood of their own anguish. After
such a mother, I had one thing to do - to become a poet ...
– Did the mother see the future poet in her daughter? Hardly, although I tried to guess
the nature of the elements that raged in the Marina and disturbed the whole calm course of life in the house.
Who is made of stone
Who is made of clay
And I am silver and sparkle ...
Host: Time passed, and Marina from a chubby girl with eyes of color
gooseberry turned into a short girl with a pensive
with myopic eyes. Marina's interest in music is gradually
fades away, especially after the death of the mother. She had a deep
passion is books. Simple and at least approximate enumeration
what Tsvetaeva had read by the age of 18 would seem
implausible in number and variety. Pushkin,
Lermontov, Zhukovsky, Leo Tolstoy ... German and French
romance, Hugo, Lamartine, Nietzsche, Jean-Paul Richter, plays
Rostand, Heine, Goethe, books related to Napoleon. However,
better to stop ...
Chopin's music sounds.
Red Bound Books
From the paradise of children's life
You send me a farewell hello,
Unchanging friends.
In a shabby, red binding.
Learned a little lesson
I used to run to you at once.
It's too late! - Mom, ten lines! ..
But, fortunately, my mother forgot.
Lights tremble on the chandeliers ...
How good it is to have a book at home!
Under Grieg, Schumann, Cui,
I learned the fate of Tom.
It's getting dark ... The air is fresh ...
Here is Indian Joe with a torch,
Wandering in the gloom of the cave.
Oh golden times
Where the gaze is bolder and the heart is purer!
Oh golden times:
Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, The Prince and the Pauper.
Host: When Marina Tsvetaeva submitted her first book to print
"Evening Album", she just turned 18 years old. Love
fills this book, breathes it, love for mom, sister, for life,
so beautiful and cloudless (how short it will last!), to
girlfriends in the gymnasium.
The poem "My dear" (5 people).
Yesterday I looked into my eyes
And now - everything looks sideways!
Yesterday I sat before the birds, -
All larks, now - crows!
I'm stupid and you're smart
Alive, and I'm dumbfounded.
Oh, the cry of women of all time:
“My dear, what have I done to you ?! "
And her tears - water and blood - Water,
– I washed my face in blood, in tears!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love.
Do not expect judgment or mercy.
They take away cute ships
The white road leads them away ...
And the groan stands along the whole earth:
Yesterday I was lying at my feet!
Equalized with the Chinese state!
I unclenched both hands at once, -
Life has dropped out like a rusty penny!
Infanticide on trial
I’m standing there, dumb, timid.
I'll tell you in hell:
“My dear, what have I done to you? "
I will ask a chair, I will ask a bed:
“For what, for what do I endure and suffer? "
Kissed the wheel
Kiss another, answer.
I taught to live in the very fire,
I threw myself into the icy steppe
That's what you, dear, did to me!
My dear, what have I done to you?
I know everything, do not contradict!
Once again, the sighted is no longer a mistress
Where Love retreats
There comes Death the Gardener.
Itself - what a tree to shake!
– On time the ripe apple falls off ...
– For everything, forgive me for everything
My dear, what have I done to you!
– Very early, I felt in myself a kind of “secret heat”, “hidden engine of life” and called it “love”. “Launched infected me with love. In a word - love ”. Throughout her life, Tsvetaeva's heartfelt and creative bonfire of love for the dear “shadows of the past”, for the “sacred craft of the poet”, for nature, for living people, for friends and girlfriends was inextinguishable in Tsvetaeva.
The romance of M. Tariverdiev “At the Mirror” to the verses of M. Tsvetaeva is played.
Love! Love! And in convulsions and in a coffin
I will be on my guard - I will be seduced - I will be embarrassed - I will rush.
Oh dear! Not in a grave snowdrift,
I will not say goodbye to you in a cloudy one.
No, I will free my hands - the camp is elastic
With a single sweep from your shroud,
Death, I'll knock it out!
Versts per thousand in the district.
It is subtle by the first subtlety of the branches.
His eyes are - beautiful - useless!
– Under the wings of outstretched eyebrows
– Two abysses.
In his face I am faithful to chivalry,
To all of you who lived and died of fear!
Such - in fateful times
They compose stanzas - and go to the chopping block.
Host: Isn't this a poetic foresight, not a fatal prophecy
a genius poet and loving woman?! Fate? Yes, fate!
Seryozha and Marina got married in January 1912, and on September 5, 1912
Alya's daughter, Ariadna Efron, was born.
Marina Tsvetaeva: “Alya-Ariadna Efron - was born on September 5, 1912,
at half past six in the morning, to the ringing of bells ”.
Reader: Girl! - The queen of the ball!
Or the schema - God knows!
– How much time? - It was getting light.
Someone answered me: - Six.
To be quiet in sorrow
So that the tender grows, -
My girl was met
Early bells.
Marina Tsvetaeva: “I called her Ariadna, - in spite of Seryozha, who loves Russian names, to my father, who loves simple names,
to friends who find it to be a salon. Named from
romanticism and arrogance that guide my whole
life ”.
– Then there will be the birth of Irina's daughter and Murlyga's son.
– Grief, hardship, poverty will be ahead.
Host: On March 2, 1920, the youngest daughter, Irina, died of hunger. Yet
one scar on the heart, another gray strand.
Reader: Two hands, slightly lowered
On an infant's head!
There were - one for each -
Two heads have been granted to me.
But both - squeezed -
Furious - as best she could!
Snatching the eldest from the darkness -
She did not save the youngest.
Two hands - caress - smooth
Delicate heads are lush.
Two hands - and here is one of them
It turned out to be icy during the night.
Light - on a thin neck -
Dandelion on the stem!
I still do not understand at all,
That my child is in the ground.
Host: From the book by I. Ehrenburg "People, Years, Life".
– Such was the walk in agony "Life where we can do so little ..." - wrote Tsvetaeva. But how much she could in her notebooks! In them she, suffering, could create amazing, unique in musicality poems.
Romance "I like that you are not sick with me" on the verses of M. Tsvetaeva.
– How fresh and modern the poems sound, and yet they were written in 1915. The poems are addressed to the future husband of sister Mints.
– And then there will be separation from her husband. A long seventeen-year separation from Russia. The feeling of uselessness, especially the uselessness of her poems.
Reader: It is night in my huge city.
From the sleepy house I go - away.
And people think: - wife, daughter, -
And I remember one thing: night.
The July wind sweeps me - the way
And somewhere there is music in the window - a little.
Ah, now the wind will blow until dawn
Through the walls of the thin breasts - into the chest.
There is a black poplar, and there is a light in the window,
And the ringing on the tower, and in the hand - the color,
And this step - follow no one,
And this shadow, but not me.
The lights are like strands of gold beads
Night leaf in the mouth - taste.
Free you from the bonds of the day
Friends, understand that I am dreaming for you.
Host: In June 1939, mother and son boarded the train. Father and daughter are already there while
not yet in prison, but already in Russia. She and her son did not accompany her from Paris
no one. Marina's Calvary will last two more years, her payback is for
what? - dissimilarity? - intolerance? inability to adapt to
whatever? for the right to be yourself?
– Payback for love, earthly and poetic, concrete and cosmic.
You walking past me
To not my and dubious charms, -
If you knew how much fire
How much wasted life.
And what a heroic fervor
To a random shadow and rustle ...
And how my heart was incinerated
This wasted gunpowder.
O trains flying into the night,
Carrying away sleep at the train station ...
Moreover, I know that even then
You wouldn't know - if you knew.
Why are my speeches harsh
In the eternal smoke of my cigarette,
– How much dark and terrible melancholy
In my fair-haired head.
I know I'll die at dawn! On which of the two,
Together with which of the two - not to decide on the order!
Oh, if I could have my torch extinguished twice!
So that at the evening dawn and at the morning immediately!
She walked along the ground with a dancing step!
Heaven's daughter! With a full apron of roses!
Not breaking a sprout! I know I'll die at dawn!
Hawk night God will not send over my swan soul!
With a gentle hand, pulling back the unkissed cross,
I will rush into the generous sky for the last greetings.
The slit of the dawn - and the slit of a return smile ... -
I will remain a poet even in my dying hiccups!
Host: The city of Elabuga is the last earthly refuge of an indomitable soul
poet. August 31, 1941 the great Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva
committed suicide.
Marina Tsvetaeva: “Son! Forgive me, but it would have been worse. Understand that
I could no longer live. Tell Dad and Ale - if you see
– that she loved them until the last minute and explain that you got
to a dead end ”.
Host: The son could not convey anything. Alya was serving time, Sergei Yakovlevich
will be shot, Giorgi Efron himself will die at the front.
Reader: Oh black mountain,
Eclipsed the whole world!
The snows are melted - and the forest of bedrooms.
And if everything is - shoulders, wings, knees
Squeezing - she let herself be taken to the churchyard, -
This is only so that, laughing at decay,
With a verse to rise up - or bloom with a rose tree!
The first part of S. Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 2 is played.
Marina Tsvetaeva: “My whole life is an affair with my own soul”.
Presenter: May 5, 1911 Marina arrived in Koktebel to see Maximilian
Voloshin, a lifelong friend, one of the few. On the deserted
pebbled seashore, she met with
seventeen-year-old Sergei Efron. Love from the first day - and on
all life.
Dialogue (Max and Marina):
Marina Tsvetaeva: “Max, I will marry only the one who of all
the coast will guess which is my favorite stone ”.
Max: “Marina! Lovers, as you may know, become stupid. AND
when someone you love brings you a cobblestone, you are completely
you will sincerely believe that this is your favorite stone ”.
Marina Tsvetaeva: “Max, I'm getting smarter from everything! Even from love! And with a pebble
came true, for Seryozha almost on the first day of meeting
opened and handed me - the greatest joy - carnelian
a bead ”.
Host: Seryozha and Marina found each other. The letters they wrote
to each other all their lives, it is impossible to read dispassionately. It -
shock, this is an impossible heat of passion, burning and
today.
Young man (Sergei - Marina): “I live by faith in our meeting. There will be no life for me without you, live! I will not demand anything from you - I do not need anything, except for you to be alive ... Take care of yourself. God bless you.
Your S. "
Girl (Marina to Sergei): “My Seryozhenka! I don’t know where to start.
What I will end with: my love for you is endless ”.
Reader: I defiantly wear his ring!
Yes, in Eternity - a wife, not on paper!
Overly narrow his face
Like a sword.
His mouth is silent, angles down.
Painfully gorgeous eyebrows
His face merged tragically.
It's time, it's time, it's time
Return the ticket to the creator.
I refuse to be.
In Bedlam of Inhumans.
I refuse to live.
With the wolves of the squares.
With the sharks of the plains
I refuse to swim
Down - spins with the flow.
I don't need any holes
Ear, no prophetic eyes.
To your crazy world
There is only one answer - refusal.
“Nailed ... "
Nailed to the pillory
Old Slavic conscience,
With a snake in my heart and a brand on my forehead
I claim that I am innocent.
I affirm that there is peace in me
Participants before the sacrament,
That it’s not my fault that I’m with my hand
I stand in the squares - for happiness.
Review all my goodness
Tell me - or have I gone blind?
Where is my gold? Where is the silver?
There is a handful of ashes in my palm!
And that's all that flattery and pleading
I asked the happy ones.
And that's all I'll take with me
To the land of silent kissing.
– Pray my friend, for a sleepless home,
Outside the window with fire.
Host: At the cemetery in Yelabuga there is an inscription: “Marina Tsvetaeva is buried in this part of the cemetery”.
You go, you look like me,
Eyes directed down.
I put them down - too
Passer-by, stop!
Read - chicken blindness
And poppies typing a bouquet;
That they called me Marina;
And how old I was.
Don't think that this is a grave
That I appear threatening ...
I loved too much
Laugh when you can't!
And the blood rushed to my skin
And my curls curled ...
I was there too, passerby!
Passer-by stop!
Rip your own stalk wild
And the berry after him.
Graveyard strawberries
No bigger and sweeter.
But just don't stand gloomy
Head down on his chest.
Think about me easily
Forget about me easily.
How a ray illuminates you!
You are covered in gold dust ...
And don't be confused by
In conclusion, the song “Prayer” is played.
"Tsvetaeva about Tsvetaeva"
An evening in the literary parlor dedicated to
125th anniversary of M.I. Tsvetaeva
Target: to get acquainted with the biography and work of M. I. Tsvetaeva, to reveal the ties of M. Tsvetaeva with the Tula region.
Form of conducting: role performances of poems, scenes from the life of M. Tsvetaeva at different periods of her life
Evening progress
The film "In Memory of Tsvetaeva"
Tsvetaeva
To my poems written so early
That I didn’t know that I was a poet,
Bursting like spray from a fountain
Like sparks from rockets
Burst in like little devils
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense,
To my poems about youth and death
Unread poetry! -
Scattered in the dust of the shops
(Where no one took them and does not take them!),
To my poems, like precious wines,
It will be its turn.
V. It is difficult to talk about such an immensity as a poet. Where to start? How to finish?
Tsvetaeva
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay -
And I am silver and sparkle!
I care about treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
Who is made of clay, who is made of flesh -
Thus the coffin and tombstones ...
Baptized in the baptismal font - and in flight
Its - constantly broken!
Through every heart, through every network
My will will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? -
You cannot make earthly salt.
Crushing on your granite knees,
I am resurrected with every wave!
Long live the foam - the fun foam -
High sea foam!
How she fought in her captivity
From twisted and twisted,
And to my name - Marina -
Add - a martyr ...
Bells ringing, evangelism sounds.
Tsvetaeva
With a red brush
The rowan was lit up.
Leaves were falling.
I was born.
Hundreds argued
Bells.
The day was Saturday:
John the Evangelist.
Me to this day
I want to gnaw
Hot rowan
Bitter brush.
V... “Father is the son of a priest of the Vladimir province, European philologist, doctor of the University of Bologna, professor of art history first at Kiev, then at Moscow universities, director of the Rumyantsev Museum, founder, inspirer and sole collector of the first museum of fine arts in Russia. He died in Moscow in 1913, shortly after the opening of the Museum. He left his personal fortune (modest) for a school in Talitsy (Vladimir province, the village where he was born). I donated the (huge) library to the Rumyantsev Museum. "
V.“The mother is of Polish princely blood, a student of Rubinstein, who is extremely gifted in music ... She knew five languages, not counting Russian, and learned the sixth shortly before her death. A young woman has died. "
2 leading.“… I was six years old, and this was my first musical year at the Zograf-Plaksina music school, in Merzlyakovsky lane, there was, as it was called then, a public evening - Christmas. They gave a scene from "Mermaid", then Rogned - and:
Now we will fly to the garden,
Where Tatiana met him.
Bench. Tatiana is on the bench. Then Onegin comes, but does not sit down, but she gets up. Both are standing. And only he speaks, all the time, for a long time, and she does not say a word.
And then I understand: that the ginger cat, Augusta Ivanovna, dolls are not love, that - this is Love... When the bench, she is on the bench, then he comes and speaks all the time, but she does not say a word.
MOTHER: What, Musya, did you like most of all?
MARINA: Tatiana and Onegin.
MOTHER: What? Not "Mermaid", where is the mill, and the prince, and the goblin? Not Rogneda?
MARINA: Tatiana and Onegin.
MOTHER: But how can this be? .. You didn’t understand anything there. Well, what could you understand there?
MARINA: I'm silent ...
MOTHER (triumphantly): Yeah, I didn't understand a word, as I thought. At six years old. Well, what could you like there?
MARINA: Tatiana and Onegin.
MOTHER: You are a complete fool and more stubborn than ten donkeys. I know her, now she will be repeating all the way in a cab to all my questions: Tatiana and Onegin. I'm not really glad that I took it ... Well, why, Tatiana and Onegin?
I silently, in full words:
Because - LOVE!
Tsvetaeva. I fell in love not with Onegin, but with Onegin and Tatiana (and maybe a little more in Tatiana), in both of them together, in love ... more), neither in them two, but in their LOVE, LOVE ...
Leading. Happy, unique years of childhood have passed. It was high school time. Marina Tsvetaeva has changed several gymnasiums over the years of study. In 1906 she entered the Moscow gymnasium of V.N. von Dervies, in Gorokhovsky lane.
Tsvetaeva
They ring and sing, interfering with oblivion,
In my soul the words: "fifteen years."
Oh, why did I grow up big?
There is no escape!
Yesterday in green birches
I ran away, free, in the morning.
Yesterday I was naughty without a hairstyle,
Just yesterday!
Spring chimes from distant bell towers
He told me: "Run and lie down!"
And every shout of the minx was allowed,
And every step!
What's ahead? What kind of failure?
There is deceit in everything and, ah, in everything there is a ban!
So with a sweet childhood, I said goodbye, crying,
At fifteen.
Leading. This short period gave her an acquaintance with Sonya Yurkevich and her brother Peter, children of a Tula nobleman, Cherno landowner and progressive leader Ivan Vikentievich Yurkevich.
Sonya Yurkevich... “In 1906, the attention of all the schoolgirls was attracted by a“ new ”boarder, a very lively, expansive girl with an inquiring look and a mocking smile. thin lips; high forehead... I looked at everyone insolently, not only at the elders, but also at the teachers and class ladies. "
Leading... The girls became friends. We went to visit each other. In the summer of 1908, Marina was staying at the Yurkevich estate - Orlovka, which was located in the Chernsk district of the Tula province, 15 versts from the Skuratovo railway station. There, at the age of 16, she met Pyotr Yurkevich. She met not only a friend, but also her first, unrequited love. Together they spend hours of rest: they ride horses in Tolstoy's and Turgenev's places, swim in the Snezhed River, which is on Bezhin's meadow. Peter is three years older than her. He is dark-haired and curly, not only good-looking, but also smart and sincere. They continue to see each other in autumn and winter in Moscow. And soon Marina convinces herself: she is in love! Yielding to an impulse (like Tatyana Onegin), she confesses this to Peter.
Tsvetaeva
It got cold suddenly and whiskey burned
And it seemed my whole life - a prison.
But tell me: at least a note of melancholy has broken through
In an ironic tone of writing?
There was also a sad supplication in him the slightest hint,
The pain of what has been taken away forever.
And was it read there, between the scornful lines
Bitter hail: “For what? Oh, for what! "-
Someone quietly said, “You can forgive.
Crying in my heart, but there were no reproaches.
It's pride to wear your own throat! " -
Do not trust beautiful lights ”-
And for this bitter hard lesson
I'll tell you - thanks now.
It's only sad sometimes to wander through the fog,
Melting my grief from people, -
Maybe it was just a beautiful deception
And I don't know if I loved ...
Leading. Her sincere impulse, however, was not accepted.
Petr Yurkevich... “Marina, with your pride you took the risk of the first confession, which was completely unexpected for me, the possibility of which did not even occur to me. Therefore, to answer sincerely and simply to your bluntly posed question if you knew how difficult it is for me. What will I answer you? That I don’t love you? This will be wrong. But also to say: yes, Marina, I love. I don't think I would have had the right to do so. I love you like a sweet, glorious girl. If I felt that I love deeply and passionately, I would tell you: I love, I love with a love that knows no barriers, boundaries and obstacles ... "
(A romance to the verses of M. Tsvetaeva "I like that you are not sick with me ...")
2 leading. She began writing poetry at the age of 6. In 1910, having not yet removed her gymnasium uniform, secretly from her family, she released her first collection of poetry "Evening Album". Reviews have appeared. And benevolent.
Leading. The publication of the first collection of poems by Marina Tsvetaeva was noticed by the poet Maximilian Voloshin.
Marina... “He appeared to me for the first time at the door of our house in TRYOKHPRUDNY. Call. I open it. There is a cylinder on the threshold. From under the cylinder, an exorbitant face framed by a curly short beard. An insinuating voice.
VOLOSHIN: Can I see Marina Tsvetaeva?
MARINA: I.
VOLOSHIN: And I'm Max Voloshin. May I come to you?
MARINA: Very much.
We went upstairs to the children's rooms.
VOLOSHIN: Have you read my article about you?
MARINA: No.
VOLOSHIN: I thought so, and that's why I brought it to you.
/ The whole article is the most selfless hymn to women's creativity and the seventeenth birthday /.
VOLOSHIN: It appeared a long time ago, more than a month ago, did no one tell you?
MARINA: I don't read newspapers and I don't see anyone. My father still does not know, then I
released a book. Maybe he knows, but he is silent. And in the gymnasium they are silent.
VOLOSHIN: Are you in the gymnasium? Yes, you are in shape. What are you doing in the gymnasium?
MARINA: I write poetry.
Leading. Since then, a great friendship between the two poets began. Being in Moscow. Voloshin takes a promise from Marina that she will definitely visit his hospitable home. And so on May 5, 1911 Marina Tsvetaeva entered the Koktebel land. Here a fateful meeting awaited her - a meeting with her future husband.
Tsvetaeva
Here is the window again
Where they don't sleep again.
Maybe they drink wine
Maybe they sit like that.
Or just hands
Two will not separate.
In every house, friend,
There is such a window.
The cry of parting and meeting -
You window into the night!
Maybe hundreds of candles
Maybe three candles ...
No and no mind
Peace for mine.
And in my house
It started like that.
Pray, friend, for a sleepless home,
Out the window with fire!
1 lead.“They met - seventeen and eighteen - on May 5, 1911 on a deserted, pebbled Koktebel shore. She collected pebbles, he began to help her - a handsome, sad, gentle beauty young man ... with amazing, huge, half-face, eyes. Looking into them, Marina wondered: if he finds and gives her a carnelian, she will marry him! Of course, he found this carnelian immediately, by touch, for he did not take his gray eyes off her green ones. It was Sergei Efron.
Tsvetaeva
I wear his ring defiantly!
Yes, in Eternity - a wife, not on paper.
His overly narrow face
Like a sword.
His mouth is silent, angles down,
The eyebrows are agonizingly gorgeous.
His face tragically merged
Two ancient bloods.
It is subtle by the first subtlety of the branches.
His eyes are beautifully useless! -
Under the wings of outstretched eyebrows -
Two abysses.
In his face I am faithful to chivalry,
To all of you who lived and died without fear! -
Such - in fateful times -
They compose stanzas - and go to the chopping block.
2 leading. On January 27, 1912, the wedding of Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron took place in the Moscow Church of the Nativity of Christ. She shared her fate with Sergei Efron until the end of his life.
Leading... “Alya - Ariadne Efron - was born on September 5, 1912, at half past five in the morning, to the ringing of bells. I named her Ariadna, - in spite of Seryozha, who loves Russian names, to my dad who loves simple names, to friends who find it to be a salon ... I named her from the romanticism and arrogance that govern my whole life. "
Tsvetaeva Ale: We were-
Remember this in the future
right, dashing!
I am your first poet
You are my best verse!
1 presenter... In 1914, Seryozha, a 1st year student at Moscow University, went to the front with an ambulance train as a brother of mercy.
Tsvetaeva.
In my huge city - the night.
From the sleepy house I go - away.
And people think: wife, daughter, -
And I remember one thing: night.
The July wind sweeps - the way
And somewhere there is music in the window - a little.
Ah, now the wind will blow until dawn
Through the walls of the thin breasts - into the chest.
There is a black poplar, and there is light in the window,
And the ringing on the tower, and in the hands - color.
And this step - following no one,
And this shadow, but not me.
The lights are like strands of gold beads
Night leaf in the mouth - taste.
Free you from the bonds of the day
Friends, understand that I am dreaming for you.
2 leading. The year 1917 has come - the year of great upheavals in Russia. It was on this fatal year that Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron had their second daughter, Irina, on April 13. At first I wanted to name her Anna (in honor of Akhmatova). But fate does not repeat itself!
1918 - “It's incredibly difficult to live in Moscow. I am writing in my attic - it seems November 10, since everyone lives in a new way, I do not know the numbers. I don’t know anything about Sergei since March ”.
“If you are alive, if I am destined to see you again, listen ... When I write to you, you are, since I am writing to you! .. If God does a miracle, leaves you alive, I will follow you like dog…
Throat is compressed as if by fingers. All the time I delay, I stretch the collar. Seryozhenka. I have written your name and I cannot write further. "
“I live with Alya and Irina (Alya is 6 years old, Irina is 2 years 7 months old) in Borisoglebsky lane, opposite two trees, in the attic room, which was formerly Serezhina. No flour, no bread, 12 pounds of potatoes under the desk ... the whole supply "
2 leading. In the fall of 1919, she sent her children to the Kuntsovsky orphanage, persuaded to place the children there so that they would not die of hunger. I had to pretend that they were not my children, that I had found them. A month later, the older, sick, weakened woman had to be taken away. While nursing Alya, Irina was fading away and on March 2 she died of exhaustion and hunger. He will never forgive me Irina.
Tsvetaeva Two hands, easily lowered
There were - one for each -
On an infant's head!
Two heads have been granted to me.
But both - squeezed -
Furious - as I could!
Snatching the eldest from the darkness -
She did not save the youngest.
“Seryozha! Do not grieve about our Irina. You didn't know her at all, think that you dreamed about it. Don't blame the heartlessness, I just don't want your pain - I take it upon myself! - We will have a son, I know that it will be ... "
2 leading. 1922 year. Goodbye Russia! The ideas of camaraderie, loyalty to the oath, misunderstood by Sergei Efron, and soon the feeling of doom of the “white movement” took him abroad in the most mournful, erroneous and thorny way. And here is Marina with her daughter in Berlin. There was a long-awaited meeting with her husband.
1 lead. My son George was born on February 1, 1925, on Sunday, at noon, in a whirlwind of snow. I will love him - whatever he may be: not for beauty, not for talent, not for resemblance, for what he is ...
1 lead. Years of emigration. Ingloriousness and poverty.
Tsvetaeva
In the siren air beyond the grave
Flight flight ...
Gray wire shudders,
Turns the rail ...
As if my life was stolen
On a steel mile -
In the sire rustle - two distances ...
(Bow to Moscow).
As if my life was killed
From the last lived.
In the syre whisper - in two veins
Life expires.
2 leading.“In 1937 Marina Tsvetaeva renewed her Soviet citizenship and in 1939 she returned with her 14-year-old son to follow her husband and daughter, who had left for the Soviet Union.
Tsvetaeva
The sculptor's hand may stop - the chisel.
An artist's hand may stop - a brush.
A musician's hand may stop - a bow.
The Poet's only heart can stop.
V. This is a kind of "formula for creativity." But she was not heard. Not understood. Closer and closer to the fateful line.
1 lead. On August 8, 1941, Tsvetaeva and her son left Moscow by steamer for evacuation to the town of Elabuga on the Kama. Let's not guess: why she decided to leave this world - it means that it was necessary.
On August 31, Sunday, when everyone left home, she committed suicide. The returned son and the owners found her hanging on a hook in the entryway.
A romance to the verses of Marina Tsvetaeva is being performed
How many of them fell into this abyss,
Deploy far away!
The day will come when I will disappear too
From the surface of the earth.
Everything that sang and fought will freeze
It shone and torn:
And the gold of the hair.
And there will be life with its daily bread,
With the forgetfulness of the day.
And everything will be - as if under the sky
And there was no me!
Changeable like children in every mine
And so wicked for a short time,
Who loved the hour when the wood in the fireplace
Become ashes
Cello, and cavalcades in the thicket,
And the bell in the village ...
Me so alive and real
On a gentle land!
To all of you - that I, who knew no measure in anything,
Strangers and our own ?!
I make a claim of faith
And asking for love.
And day and night, and in writing and orally:
For the truth, yes and no,
For being too sad for me so often
And only twenty years.
For the fact that a direct inevitability for me is the forgiveness of offenses,
For all my unbridled tenderness
And too proud to look.
For the speed of rapid events,
For the truth, for the game ...
Listen! - Love me too
For dying.
Leading.
Every year at the end of summer
I put a candle for peace.
Forgive her, Lord, this -
She did not control herself.
In the skies, the soul rushed,
And the Earth remained below ...
Elabuga dragged on
Its fatal noose.
A crazy, stormy century has fallen ...
And the human court is not afraid.
Husband and daughter and sister - in prisons,
And poetry will not save you.
She left, grieving and believing -
Like, the son will not be forgotten ...
Time kills poets.
Everyday life kills poets.
Whether hell, heaven - everything was one.
And the door opened to immortality ...
If you knew, Marina,
How we love you now!
Without guilt, I reproach and toil -
If someone were with you!
Bitter August, Marinin August.
I put a candle
For peace.
Olga Grigorieva, Pavlodar
Literature
Tsvetaeva M.I. Poems. Moscow: 1982.
Tsvetaeva M.I. For all - against all !: The fate of the poet: In poems, poems,
essays, diary entries, letters. Compiled by L.V. Polikovskaya. - M .: Higher
school, 1992.
Isachenkova N.V. Scripts of literary evenings at school. - SPb .: Parity, 2001
Evsyukova Olga. The wind of fate: the Tula region in the life and work of Marina Tsvetaeva. - Tula, 2017.
Script for a poetic evening by M. Tsvetaeva.
Dear guests, dear teachers, dear students, we are glad to welcome you as our guest. Today you are visitors to the literary living room, in which we will come into contact with the wonderful world of poetry of wonderful poetesses: Marina Tsvetaeva and Anna Akhmatova.
Ved. Poets are not born by accident
They fly to the ground from a height
Their lives are surrounded by deep mystery
Although they are open and empty.
The eyes of such divine messengers
Always open and true to the dream
And in the chaos of problems, their souls always shine
The worlds that got lost in the dark ...
Ved. Why does a person write poetry? Because he cannot but write. Poetry is not a profession, but a special perception of the world. The birth of a verse is always an amazing mystery - even for the poet himself.
Poetry requires talent and from those to whom it is intended, an ear that is insensitive to it will not let poetic currents flow to the heart of a person. For a reader with increased sensitivity, even another imperfect verse evokes a reciprocal trembling of the soul, if this verse is born from a pure and strong source of spiritual experiences.
There is a woman whose soul is the Sea,
And deep in her beautiful eyes
You feel like a big hero
Ready for battle for the first time.
There is a woman whose soul is Heaven,
And in the height of her beautiful words,
You feel like a piece of light
What turns into Love in the heart.
There is a woman whose soul is a fairy tale,
And in the magic of her lovely charms,
You feel yourself in the arms of caress
That passion is so similar to fire.
I understand the simple truth
I love, it means I exist,
I am, I exist, so I live!
Marina Tsvetaeva! Effective and even pretentious. It even looks like a pseudonym. But behind the flower name is the wounded soul of the publican, wandering in the infinity of passions.
She said about herself and her life "We are chains of a mysterious link."
"Take ... poetry - this is my life ..."
In these words, all Marina Tsvetaeva, her passion for poetry, originality and uniqueness.
The day was Saturday
This is how Marina Tsvetaeva, one of the inextinguishable stars in the sky of Russian poetry, wrote about her birthday. Rowan forever entered the heraldry of her poetry. Burning and bitter, at the end of autumn, on the eve of winter, she became a symbol of fate, also transitional and bitter, flaming with creativity and constantly threatening oblivion in winter.
10/08/1892 in Moscow in the family of the famous philologist and art critic Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev and the talented pianist Maria Alexandrovna Main, daughter Marina was born.
The home world and the life of her family were permeated with a constant interest in art. Her mother, Maria Alexandrovna, was a talented pianist who admired A. Rubinstein with her playing. Father - the founder of the Museum of Fine Arts (now named after A.S. Pushkin). It is not surprising that Marina was also the most educated person.
From childhood she was immersed in the atmosphere of A. Pushkin, in her youth she discovered Goethe and German romantics, she loved and knew Derzhavin, Nekrasov, Leskov, Aksakov very much. Very early, I felt in myself a kind of "secret heat", "hidden engine of life" and called it "love." “Pushchin infected me with love. In a word - love. " Throughout her life, Tsvetaeva's heartfelt and creative bonfire of love for the dear “shadows of the past”, for the “sacred craft of the poet”, for nature, for living people, for friends and girlfriends was inextinguishable in Tsvetaeva.
The romance of M. Tariverdiev "At the Mirror" to the verses of M. Tsvetaeva is played.
Who is made of stone
Who is made of clay -
And I am silver and sparkle!
I care about treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
Who is made of clay, who is made of flesh -
Thus the coffin and tombstones ...
Baptized in the baptismal font - and in flight
Its - constantly broken!
Through every heart, through every network
My will will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? -
You cannot make earthly salt.
Crushing on your granite knees
I am resurrected with every wave!
Long live the foam - fun foam
High sea foam!
Lead 1. Tsvetaeva began writing early. Already in her early poems, Tsvetaeva's poetic individuality is manifested, the most important themes of her work are formed: Russia, love, poetry.
If the soul was born winged -
What a mansion to her and what a house to her!
What is Genghis Khan to her - and what is the Horde!
I have two enemies in the world,
Two twins - inseparably - fused:
The hunger of the hungry - and the satiety of the well-fed!
- this is how Marina Tsvetaeva defined her poetic purpose.
Lead 2. The first book "Evening Album" was published by Tsvetaeva in 1910, when she just turned 18 years old. The book, whose circulation was only 500 copies, did not go unnoticed: the poet Valery Bryusov praised it, N. Gumilyov wrote about it with interest, and was the first to read it with kind smile, and Maximilian Voloshin treated her with friendly sympathy. Marina Tsvetaeva met and made friends with 37-year-old Maximilian Voloshin. Their friendship lasted over 20 years.
Who gave you such clarity of colors?
Who gave you such precision of words,
The courage to say everything from the caresses
Before the spring new moon dreams?
Lead 3. A girl from Trekhprudny Lane, overflowing with impressions of life, writes poetry to tell about herself, to understand herself. In the poems, the carefree summer in Tarusa, the blue Eye and the clouds slowly floating towards God; unaccountable adolescent sadness, young sadness, creating pauses in the turbulent course of life, during which the soul matures; the first love; success in poetry salons.
Lead 1. In May 1911, at the invitation of Voloshin, Marina arrives in the Crimea. In Koktebel, at the dachas owned by Voloshin's mother, a large artistic company gathered. Wandering around the outskirts of Koktebel in search of beautiful stones for which the Crimean coast is famous, Marina meets a tall young man. Its huge blue eyes she is captivated.
That you become silent without echoing them,
That you foresee miracles
There are huge eyes
He helps her collect stones. She thinks that if a stranger finds a carnelian, she will marry him. And so it happened. The young man found almost immediately, by touch, a Genoese carnelian bead - a large pink stone - and presented it to Marina. In January 1912, in Moscow, in a church, they got married. So Marina Tsvetaeva became the wife of Sergei Efron. Childhood is over. The time for apprenticeship is over. From a girl writing poetry, Marina Tsvetaeva became a poet. Those who know their own worth. Going my own way
To my poems written so early
That I didn’t know that I was a poet,
Bursting like spray from a fountain
Like sparks from rockets.
Burst in like little devils
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense,
To my poems about youth and death,
Scattered in the dust of the shops
(Where no one took them and does not take them!)
To my poems, like precious wines,
It will be its turn.
Time is a great "finder" - knows its job. Yesterday still thundering poets with sonorous names and luxurious reputations, singly and in groups, went into oblivion. At the same time, poets forcibly removed from the reader, hushed up, disgraced, cursed by the authorities and its servants came to the fore and rightfully captured the attention of readers. “And the main thing is that I know how they will love me. in a hundred years, ”wrote Tsvetaeva. A lot of water will leak, and not only water, but also blood, because the life of Marina Tsvetaeva, her work fell on the 10-30s of our catastrophic century.
Music sounds. Chopin. 'Waltz' (No. 7 in C sharp minor). Sounds loud and then goes in the background.
Lead 2. The marriage and the birth of a daughter served as a creative impulse in the development of Marina Tsvetaeva both as a person and as a poet. New themes, new rhythms appear in poetry. Little Alya, the daughter of Ariadne, named after the heroine of the Greek legend about the Minotaur, becomes the center of attention and love.
You will be innocent, thin
And my braids, perhaps
You will wear like a helmet
You will be the queen of the ball -
And all the young poems
And he will pierce many, queen,
Your mocking blade,
And all I have is only a dream
You will have at your feet.
Everything will be obedient to you
And everyone is with you - be quiet
You will be like me -
And it's better to write poetry ...
But will you - who knows -
It's deadly to squeeze whiskey,
How it squeezes them right now
Your young mother.
Lead 1. The poems dedicated to Ale burn with love and tenderness.
Lead 3. From her youthful years Marina Ivanovna has been concerned with questions about life and death, about the destiny of a person, his self-realization. All manifestations of the soul must find a way out. In the poem “How many of them have fallen into this abyss”, transcribed to music by the composer Myagkov, Tsvetaeva defends the right to a full, full life, eternal movement.
The song "How many of them ..." is played
2nd READER: As a poet and personality, she developed rapidly, and within a year or two, after the first naive verses, she was different. During this time I tried different masks, equal voices and themes. She managed to visit the images of a sinner, courtesan, gypsy - all these "fittings" left beautiful and vivid poems in her work. Throughout her life, through all her wanderings, troubles and misfortunes, she carried love for the Motherland, the Russian word, for Russian history. One of her poems - "To the Generals of 1812" - is about the Tuchkov brothers, a participant in the Battle of Borodino, two of whom died in battle.
Music sounds. P. Gapon. 'Broken strings'. Sounds loud, the idea goes in the background.
The 1st READER reads the poems "Generals of 1812".
2nd READER: This poem is dedicated to Marina's husband, Sergei Yakovlevich Efron. Marina Tsvetaeva got married in January 1912. Their family life, into which they entered very young (Marina turned 19 at that time, Sergei was a year younger), was cloudless at first, but not for long. And those first 5-6 years were probably the happiest compared to all subsequent years.
She wrote extensively, inspired by Efron. If you say that Marina loved her husband, it means nothing to say: she idolized him.
I wrote on a slate board,
And on the leaves of the faded fans,
And on the river, and on the sea sand,
Skates on ice and a ring on glass, -
And on trunks that are hundreds of winters.
And finally - so that everyone knows!
What do you love, love! love! love! -
She signed it with a heavenly rainbow.
1st READER: Somewhere in the beginning life together she said: Only with him can I live as I live: completely free. " He was the only one who understood her and, having understood, fell in love. Sergei was not intimidated by her complexity, inconsistency, specialness, and dissimilarity to all others.
In general, in her life there were many hobbies, but, as Marina Ivanovna once said: “. all my life I loved the wrong ones. ‘. Her gullibility and inability to understand a person in time are the reasons for frequent and bitter disappointments.
The romance of A. Petrov ‘Under the caress of a plush blanket’ to poems by M. Tsvetaeva sounds.
2nd READER: This poem is perhaps one of the most famous and heartfelt poems of Marina Tsvetaeva, the so-called song to her beloved. Remember? An excerpt from the poem ‘I looked into my eyes yesterday’ sounds.
1-AND READER: There is hardly a person who would not have heard these amazing lines:
I like that you are not sick with me,
I like that I'm not sick with you,
That never a heavy globe
Will not float under our feet.
How fresh and modern the poems sound, and yet they were written in 1915. The poems are addressed to the future husband of the sister M. Mints.
The romance of M. Tariverdiev ‘I like it’ to the verses by M. Tsvetaeva sounds.
Lead 2. 1917 .. The February, then the October Revolution redrawn the family life of Russians. Sergei Efron, in the ranks of the white army, leaves for the Don to fight against the revolutionary government. Marina Tsvetaeva with two children (daughter Irina was born in 1917) remained in Moscow.
In the collection "Swan Camp" glorifies the white movement not for political reasons, but because her lover was there.
Nailed to the pillory
Old Slavic conscience,
With a snake in my heart and a brand on my forehead
I claim that I am innocent.
I affirm that there is peace in me
Participants before the sacrament,
That it’s not my fault that I’m with my hand
I stand in the squares - for happiness.
Review all my goodness,
Tell me - or have I gone blind?
Where is my gold? Where is the silver?
I have only a handful of ashes in my hand!
And that's all that revenge and pleading
I asked the happy ones.
And that's all I'll take with me
To the land of silent kissing
Lead 3. At this time, the daughter is always next to Marina. Always a friend, always an assistant, always a listener, a reader of mother's poems and an interlocutor. Marina, as if forgetting that her daughter is still very young, talks to her as with an equal, loads her with her worries, troubles, acquaintances. She is sincerely grateful to Ale for the fact that she is, for the fact that she is always there.
I don't know where you are and where I am.
The same songs and the same worries.
Such friends with you!
Such orphans are with you!
And it's so good for the two of us -
Homeless, sleepless and sir ...
Lead 1. You can compare these lines with the recollection of those years by Tsvetaeva's friend Konstantin Balmont: “These two poetic souls, mother and daughter, more like two sisters, were the most touching vision of complete detachment from reality and a free life among dreams - under such conditions, with which others only groan, get sick and die. The spiritual power of love for love and beauty, as it were, freed these two human birds from pain and longing. Hunger, cold, complete abandonment - and eternal chirping, and always a cheerful gait and a smiling face. These were two ascetics, and looking at them, I more than once again felt the strength in me, which had already completely extinguished.
You also have a father and mother,
Yet you are an orphan of Christ
You were born in a whirlpool of wars -
Nevertheless, you will go to Jordan.
Without a key to an orphan of Christ
The gates of Christ will open.
And nevertheless, there was a place on earth where she was absolutely happy and absolutely unhappy AT ITSELF - the Czech Republic. Homeland is all who are without a country. Center for Russian emigration in the early 20's. Czech Republic, where she arrived at thirty. She lived in the Czech Republic for exactly 3 years and 3 months, where her best poems were written, where her son George was born, where the hero of her poems was met - about the life she had not lived with whom she regretted all her life - Konstantin Rodzevich. A very bright and happy period; the collection "Separation", "Psyche", "Craft", "Tsar Maiden", "To Blok" is published. Blok is “a knight without reproach, almost a deity”. Although she was not familiar with him.
Your name is a bird in your hand
Your name is a piece of ice on your tongue.
One - only lip movement
Your name is five letters.
The ball caught on the fly
Silver bell in the mouth.
Your name - oh, you can't! -
Your name is a kiss in the eyes
In the gentle cold of motionless eyelids.
Your name is a kiss in the snow.
Key, icy, blue sip.
With your name - deep sleep.
Czech Republic for Tsvetaeva - Boldino. It was there that the peak of her creation was born - "Poem of the Mountain" and "Poem of the End".
You, who loved me with the false truth and the truth of lies,
Nowhere! - Abroad!
You who loved me longer
Time. - Swing your hands! -
You don't love me anymore:
Truth in five words.
A song is played to the words of Marina Tsvetaeva "I want by the mirror, where is the dregs ..."
Lead 3. And then - long years silence, in emigration it, alas, did not take root - there is a society of "Friendship with the USSR"; and her husband is an active figure in this union; in the West they are perceived as almost traitors and apostates.
Lead 2. In 1939 she returned to Russia with her son, following her husband and daughter. They've been there since 1937.
I will sing, earthly and alien,
Lead 1. In this “earthly melody” lies the beauty and power of Tsvetaeva's lyrics. Her poems are filled with music. It is not without reason that Andrei Bely said about one of her collections: “Let me express my deep admiration for the completely winged melody of your book, Parting. This is not a book, but a song ... "
Outside of music (very different), outside of the musical atmosphere, Tsvetaeva does not represent her heroes. The melody determines the structure of their feelings, expresses a sensitive state of mind. Brodsky in one of his articles spoke about the “piano” nature of Tsvetaev's works, others noticed “a cello” and a bell in the village, “from some attic - a flute” ... She herself preferred to talk about the cello, as she appreciated the combination of music itself in this instrument with the timbre and warmth of a human voice. And Tsvetaeva's poems themselves are sung, designed by ear - without such a perception it is difficult to grasp their image, character.
Songs by M. Tsvetaeva, transcribed to music by the composer M. Tariverdiev, are played. (From the film "Irony of Fate or Enjoy Your Bath")
. "I like that you are not sick with me."
Lead 3. Shortly before his death, Tsvetaeva writes: “All these days I want to write my will: I would generally like not to be ...” The war ... In 1941, she left with her son for Elabuga. Disorder, thoughts of a husband, crisis, melancholy, complete loneliness, depression. She committed suicide on August 31, 1941. Here the supreme hour overtook her loneliness.
Reader. (Efron)“I know there is a legend that she committed suicide, allegedly ill mentally, in a moment of mental depression - do not believe it. It was killed by that time, it killed us, as it killed many, as it kills me. We were healthy - the environment was madness: arrests, executions, suspicion, distrust of everyone to everyone and everything. Letters were opened, telephone conversations were overheard; every friend could turn out to be a traitor, every interlocutor could be an informer; constant surveillance, explicit, open. "
Lead 1. The best do not survive, it has long been known. Why is the Lord so impatient? Or is our local abode not the most suitable place for genius minds and bright souls? And, having worn out in the wretchedness of earthly space, they are cured of life - by slipping away?
Time, I can't keep up.
Measure, I do not fit.
Just before returning to her homeland, after 17 years of emigration, Tsvetaeva has a terrible dream. A dream about dying. She understood this and said in her notes: “The road to the next world. I rush uncontrollably, with a feeling of terrible longing and final farewell. The exact feeling that I am flying around the globe, both passionately and hopelessly! - I hold on to him, knowing that the next circle will be - the Universe: that complete emptiness, which I was so afraid of in life: on a swing, in an elevator, on the sea ..., inside myself. There was one consolation: what cannot be stopped, cannot be changed: fatal ... "
The song is performed by Alla Pugacheva on the verses of Marina Tsvetaeva "Requiem"
Tsvetaeva's prophecy has come true that her poems “have their turn”. Now they have entered the cultural life of the world, into our spiritual life, taking a high place in the history of poetry.
Closing remarks from the teacher.
Tsvetaeva is a poet of the “ultimate truth of feeling”. She, with all her “not just the prevailing fate, with all the brightness and uniqueness of her original talent, rightfully entered Russian poetry,” as the poet Robert Rozhdestvensky said about her. She left us collections lyric poems, 17 poems, poetic dramas, lyric essays and philosophical studies, memoir prose, memoirs and reflections.
The Tsvetaev family lived in a cozy mansion in one of the old Moscow lanes; spent the summer in picturesque places near Moscow, in the Kaluga town of Tarusa. Marina's father was a famous professor, philologist, art critic, her mother, a talented pianist, who opened the wonderful world of nature in front of children (Andrei, Asya, Marina) and gave the best books in the world, came from a Polish-German Russianized family.
Reading the poem "Books in red cover" by heart. (Individual task)
What is dear to the heroine in her childhood memories? Why are books “unchanging friends”?
3. Already at the age of six, Marina Tsvetaeva began to write poetry, moreover, not only in Russian, but also in German, in French. And when she turned 18, she released the collection "Evening Album" (1910) for her own money. Judging by the content, the poems were limited to narrowly domesticated, family impressions.
It is impossible to imagine the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva without the theme of love: “To love - to know, to love - to be able, to love - to pay the bill”. Tsvetaeva's love is always a “fatal duel”, always a dispute, a conflict, and more often a break. Incredible frankness, openness are the unique features of the poet's lyrics. The heroine is convinced that both time and distance are subject to feelings:
Delicate and irrevocable
Nobody looked after us.
I kiss you - after hundreds
Performance of the song to verses by M. Tsvetaeva “I like that you are not sick with me. "
Tsvetaeva dedicated poems to close people: friends - poets, grandmother, husband, Sergei Yakovlevich Efron, children, daughter Ale and son Georgy.
Poem "Alya" (excerpt)
I don't know where you are or where I am.
The same songs and the same worries.
Such friends with you!
Such orphans are with you.
And it's so good for the two of us -
Homeless, sleepless and sire.
Two birds: we got up a little - we will eat,
Two wanderers: we feed on the world.
The son of Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron was born in exile, where her husband ended up with the remnants of the White Volunteer Army, and in 1922 Marina also went abroad. Life in exile was difficult. Emigre magazines did not like Tsvetaeva's honest, incorruptible poems. “My reader stayed in Russia, where are my poems. don't get it, ”she regretted.
Excerpt "Poems to the Son" (1932).
Neither to the city nor to the village -
Go, my son, to your country, -
To the edge - all the edges on the contrary!
Where to go back - forward
Go - especially - for you,
Russia has never seen
What wish does the poetess express? (She wants her son to live on Russian soil, regrets that he has not seen Russia, but he is her son.)
9. In 1939, M. Tsvetaeva returned to her homeland.
There are no friends nearby, no housing, no work, no family (no husband is alive, the fate of Ariadne is unknown, alienation with her son). Under the yoke of personal misfortune, alone, in a state of mental depression, at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, August 31, 1941 Marina Tsvetaeva committed suicide.
Marina Tsvetaeva left a significant creative legacy: books of lyric poetry, seventeen poems, eight poetic dramas, autobiographical, memoir and historical-literary prose, letters, diary entries. It has never been imitated by the tastes of readers and publishers. The power of her poems is not in visual images, but in the flow of constantly changing, flexible rhythms. Any of her works is subject to the truth of the heart. Her poems are melodic, sincere, enchanting, so composers turn to them and beautiful songs appear. The present in art does not die. In 1913, M. Tsvetaeva confidently declared:
Like precious wines
It will be its turn.
1st READER: Following the life path of Marina Tsvetaeva today, reading her poems and prose, you see how many trials this Russian intellectual has befallen. And you want to help, but you can't. She probably wanted to shout piercingly in the most difficult moments: "What have I done to you, people, if I feel like the most unfortunate of the unfortunate, the most disadvantaged person ?!" We bow low to you, Marina Ivanovna! Forgive us for everything!
An excerpt from the poem "Akhmatova":
We are crowned to be alone with you
We trample the earth, that the sky above us is the same!
And the one who is wounded by your deadly fate,
Already immortals descend to the mortal bed.
In the melodious city, my domes are burning.
And the wandering blind man glorifies the bright Savior.
And I give you my bell city
Akhmatova! - my heart to boot.
Lead 2. Our meeting has come to an end. Of course, she could not contain all the creativity of M.I. Tsvetaeva. Today, together, we seemed to have flipped through several pages of the collection of poems of the poetess, but only slightly opened the door to the richest world of Marina Tsvetaeva's heritage. We hope that you have a desire to turn to Tsvetaeva's poetry and leaf through the collections of her poems. Until next time.
LITERARY-MUSIC COMPOSITION
ON THE LYRICS OF M. TSVETAEVA (1 hour)
Registration: portrait of Marina Tsvetaeva, next to flowers or bunches of mountain ash; an exhibition of books about Tsvetaeva and collections of her poems; sheet music of songs and romances on poems by Tsvetaeva; gramophone.
Goals: to interest students in the personality of Marina Tsvetaeva; to captivate with poetic creativity, in which there is loyalty to the Motherland, and the glorification of a person, and murderous irony, and passionate love; note the peculiarities of Tsvetaeva's poetic manner: the elasticity of the line, fast rhythm, unexpected rhyme, the desire for a concise, short, expressive verse.
The students in the class are divided into three groups; the task was received in advance.
l-th group of students - presenters (prepare messages about the life of M. Tsvetaeva. 5-7 people.)
2nd a group of students - readers (they learn by heart the poems of M. Tsvetaeva, prepare brief analysis lyric works).
3rd group of students - "musicians" (prepare musical accompaniment, learn songs on poems by M. Tsvetaeva for performance).
Event scenario:
Teacher's word:
I would like to start our today's event with the lines
Pasternak's letters to Marina Tsvetaeva. They contain our pain, our pride and the greatest
regret that "Russia was merciless to her best sons and
daughters ".
"Dear Marina Ivanovna! Now, with a trembling voice, I began to read to your brother
- "I know. I will die at dawn!" and was interrupted by a wave of sobs that rolled up to his throat ... you are not
child, dear, golden, my incomparable poet, and I hope you understand that this is in our
days means - with an abundance of poets and poetesses ... ""
The letter was large, slender in its confusion, written in one gulp, in one enthusiastic breath - on the very one that was Marin's breath ...
What was Marina Tsvetaeva like?
The waltz of E. Dogi from the film "My affectionate and gentle animal" sounds.
Reader 1.
To my poems written so early
Which I didn’t know. that I am a poet.
Bursting like spray from a fountain
Like sparks from rockets.
Burst in like little devils
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense,
To my poems about youth and death - Unread poems!
Scattered in the dust of the shops
(Where no one took them and does not take them),
To my poems, like precious wines,
It will be its turn.
"To my poems, written so early ..."
Lead 1.
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow on September 26, 1892, from Saturday to Sunday, on St. John the Theologian, in a cozy mansion of one from old Moscow lanes.
Bell ringing sounds.
Reader 2.
With a red brush
The rowan was lit up.
Leaves were falling
I was born.
Hundreds argued
Bells,
The day was Saturday:
John the Evangelist.
Me to this day
I want to gnaw
Hot rowan
Bitter brush.
Lead 2.
Marina Tsvetaeva's father, Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor of Moscow
university, art critic and philologist, later became the director of the Rumyantsevsky
museum and founder of the Museum of Fine Arts.
Mother, Maria Alexandrovna Main, came from the Russified Polish-German
family, was a talented pianist who admired Anton Rubinstein. Maria
Alexandrovna opened the eyes of the children to the eternal miracle that never changes a person - nature, endowed them with many joys of childhood, gave them the best books in the world.
The home world was permeated with a constant interest in art and music.
Lead 3.
(From the memoirs of M. Tsvetaeva.)
“When, instead of the desired, predetermined, almost ordered son Alexander
only I was born, my mother said: "At least there will be a musician." When
the first, obviously meaningless ... word turned out to be "gamma", my mother only confirmed: "I knew it," - and immediately began to teach me music ... I can say that I was born not into life, but into music. "
Reader 3.
Who is created from stone who is created from clay, -
And I am silver and sparkle!
I care about treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
Who is created from clay who created from flesh
The coffin and tombstones ...
Baptized in the baptismal font - and in flight
His - is constantly broken!
Through every heart, through every network
My will will break through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? -
You cannot make earthly salt.
Crushing on your granite knees,
I am resurrected with every wave!
Long live the foam - the fun foam -
High sea foam!
“Who is made of stone, who is made of clay ... »
Lead 4.
After the death of her mother, Marina Tsvetaeva's interest in music gradually fades away,
but a new hobby appears - books and poetry.
Young Tsvetaeva writes poetry both in Russian and in German and
French.
Do not borrow anything from anyone, do not imitate, do not be influenced, “to be
by herself ”- this is how Tsvetaeva emerged from childhood and remained this way forever.
Reader 4.
Even if I'm just a verse in your album
Barely singing like a spring;
(You became the best of books for me.
And there are quite a few of them in the old house!)
Even if I am just a stem, in a bright moment
By you, pitying, not crushed;
(You are a rich flower garden for me, a fragrant flower garden ")
So be it.
But here in a half-leaf
You drooped over the page ...
You will remember everything.
You will hold back the cry.
Let me just a verse in your album!
«
Album inscription "
Leading 5.
What was Marina Tsvetaeva like?
Small in stature with a strict and slender posture. Golden brown hair
pale face, eyes ... green, the color of grapes.
Eyes accustomed to the steppes,
Eyes accustomed to tears.
Green - salty -
Peasant eyes.
Facial features and contours were very precise and clear. Her voice was high
sonorous and flexible. She read poems willingly, at the first request, or offered herself:
"Do you want me to read you poetry?"
Dear reader! Laughing like a child
Have fun meeting my Magic Lantern.
Your sincere laugh, let it be a call
And unaccountable, as of old.
Lead 6.
As a poet and as a person, Marina Tsvetaeva developed rapidly.
The "Evening Album" was followed by two more collections of poems: "Magic
lantern "(1912) and" From two books "(1913), published with the assistance of Sergei Efron.
Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron ... They met on May 5, 1911 on the deserted Koktebel coast. “Looking into his eyes and reading everything in advance, Marina wondered: if he finds and gives her a carnelian, he will marry him. Of course, he found this carnelian immediately, by touch, for he did not take his gray eyes off her green ones.
Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron got married on January 27, 1912. Efron
gave my beloved a ring, on inside whose date was engraved
weddings and nameMarina.
The short interval between their meeting and the outbreak of World War I was
the only period of undisturbed happiness in their life.
Reader 5.
S.E.
I wear his ring defiantly!
Yes, in Eternity - a wife, not on paper! -
Overly narrow his face
Like a sword.
His mouth is silent, angles down.
The eyebrows are agonizingly gorgeous.
His face tragically merged
Two ancient bloods.
It is subtle by the first subtlety of the branches.
His eyes are beautifully useless! -
Under the wings of outstretched eyebrows -
Two abysses.
In his face, I am faithful to chivalry.
To all of you who lived and died without fear! -
Such - into fatal names -
They compose stanzas - and go to the chopping block.
Leading 7.
Alya - Ariadne Efron - was born on September 5, 1912, at half past five in the morning.
to the ringing of bells.
Girl! - The queen of the ball!
Or a schema - God knows!
- How much time? - It was getting light.
Someone answered me: - Six.
To be quiet in sorrow
So that the tender grows, -
My girl was met
Early bells.
"I called her Ariadne, - in spite of Seryozha, who loves Russian names, to dad,
who loves simple names, to friends who find it to be a salon ... Named from
romanticism and arrogance that run my whole life. I was told:
"Ariadne. - It’s responsible!" I answered: "Precisely because."
Performed « Dance with dolls "
Leading 2.
In Marina Tsvetaeva's poems, “there is a desire for a concise, concise and
expressive manner, where everything is clear, precise and fast in rhythm. " But at the same time
deeply lyrical.
You walking past me
To not my and dubious charms. -
If you knew. how much fire.
How much wasted life. -
And what a heroic fervor
To a random shadow and rustle ...
And how my heart was incinerated
This wasted gunpowder.
Oh, trains flying into the night,
Carrying away sleep at the train station ...
However, I know that even then
You would not know - if you knew -
Why are my speeches harsh
In the eternal smoke of my cigarette. -
How dark and terrible melancholy
In my fair-haired head.
« You walking past me ... »
Lead 3.
Many of Marina Tsvetaeva's poems are marked by the conciseness of thought and the energy of feeling.
Among them is the poem "Grandmother".
Marina Tsvetaeva's sister, Anastasia, recalls: “There was
portrait of grandmother, beautiful polka Maria Lukinichna Bernatskaya, who died very early
- at twenty-seven years old. Enlarged photograph - dark-eyed, with heavy eyelids,
a sad face with exactly brushed eyebrows, regular, sweet features,
a kind, bitterly touched mouth ... "
Reader 6.
This is how Marina Tsvetaeva talks about it.
Grandmother.
Oblong and hard oval.
Black dress trumpets ...
Young grandmother! - Who kissed
Your haughty lips?
Hands that are in the halls of the palace
Chopin's waltzes played ...
On the sides of the icy face
- Curls, in the form of a spiral.
Dark, direct and discerning gaze
A look ready for defense.
Young women don't look like that.
Young grandmother, who are you?
How many opportunities have you taken away
And how many impossibilities?
Into the insatiable burrow of the earth,
Twenty-year-old polka!
The day was innocent and the wind was fresh
The dark stars are extinguished.
Granny! - This cruel rebellion
In my heart - isn't it from you? ...
Lead 4.
Marina Tsvetaeva's poems are melodic, sincere and enchanting, to them constantly
composers address, and then they turn into amazingly beautiful
romances.
To the accompaniment sounds "I like that you are not sick with me ..." in
performed by an 11th grade student.
I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I'm not sick with you,
That never a heavy ball of the earth
Will not float under our feet.
I like that you can be funny -
Loose - and not play with words.
And do not blush with a suffocating wave.
Slightly touching sleeves.
I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug another
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn for not kissing you.
That my tender name, my tender, is not
Do not mention it during the day. Not at night - in vain ...
That never in the silence of the church
They will not sing over us: Hallelujah!
Thank you with both heart and hand
Because you do not know me yourself!
Love it so: for my night's peace.
For the rarity of meetings at sunset hours.
For our negligence under the moon.
For the sun is not over our heads, -
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me.
Because I am sick - alas! - not by you!
Lead 5.
Pushkin entered Marina Tsvetaeva's life swiftly and imperiously and became
constant spiritual support of this proud. thin and rebellious soul. Pushkin
"Captain's daughter"Tsvetaeva re-read many times, and the poem" To the Sea "became
her beloved. Tsvetaeva dedicated a cycle of poems "Poems to Pushkin" to the great Russian poet Pushkin
Reader 7.
No, the drum beat in front of the vague regiment.
When we buried the leader:
Then the teeth of the king over the dead singer
The honorable fraction was taken out.
Such an honor. What to the closest friends -
There is no place. At the head, at the foot.
And on the right. and on the left - arms at the seams-
Gendarme breasts and faces.
Isn't it a wonder - and on the quietest of the lodges
To be a supervised boy "?
Like something, something, something like
This honor, honor - but too much!
Look, they say, the country, how, contrary to rumor,
The monarch cares about the poet!
Honorary - honorary - honorary - archi -
Honorable, honorable - to hell!
Who is this - like thieves of a thief
The shot was taken out "?
Traitor? No. From the entrance yard -
The smartest husband of Russia.
"Poet and Tsar"
Lead 6.
Tsvetaeva was familiar with many poets of the early 20th century. She admired
verses by Bryusov and Pasternak, Mayakovsky and Akhmatova. But her poetic idol
was Alexander Blok. Tsvetaeva saw him twice, during his performances in Moscow
May 9 and 14, 1920. Her admiration for the poet, whom she called "solid
conscience, "C vetaeva carried it through her whole life.
Reader 1.
Your name is a bird in your hand
Your name is a piece of ice on your tongue.
One single lip movement.
Your name is five letters.
The ball caught on the fly
Silver bell in the mouth.
A stone thrown into a quiet pond
Sob what your name is.
In the light clicking of the night hooves
Your loud name is thundering.
And he will call him to our temple
Ringing trigger.
Your name - oh, you can't! -
Your name is a kiss in the eyes
In the gentle cold of motionless eyelids.
Your name is a kiss in the snow.
Key, icy, blue sip.
With your name, sleep is deep.
"Poetry To Block "
Lead 1.
1913 -1915 years. Next to Marina Tsvetaeva, her friends, loved one, daughter
Ariadne. Sister Anastasia says: "It was the heyday of Marina's beauty ... The clear green of her eyes, clouded by a myopic gaze shyly evading, has something witchcraft in herself ... She knows her own worth in external charm, as she knew her from childhood - in the internal "
The song "Under the caress of a plush blanket .."
Lead 2.
In 1922Marina Tsvetaeva, together with her daughter, goes abroad to her husband, Sergey
Efron, who found himself in the ranks of the white emigration.
Emigration met Tsvetaeva as a like-minded person. But then everything changed.
Tsvetaeva annoyed with her independence. intransigence, confidence in
your gift. What are such critical attacks on the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva: "a flower,
quickly fading "," this is not just bad poetry, this is not poetry at all. "
nonsense "," tasteless mixing of styles "...
And yet, all the same ... Let in poverty and non-recognition, but how much she created for
these seventeen years! In spite of everything - opposition to creativity. She is constantly
fights with publishers and editors: first to ensure that her work is
published, then, to protect them from deletion and distortion:
Write more clearly, you are not easy to perceive, focus on the average
the reader.
I don't know what the average reader is, I've never seen him ...
Business with the organization of literary evenings did not go well (and this was
real opportunity to earn): "If you knew how humiliating it is. - Buy, for Christ's sake! - Go, for Christ's sake! I do not know how to be poor and caress ..."
Would have been quieter, maybe some loans would have been paid, and the editors
softened. Conformity in Tsvetaeva was not a penny. Such possibility she even
did not consider ..
You can, of course, attribute everything to the traditions of romanticism. And yet all this -
the flip side of her gift, the gift of a poet who lives with a naked heart and does not know how
live "like everyone else." Therefore, at the source of Tsvetaeva's lyrics there is always a heartfelt impulse, and not
cold observation.
Marina Tsvetaeva felt that her poetry does not reach the audience "
... My reader stays in Russia, where are my poems... not coming... "- recalled Marina Tsvetaeva.
Around Tsvetaeva, a deaf wall of loneliness was closing ever closer.
And not the stanzas will save nor constellations.
And this is called retribution
For that every time.
Unbending a camp over a stubborn line,
I was looking for a spacious above my forehead
Only stars, not eyes ...
"And not will save neither the stanzas nor the constellations ... "
Lead 3.
Being 17 years in exile. Marina Tsvetaeva constantly thought about the Motherland. In 1934
year she wrote an amazing poem "Longing for the Motherland .."
Homesickness! For a long time
Trouble Unveiled!
I don't care at all -
Where completely lonely
Be on what stones to go home
Stroll with the bazaar wallet
Into the house, and not knowing what is mine,
Like a hospital or a barracks ...
Reader 2.
In the poem, addressed to Boris Pasternak, there are indescribable notes
sadness:
I bow to Russian rye,
The cornfield, where the woman is frozen ...
Friend! Rain outside my window
Troubles and whispers in the heart ...
You, in the whistle of rains and troubles,
Well, that Homer is in hexameter.
Give me your hand - to the whole world!
Here - both of mine are busy.
Lead 4.
In 1939, Marina Tsvetaeva finally returned to her native land ...
"As soon as I stepped on deck, I knew it was over." Arrived with a dangerous
with the stigma of "white emigrant". Then an equally terrible "relative of the enemies will be added
people. "Her innovation in poetry, forgiven by the authorities, perhaps only Mayakovsky,
called "formalism". With poetry and prose Tsvetaeva merged such a spirit of independence,
such a conviction in a person's right to internal freedom, to choose his own path, without
looking back at any authorities. No, this is exactly what the Soviet reader is not
fits. Deny! So, again, not about what is needed.
She was looking for a kindred spirit ... "Dishwasher and Tears". Efron and Alya disappeared;
the beloved son did not need her. "I knew how to write poetry, but I forgot."
With the beginning of the 1941 war, the evacuation of members of the Writers' Union to the Tatar Republic began.... Tsvetaeva and her son ended up in Elabuga, a remote village, where she
didn't know anyone. Upon arrival at the NKVD, she was offered to become an informant, a "snitch":
"... I am not a traitor, there is no meanness in me." She writes a statement to the Literary Fund with a request
take her to work as a dishwasher in the opening dining room ... "
The hopes associated with the return did not materialize.
Heavy blows of fate ... The beginning of the war. Constant anxiety for the lives of loved ones.
Deportation to Yelabuga. Under the yoke of personal misfortune, alone, in a state of depression, she committed suicide on August 31, 1941.
Sounds "Requiem" by Mozart.
Reader 1.
How many of them fell into this abyss,
Unfold in the distance!
The day will come. when i disappear too
From the surface of the earth.
Everything that sang and fought will freeze
It was shining and torn;
And the green of my eyes, and the gentle voice,
And the gold of the hair.
And there will be life with its daily bread,
With the forgetfulness of the day.
And everything will be - as if under the sky
And there was no me!
Changeable like children in every mine
And so wicked for a short time,
Who loved the hour when the wood in the fireplace
Are turning to ash.
Cello, and cavalcades in the thicket,
And the bell in the village ... -
Me so alive and real
On a gentle land!
To all of you - that I, who knew no measure in anything,
Strangers and our own ?! -
I make a claim of faith
And asking for love.
And day and night, and in writing and orally:
For the truth Yes and No,
For being too sad for me so often
And only twenty years.
For the fact that I am a direct inevitability -
Forgiveness of offenses
For all my unbridled tenderness
And too proud to look.
For the speed of rapid events,
For the truth, for the game ...
Listen! - Love me too
For dying.
Performed by "Ghanaian with candles"
Closing remarks from the teacher:
Marina Tsvetaeva ... She left us collections of lyric poems,
seventeen poems, poetic dramas, lyric essays and philosophical studies,
memoir prose, memoirs and reflections.
Tsvetaeva is a poet of "the ultimate truth of feeling." She with all her "is not easy
the prevailing fate, with all the brightness and uniqueness of the original talent for
rightfully entered Russian poetry ... "(Sun. Rozhdestvensky.)
I think that today's musical and literary
the dramatic composition prepared by you will be deeply felt and you
you will be able to write an essay that Marina Tsvetaeva's poems really come
whenever you touch them.
Literature:
Literature at school. 1991.N 3.5.
Marina Tsvetaeva. Poems and poems. Volgograd, 1989 / Article
Sunday Christmas.
Orlov V. Marina Tsvetaeva: Destiny. Character. Poetry. M .: Education, 1990.
Rus. literature of the twentieth century: Essays. Portraits. Essays / Ed. F.F. Kuznetsova, Moscow:
Enlightenment, 1996.
