Vasily Rozanov - the last leaves. Alien Anton - poems and songs The rest of the children work with the teacher

Anton Prishelets (Anton Ilyich Khodakov) is a Soviet poet. Anton was born on December 20, 1892 (January 1, 1893) in the Saratov province - in the village of Bezlesye, Balashov district, into a peasant family. . .
Anton Prishelets worked as a journalist in Balashov; in 1922 he moved to Moscow, where he worked in the editorial office of Rabochaya Gazeta. Anton Prishelets was published in the magazines “Krasnaya Nov”, “ New world", "Nedra", "Young Guard", "October" and others. . .
In 1920, Anton Prishelets published his first collection of poems, “Star Calls,” then “Poems about the Village,” “My Fire,” “Grain,” “Green Wind,” “Sweet Path,” “A Bunch of Hay,” “Wormwood.” ", "Bend" and others. In total, Anton Prishelets published 15 poetry collections during his life. . .
Anton Prishelets is the author of popular songs: “There is a lapwing on the road,” “Oh, rye,” “Where are you running, dear path,” “My life, my love” and others. Among the co-authors of Anton Prishelets' songs are such famous Soviet composers as S. Prokofiev, S. Katz, S. Tulikov, V. Muradeli. . .

* * * * * * * * * * *

Poetry reviews

"Poetry native land"
"Literary newspaper" No. 150, 12/17/1955

The poet tells how, as a child, a world of simple and sincere beauty opened up to him. He carried his admiration for her throughout his life. Not only images and sounds were preserved by his memory, he retained more: admiration for the generosity of nature, a clear and proud faith in man. He carefully selects signs native land: Volga flood, steppe expanse, Saratov ditties... He talks about farmers and warriors, about children and girls in simple and precise words. The truth of his childhood impressions, confirmed by his entire subsequent life, became the truth of his poetry.
This is the charm of the book of poems by Anton Prishelets “My Fire” (“Soviet Writer”, 1955). There is no diversity or complexity in it, but its constancy and unity are amazing. Its theme is the native country, the modest beauty of nature, the strength and talent of the people. In his poems, every apple tree and every steppe well is beautiful. The Khoper River, Lake Senezhskoe, Rastorguevo station, the Volga reaches are not random poetic labels, but precisely named favorite places. What is seen and experienced is not decorated or elevated. It remained ordinary and familiar, only warmed by a lyrical feeling. Both landscapes and people are painted this way. You can trust the Alien; he performs without posture. The poet does not know exclamation marks. He speaks respectfully about work and heroism. The young fighter “did not dream of becoming famous as a hero,” but under fire he swam across the river with his comrades and defended himself for five hours from a brutal onslaught on a narrow piece of land. “Well, that’s all he distinguished himself with.” You won’t find “fierce” love in the Alien, but a modest feeling burns in his poems and silent loyalty is affirmed.
The August steppe is warm,
The butterfly lightness of the dress,
Bitter-smelling wormwood
And two Christmas trees at sunset. . .
You read the Alien's poems like the pages of a diary, where the chronicle of events and personal life are inseparable. Collective farm power plant on a small river. Blue jerseys of the physical education parade. Waiting for letters from the front. The grief of parents who have lost their son. In the poem “Your Portrait” written about this, the poet sincerely speaks to the reader. Hope and happiness are embodied more strongly than sadness. The cycle of poems about a fallen warrior solemnly and brightly ends with the poem “Motherland.” Closeness to nature and unity with people are the leitmotifs of poetic experiences, which is why the feeling of the Motherland is so directly expressed in the poetry of the Alien.
The Alien's collection is called "My Fire". One can recall Polonsky’s famous romance and another poem of his, addressed to Tyutchev, where poetry is likened to a fire that warms a tired companion: Tyutchev responded with the quatrain “To my friend Ya. Polonsky” (“There are no more living sparks for your welcoming voice”). The Alien has the same fire, only its light is “cheerful.” Of course, this association is not accidental. In the poems of the Alien one can sometimes hear the intonations of Nekrasov, Lermontov, Tyutchev, even Fetov’s nightingales sing in his poems. This is organic for a poet. He continues the line of Russian poetic landscape, which goes from Lermontov’s “Motherland” to Yesenin’s “Anna Snegina”. For poets of the past, the perception of nature was often burdened with tragic notes; for the Newcomer, the landscape is almost always animated by the fullness of happiness. It’s the same in the Alien’s songs: they are written in the intonations of Russian romance, but in their own, major and heartfelt tone. “Where are you running, dear path?” – like a folk song, music is necessary here.
The Alien's poems attract with their freshness, but do not always leave the impression of completeness. It seems that the poet understands this himself: he varies the theme many times without offering final solutions. It is difficult to make a choice in his poems; they must be read all together. This can be perceived as a disadvantage. But we can also say this: before us is a lyrical story, leisurely and frank..."

Anton Prishelets (Anton Ilyich Khodakov) is a Soviet poet. Anton was born on December 20, 1892 (January 1, 1893) in the Saratov province - in the village of Bezlesye, Balashov district, into a peasant family. . .
Anton Prishelets worked as a journalist in Balashov; in 1922 he moved to Moscow, where he worked in the editorial office of Rabochaya Gazeta. Anton Prishelets was published in the magazines “Krasnaya Nov”, “New World”, “Nedra”, “Young Guard”, “October” and others. . .
In 1920, Anton Prishelets published his first collection of poems, “Star Calls,” then “Poems about the Village,” “My Fire,” “Grain,” “Green Wind,” “Sweet Path,” “A Bunch of Hay,” “Wormwood.” ", "Bend" and others. In total, Anton Prishelets published 15 poetry collections during his life. . .
Anton Prishelets is the author of popular songs: “There is a lapwing on the road,” “Oh, rye,” “Where are you running, dear path,” “My life, my love” and others. Among the co-authors of Anton Prishelets' songs are such famous Soviet composers as S. Prokofiev, S. Katz, S. Tulikov, V. Muradeli. . .

* * * * * * * * * * *

Poetry reviews

"Poetry of the Native Land"
"Literary newspaper" No. 150, 12/17/1955

The poet tells how, as a child, a world of simple and sincere beauty opened up to him. He carried his admiration for her throughout his life. Not only images and sounds were preserved by his memory, he retained more: admiration for the generosity of nature, a clear and proud faith in man. He carefully selects the signs of his native land: the Volga flood, the steppe expanse, Saratov ditties... He talks about farmers and warriors, about children and girls in simple and precise words. The truth of his childhood impressions, confirmed by his entire subsequent life, became the truth of his poetry.
This is the charm of the book of poems by Anton Prishelets “My Fire” (“Soviet Writer”, 1955). There is no diversity or complexity in it, but its constancy and unity are amazing. Its theme is the native country, the modest beauty of nature, the strength and talent of the people. In his poems, every apple tree and every steppe well is beautiful. The Khoper River, Lake Senezhskoe, Rastorguevo station, the Volga reaches are not random poetic labels, but precisely named favorite places. What is seen and experienced is not decorated or elevated. It remained ordinary and familiar, only warmed by a lyrical feeling. Both landscapes and people are painted this way. You can trust the Alien; he performs without posture. The poet does not know exclamation marks. He speaks respectfully about work and heroism. The young fighter “did not dream of becoming famous as a hero,” but under fire he swam across the river with his comrades and defended himself for five hours from a brutal onslaught on a narrow piece of land. “Well, that’s all he distinguished himself with.” You won’t find “fierce” love in the Alien, but a modest feeling burns in his poems and silent loyalty is affirmed.
The August steppe is warm,
The butterfly lightness of the dress,
Bitter-smelling wormwood
And two Christmas trees at sunset. . .
You read the Alien's poems like the pages of a diary, where the chronicle of events and personal life are inseparable. Collective farm power plant on a small river. Blue jerseys of the physical education parade. Waiting for letters from the front. The grief of parents who have lost their son. In the poem “Your Portrait” written about this, the poet sincerely speaks to the reader. Hope and happiness are embodied more strongly than sadness. The cycle of poems about a fallen warrior solemnly and brightly ends with the poem “Motherland.” Closeness to nature and unity with people are the leitmotifs of poetic experiences, which is why the feeling of the Motherland is so directly expressed in the poetry of the Alien.
The Alien's collection is called "My Fire". One can recall Polonsky’s famous romance and another poem of his, addressed to Tyutchev, where poetry is likened to a fire that warms a tired companion: Tyutchev responded with the quatrain “To my friend Ya. Polonsky” (“There are no more living sparks for your welcoming voice”). The Alien has the same fire, only its light is “cheerful.” Of course, this association is not accidental. In the poems of the Alien one can sometimes hear the intonations of Nekrasov, Lermontov, Tyutchev, even Fetov’s nightingales sing in his poems. This is organic for a poet. He continues the line of Russian poetic landscape, which goes from Lermontov’s “Motherland” to Yesenin’s “Anna Snegina”. For poets of the past, the perception of nature was often burdened with tragic notes; for the Newcomer, the landscape is almost always animated by the fullness of happiness. It’s the same in the Alien’s songs: they are written in the intonations of Russian romance, but in their own, major and heartfelt tone. “Where are you running, dear path?” – like a folk song, music is necessary here.
The Alien's poems attract with their freshness, but do not always leave the impression of completeness. It seems that the poet understands this himself: he varies the theme many times without offering final solutions. It is difficult to make a choice in his poems; they must be read all together. This can be perceived as a disadvantage. But we can also say this: before us is a lyrical story, leisurely and frank..."

Sections: Primary School

The purpose of the lesson:

• introduce the emotional and aesthetic content of A. Alien’s poem “Snowflake”;
• develop the ability to find characteristic properties of the content of a work, understand the poet’s language, develop imagination, aesthetic sensitivity;
• cultivate interest in reading, curiosity, spiritual qualities: tenderness, charm, beauty.

Equipment:

• Audio recordings: “Winter” – M. Krutitsky. " Winter evening
• " – P. Tchaikovsky.

“Dance of Snowflakes” – A. Filipenko Illustrations about winter (various landscape images), compositions of snowflakes, multimedia – landscapes of winter phenomena.

Organizing time
Relaxation.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me! U.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with? D.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!– There are a lot of illustrations about winter nature and delicate snowflakes hanging, which means we’ll talk about winter.

- You children are right. Now let's listen to a musical excerpt from M. Krutitsky's work "Winter". And tell me, what did you hear in the music, what did you imagine?

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with? Listening to an excerpt.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- I imagined the sorceress - Winter, snowdrifts, falling snow.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?“It seems to me that everything around is white, like a big fluffy blanket covering the earth.”
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- Snowflakes fall, they fly, they play, they have fun.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!“Everything is quiet, everything is covered with snow, the animals sleep warmly, and at the top the wind and snow are flying.”

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- You guys are right, I also imagined a soft white blanket all around, everything glitters and sparkles, and snowflakes dance their waltz and quietly fall from the sky and fit into large snowdrifts and show off, playing with the sun’s rays.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Look outside the window, how much snow there is this year, how many snowflakes have descended on us.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- Is this good?
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Yes.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Remember the science lesson, with which proverb we learned about the benefits of snow. Lots of snow - lots of bread!

- That's right, children. Winter brings us not only benefits, but also beauty! Look what illustrations about winter landscapes I have prepared for you. They hang silently and show an image of winter nature. Let's bring them to life. I will give you excerpts from the works of poets, and you will correlate them in accordance with the artistic depiction.

I hand out cards with excerpts from works to the children. They look for suitable images in the illustrations for their passages and stand next to them. (Using class space).

Cards.

1. “The first snow flashes and curls, falling like stars on the shore” –

Pushkin "Neater than copper parquet."
2. Blizzards of snow and fog
Always submissive to the frost
I'll go beyond the seas, oceans -

I will build palaces from ice.

N. Nekrasov "Frost the Governor"

3. Snow is falling and the shawl is laying down!

S. Yesenin "Porosha"
4. Sorceress - In winter,

Bewitched, the forest stands

F. Tyutchev.
5. Powdered with white snow
There's no trace left
Dust and blizzard rose

Can't see the light

6. There is snow in the yards and houses
lies like a sheet
And the sun sparkles
Multi-colored fire.

I. Nikitin "Meeting of Winter"

The rest of the children work with the teacher.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Children, while the guys are doing the task, tell me “What is typical for the winter period of our natural area” (pointing to the globe)

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- Frosts and blizzards, snowfalls and blizzards, snow drifts, blizzards, drifting snow, clear, frosty weather. I turn on multimedia. “Winter” words and pictures for them are given. We describe natural phenomena.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- These are winter words - snowy, they are all connected with winter with snow.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Now let’s listen and appreciate how our children “brought the paintings to life.”

If you agree with the answer, then show a blue circle - this is the color of winter, and if you do not agree - a red one, and explain why?

Children read texts from their cards, and another group of children evaluates them.

Who remembers the Alien's poem about autumn, what is it called?

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- This is “The Last Leaves”.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Let's remember him, let's be leaves. Do you agree?

Physical exercise. An adaptation of A. Alien’s poem “The Last Leaves.” The teacher reads the text, and the children show with their hands and facial expressions what is happening around them.
p.137.

Words	Actions
Flying over the fields	Hands to the side
Last leaves	Waving
Last leaves	Spin, squat
They fly around in the forest
And the sun is barely	Hands up
Breaking through the clouds	And they fall down -
The last one drops	Tilt of the non-heating ray
Can't hear it on the river	Turns
no song, no word	To the sides
The fishermen left	Hands on shoulders
With the last catch	Walk around the classroom
But they stubbornly believe	Stand up, hands up
both people and birds	Smiling
Everything will be born again!	Clap your hands
Everything will happen again!	Sit down

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- What are the characteristics of A. Alien’s poems? Think about it?
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- He glorifies his native nature, admires him and always says that everything will be fine!

Yes, Alexey Prishelets discovers amazing things in nature.

Getting to know new material

Today we will get acquainted with his poem “Snowflake” - What do you think it is about? Let's think together, can we give it a different name or not? Fine!

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- So what is this poem about, do you suppose?
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- About winter, about snowflakes, about beauty.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- The following words will appear in the text - explain how you understand them? Multimedia on screen context.

- Timid, disturbed fluff (quiet, inconspicuous, very light).
- This minute – (immediately, quickly)

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- Now I will read this poem. I turn on the music of Tchaikovsky "Winter Evening" And your task is to tell what pictures arose while reading.

I turn it on. I’m reading (Living Word 3rd grade (1-4) p. 196). .

Draw and describe what you presented.

I'll give you time to think about it.

Who's ready? I'll turn on the recording again, and you tell what you've presented.

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- I imagined the city, evening, I look into the sky and snowflakes are falling. I catch them.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- I catch snowflakes, but they melt. I feel sorry for them.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Children, who will show admiration for a snowflake? (reading text)
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- What is the author afraid of? (that the snowflake will die).

Repeated reading by children.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Now you will read on your own, expressively, think about what the author wanted to convey, what spiritual qualities the author awakens in people. Take a pencil and underline the line of context that most affected you and why?

The children are working. They read out the lines expressively and explain what qualities these lines cultivate in a person.

(In the children's answers: admiration, beauty, the movement of falling snowflakes, confusion, protecting the weak, courage, regret...).

Analysis of the poem's couplets.

I. Reading by children 1st verse.

"Oh, how beautiful she is! (reading a line by several children)

II. Children reading verse 2.

Hold it and it will melt; if it falls, it will die.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Where did the alarm arise? Why?

Children prove (Right now, this minute)

III. Children reading verse 3.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Where are the words of safety statement?

With me, no one will touch you!

(reading by several children)

In the palm of your hand - how long before trouble comes!
A tiny drop of water.

(Several children are reading)

Reading - Key words. Bottom line.

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- The author shows regret.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Do you feel sorry for the snowflake?
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Guys, this is a natural phenomenon that the snow melts in the warmth, but what does the poet truly regret?
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- (About the beauty and uniqueness of a snowflake).
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- The author is fascinated by beauty and disappointed by its death.

This is what we should convey when reading.

Working on expressiveness.

We use a pencil to mark pauses, rising and falling tones, and highlighting key words.

Work with text.

Reading a poem by children

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- And what alliteration sounds help us read quietly, calmly, leisurely.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- (zh – sh, shch, voiceless consonants).
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- For example: timid alarm and PU w Inka, dream and Inca, nor and e, With herd the cro w eternal, With rubber band
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- The author used the artistic technique of comparison in order for us to better imagine and understand the lightness of a snowflake.
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- What does the author compare the snowflake to?
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- (with fluff) Read it!
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- And the author also says that the snowflake is alive?
- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Where can you see this?
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- I carry your tear.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- This is a teardrop - a snowflake that has melted.

Physical exercise. You are snowflakes!

Audio recording (Dance of snowflakes by A. Filippenko)

What you hear, what you imagine, then depict. You can fly and spin around the whole class.

(Music – perky, cheerful, fast and slow).

Have you rested? – Let’s return to our question – Is it possible to change the name? Why?

(It would be possible to call it “pity”, but throughout the text it does not fit, because the author shows the beauty, the charm of a natural phenomenon, and then conveys regret that the snowflake has melted).

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- I like this name, it is gentle and precise.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- It is light and transparent.
– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- Although it has melted, there are other snowflakes.

- I'm beautiful, I'm good, I'm happy. I will love everyone! And everyone will love me!- Look how many of them are in the classroom and how many are on the street.

Let's draw a snowflake in our notebooks, the one you imagine.

– Did everyone smile and look around? What will we talk about today, and what time of year will our lesson topic be associated with?- Then she won’t melt!

Homework: Learn the poem by heart and show your snowflake, you can cut it out or draw it.

Recording of music "Winter Evening" by Tchaikovsky. Sketch of a snowflake (blue pencil)

I T O G:

What did you like about the lesson?
What surprised you?
What caused the joy? What a pity?

Now show all your snowflakes (whoever managed to draw them), they won’t melt with us. I'm very pleased with you. Thank you! They worked great. (The children are given excellent and good grades, they worked together on expressive reading, and the teacher’s task is to captivate all students with the work according to L.V. Zankov’s system - this always works out).

AUTUMN POEMS FOR CHILDREN

True sign

The wind is driving the clouds,
The wind moans in the pipes,
Rain slanting, cold
There's a knock on the glass.
There are puddles on the roads
They wince from the cold,
Hiding under the canopy
Sad rooks.
A sure sign
That summer is passing
Why are honey mushrooms asking?
Themselves in the box,
What's the rush with gifts?
Autumn is bright again,
What do you miss about school?
Talker-bell.

(G. Ladonshchikov)

Autumn signs

Thin birch
Dressed in gold.
So the sign of autumn appeared.

Birds fly away
To the land of warmth and light,
Here's another one for you
Sign of autumn.

The rain sows drops
All day from dawn.
This rain too
Sign of autumn.

Proud boy, happy:
After all, he is wearing
School shirt,
Bought in the summer.

Girl with a briefcase.
Everyone knows: this is
Coming autumn
A sure sign.

(L. Preobrazhenskaya)

Autumn

Summer leaves wet babble
It died down and thinned out.
A maple leaf is like a swan
Circling on the water.
The birches gathered in flocks,
They're just waiting for the wind.
The smoke branches, growing -
Somewhere the leaves are burning...
And in the garden, in the white fog
Heard a hundred miles away
The sound of ripe apples falling,
Overripe stars.
(I. Gamazkova)

Look how beautiful the day is

Look how beautiful the day is
And how clear the sky is,
How the ash tree burns under the sun,
The maple burns without fire.

And circles over the clearing,
Like a firebird, the leaf is crimson.

And scarlet like rubies,
Rowan berries are blooming
Waiting for guests -
Red-breasted bullfinches...

And on a hillock, in red leaves,
As if in lush fox fur coats,
Majestic oaks
They look at the mushrooms with sadness -

Old and small
Scarlet russula
And purple fly agaric
In the middle of wormholes...

Meanwhile the day is coming to an end,
Goes to the red tower to sleep
The sun is red from the sky...
The leaves are fading.
The forest is fading.
(I. Maznin)

Carpets

Somewhere behind the autumn clouds
The crane's conversation fell silent.
On the paths where summer ran,
The multi-colored carpet lay down.

The sparrow became sad outside the window,
The houses became unusually quiet.
Along the autumn carpet paths
Winter is coming unnoticed.
(V. Orlov)

Night leaf

I was sitting today
Before dark
Near open
Window.
Suddenly on the windowsill
Lay down
Golden
Small leaf.
It's damp outside the window
And it's dark.
So he flew in
Through my window.
He's shaking.
And it’s obvious that’s why
The tail is moving
Him.

(V. Orlov)

Autumn awards

Rocked,
Made some noise
In the dark thicket
Pines, spruces!
Meeting the wind
So happy:
He hands them
Awards!
Attaches
"Order of the Maple"
On the uniform
Green pine.
Red Order,
Cutout,
With golden
Border!
And a handful at a time
Medals
Everyone ate
The winds are blowing!
Golden
Yes pink ones -
"Osinov"
"Beryozovyh"!

(A. Shevchenko)
Packed up and flew

Packed up and flew
Ducks for a long journey.
Under the roots of an old spruce
A bear is making a den.
The hare dressed in white fur,
The bunny felt warm.
The squirrel carries it for a month
Store mushrooms in the hollow in reserve.
Wolves prowl in the dark night
For prey in the forests.
Between the bushes to the sleepy grouse
A fox sneaks in.
The nutcracker hides for the winter
The old moss nuts deftly.
Wood grouse pinch the needles.
They came to us for the winter
Northern bullfinches.

(E. Golovin)

Sheet

Quiet, warm, gentle autumn


light.
On sidewalks, lawns, alleys
she pours them out, not sparing at all, –

sheet.



sheet.


moment – and, passing the wide cornice,
down!
(A. Starikov)

Autumn in the forest

Autumn in the forest every year
Pays gold for entry.
Look at the aspen -
All dressed in gold
And she babbles:
“I’m freezing...” –
And shivering from the cold.

And the birch is happy
Yellow outfit:
"What a dress!
What a beauty!"
The leaves quickly scattered
The frost came suddenly.
And the birch tree whispers:
"I'm chilling!..."

Lost weight at the oak tree too
Gilded fur coat.
The oak tree caught on, but it’s too late
And he makes noise:
"I'm freezing! I'm freezing!"
Gold deceived -
Didn't save me from the cold.

(From A. Gontar translated by V. Berestov)

Autumn

Slow down, autumn, don't rush
Unwind your rains,
Spread your mists
on the choppy river surface.

Slow down, autumn, show me
Yellow leaves turn for me,
Let me make sure, don't rush,
How fresh your silence is

And how bottomless the sky is blue
Over the hot flames of aspens...

(L. Tatyanicheva)

Autumn

All the trees fall asleep
Leaves are falling off the branches.
Only the spruce does not crumble -
She can't fall asleep.
Fear does not give peace:
I wouldn't oversleep New Year!

(M. Schwartz)

Autumn

The tedious rain falls on the ground,
And the space drooped.
Autumn has turned away the sun,
Like a light bulb installer.

(M. Schwartz)

Autumn

Autumn,
autumn...
Sun
It's damp in the clouds –
Even at noon it shines
Dull and timid.
From the cold grove
In field,
to the path,
The bunny blew out –
First
Snowflake.

(T. Belozerov)

Autumn seamstress

So that the little earth can spend the winter without hassle,
Autumn sews a patchwork blanket for her.
Carefully sews the leaf to the leaf,
Use a pine needle to adjust the stitch.

Leaves to choose from - any will come in handy.
Here the purple one lies next to the crimson one,
Although the seamstress really likes the golden color,
Brown and even spotted will do.

They are carefully held together by a thread of spider web.
You won't find a more beautiful picture than this.

(T. Gusarova ■ )

Leaf walker

Red rain falls from the sky,
The wind carries red leaves...
Leaf fall,
Change of season
Leaf walker on the river, leaf walker.
The sides of the river are freezing,
And there is nowhere to escape from the frost.
The river was covered with a fox fur coat,
But he's shaking
And can't get warm.

(V. Shulzhik)

Colorful autumn

Colorful autumn – evening of the year–
He smiles at me brightly.
But between me and nature
A thin glass appeared.

This whole world – in full view,
But I can't go back.
I'm still with you, but in the carriage,
I'm still at home, but on the road.

(S. Marshak)

White snowstorms coming soon

White snowstorms coming soon
The snow will be lifted from the ground.
They fly away, they fly away,
The cranes flew away.

Don't hear the cuckoos in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
It flies away, it flies away!

Leaf swaying patterned
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden along the ridge.

They crumbled and turned yellow
Rare rays of the sun.
They fly away, they fly away,
The rooks also flew away.
(E. Blaginina)

Sheet

Quiet, warm, gentle autumn
spreads withered leaves everywhere,
paints it lemon Orange color
light.
On sidewalks, lawns, alleys
She pours them out, not sparing at all, -
hanging above the window in a cobweb
sheet.
Wide open the window. And a gullible bird
he sits on my palm, spinning around,
light and cold, gentle and pure
sheet.
A gust of wind. A leaf flies from the palm,
here he is already on the next balcony,
moment - and, passing the wide cornice,
down!
(A. Starikov)

Golden grove

Autumn! Golden grove!
Gold, blue,
And it flies over the grove
Flock of cranes.
High under the clouds
Geese respond
With a distant lake, with fields
They say goodbye forever.
(A. Alien)

Autumn has come

Autumn has come
It started to rain.
How sad it is
What the gardens look like.

The birds reached out
To warm regions.
Farewell is heard
The screech of a crane.

The sun doesn't spoil me
Us with your warmth.
Northern, frosty
It blows cold.

It's very sad
Sad at heart
Because it's summer
Can't return it anymore.
(E. Arsenina)

Leaf fall

Ice pieces crunch under your feet,
I can not see anything. Darkness.
And the invisible leaves rustle,
Flying around from every bush.
Autumn is walking around summer roads,
Everything is quiet, it’s easy to rest.
Only in the sky is it festive from the light -
The sky lit up all the constellations!..
Similar to golden leaves
Stars are falling from the sky...flying...
As if in a dark, starry sky too
Autumn leaf fall has arrived.
(E. Trutneva)

Leaf fall

Leaf fall,
Leaf fall!
Yellow birds are flying...
Maybe it's not birds
Are you getting ready for a long journey?
Maybe this
Just summer
Flying away to relax?
He will rest,
Will gain strength
And back to us
Will come back.

(I. Bursov)

Leaf Fall Lesson

And in pairs, in pairs following her,
For my dear teacher
We solemnly leave the village.
And the puddles were covered in leaves from the lawns!

"Look! On the dark fir trees in the undergrowth
Maple stars burn like pendants.
Bend over for the most beautiful leaf
In veins of crimson on gold.

Remember everything, how the earth falls asleep,
And the wind covers it with leaves."
And in the maple grove it is brighter and brighter.
More and more leaves are flying off the branches.

We play and run around under the falling leaves
With a sad, thoughtful woman next to him.

(V. Berestov)

Autumn conversation

Kalina said to Kalina:

– Why are you, my friend, in such a mess?
Why such a cloudy view?

What kind of pain is your heart aching?..

The viburnum answered the viburnum:

– That's why I feel sad,

That winter is already on the doorstep,

That a blizzard is already on the way,

It’s not for nothing – think for yourself! –

Our branches flew around yesterday!..

(A. Kaminchuk)

autumn wind

Rain. Clouds over the ground
Continuous succession.
Under the bush the dry thing is sad
An empty nest.

The wind spins and rushes -
Whirling leaves, noise and moaning,
Might turn into a storm
Was he up to it this time?

The rain subsides in the evening.
Dreams wander in the night garden.
And, curled up in a ball, the wind
Sleeping soundly in an empty nest.
(N. Zverkovskaya)

autumn wind

Someone is walking at the gate -
It will hit a branch
Then he will collect blades of grass
And he will throw it up.

Then it will begin to bend the mountain ash
At a packed dacha,
So I started blowing on the puddle,
Like hot tea.

And he doesn’t freeze without a coat
On a chilly blue evening...
This someone is nobody
He is the autumn wind.
(L. Derbenev)

Moose Echo

The elk trumpeted alarmingly:

Summer was over.

And the forest alarm

Rolled along the road.

He flew up to the clouds with the wind,

I ran along the fox paths.

And from the trees a yellow echo

Autumn has dropped its leaves.
(V. Stepanov)

Cranes

Over the brown field
Hemp
They fly lazily
Cranes.
They're flying,
They call each other.
They're looking at everything
Say goodbye
With Christmas trees
Green,
With birch trees
And with maples
With valleys
With lakes
With relatives
Open spaces.
(G. Ladonshchikov)

Autumn worries of the hare

What's on the hare's mind?
Prepare for winter.

Can't get it in the store
Excellent winter down jacket.

White-white whiteness,
So that you can run in it until spring.

The old one has become a little cold,
Yes and – sir, and – too small

He is in the winter of the enemy pack,
Like a target on a slope.

It will be safer in the new one,
Less noticeable to dogs and owls.

White snow and white fur –
And warmer and more beautiful than everyone else!

( T. Umanskaya)

Last leaves

Flying over the fields
Last leaves,
Last leaves
They fly around in the forest.
And the sun is barely
Breaking through the clouds
The last non-heating ray drops.
Can't hear it on the river
not a song, not a word.
The fishermen left
With the last catch.
But they stubbornly believe
both people and birds:
Everything will be born again!
Everything will happen again!

(A. Alien)

Autumn Tale

A fairy tale begins
Autumn is quiet.
She walks through the forest
Like a moose cow
Can't see
Don't hear
How to follow the branches.
But behind her you and I
Let's hurry up ourselves.
You see, they burst into flames
Bunches of September rowan.
You see, the mushroom has turned red
Under the ringing aspen.
Hangs with a light haze
There is a cobweb on the pine tree.
Summer is entangled in her
Aspen leaf.
(G. Novitskaya)

The forest still smells like mushrooms

The forest still smells like mushrooms
And the sheet did not come off
At the aspen tree.
And from the blushed rowan
Still the heat of summer
Didn't disappear.
I haven’t told you everything yet
Creek,
Living under the roots.
But it's raining
Already in a hurry for us,
It's like forests
I haven't seen it!
(G. Novitskaya)

On the road, on the path

On the road, on the path
The forest has lost its leaves.
Spider on a web
He got into my collar.

The nights have become darker
And you can’t hear the woodpecker’s knock.
More often the rain wets the branches,
There will be no sound of thunder.

In the morning already in a puddle
The first ice appeared.
And the snow lightly circles,
Know the frost on the way, it's coming.
(L. Nelyubov)

Autumn quests

In the morning in the forest
Above the silver thread
Spiders are busy –
Telephone operators.
And now from the Christmas tree
To the aspen tree,
Like wires sparkle
Cobwebs.
The bells are ringing:
– Attention! Attention!
Listen to the autumn
Tasks!
– Hello, bear!
– I'm listening to! Yes Yes!
– It's just around the corner
Cold!
Until winter comes
To the threshold,
Do you need it urgently
Find a den!
The bells are ringing
In squirrels and hedgehogs,
From the top
And to the lower floors:
– Check soon
Your own storage rooms –
Are there enough supplies?
For wintering.
The bells are ringing
At the old swamp:
– The herons are all ready
For departure?
– Everything is ready for departure!
– Good luck!
Don't forget again
Look in!
The bells are ringing at the linden tree
And from the maple:
– Hello! Tell,
Who's on the phone?
– Hello! By the phone
Ants!
– Close
Your anthills!
– Tell me, is this a river?
– River, river!
– Why for crayfish?
No place?
And the river answers:
– These are lies!
I will show you,
Where do crayfish spend the winter?
– Hello, guys!
Good afternoon guys!
Already on the street
It's a little cold!
It's time for the birds
Hanging out feeders –
On the windows, on the balconies,
At the edge!
After all, the birds –
Your true friends,
And about our friends
You can't forget!

(V. Orlov)

Doctor Autumn

They eat on the thorns
Two mustard plasters are lying.
So someone put them there
But where is this doctor?
Les sighed
And dropped the leaves...
– I guessed it! It's Autumn!

(E. Grigorieva)

From dawn to dusk

Forests are turning
In painted sails.
Autumn again
Leaves again
Without beginning, without end
Over the river
And at the porch.

Here they are floating somewhere -
Then back
And then go ahead.
From dawn to dusk
The wind tears them apart.

All day
The rains are slanting
Pulling threads through the forests
As if they were repairing painted
Golden sails...

(V. Stepanov)

Until next summer

Summer is leaving quietly,
dressed in foliage.
And stays somewhere
in a dream or in reality:
silver front sight
in the spider's webs,
undrinking mug
fresh milk.
And a glass stream.
And warm earth.
And over the forest clearing
the buzzing of a bumblebee.

Autumn comes quietly,
dressed in fog.
She brings the rains
from foreign countries.
And a yellow heap of leaves,
and the aroma of the forest,
and dampness in dark holes.

And somewhere behind the wall
alarm clock until dawn
chirps on the table:
“Until the next summer,
until the future le-..."

(Tim Sobakin)

Letter

Angry autumn breeze
I picked a leaf from a bush.
I fiddled with the leaf for a long time.
Circled above the trees,
And then on my knees
I put a yellow leaf.
Touched my face with cold:
“Get a letter!
Autumn sent this to you,
And another armful of yellow ones,
Reds,
Various letters
Quit.

(E. Avdienko)

Autumn

rustled underfoot
Leaves with yellow sides.
It became damp, it became bare,
We need to get ready for school.
I barely write notebooks
Posted in my portfolio
Among the rowan berries,
Maple and aspen leaves,
Acorns and russula...
And, probably, Olezhek,
My desk neighbor will ask:
"What is all this?" "It's autumn"…
(T. Agibalova)

Rowanushka

Look! The aspen trees have turned red,

Birch trees stand in yellow shawls...

The forest prima donna has a rowan tree

The beads glow with scarlet ruby.

Dressed up like a princess

At a luxurious autumn feast.

She's probably a forest mermaid

I braided my hair in the morning.

(L. Chadova)

Autumn miracle

It's autumn, bad weather.
Rain and slush. Everyone is sad:
Because with the hot summer
They don't want to break up.

The sky is crying, the sun is hiding,
The wind sings pitifully.
We made a wish:
Let summer come to us again.

And this wish came true,
The kids are having fun:
The miracle now is Indian summer,
It's hot in the middle of autumn!
(N. Samonii)

Autumn dances and cries quietly

Autumn let loose her braids
A blazing fire.
More often frost, less often dew,
Rain is cold silver.

Autumn bares her shoulders,
There are all trees in the neckline -
Soon there will be a ball, a farewell party...
The leaves are already waltzing.

Chrysanthemums with marvelous fur
Colorful autumn outfit.
The wind is not a hindrance to the ball -
The music is a hundred times louder!

Autumn has loosened her braids,
The wind ruffles the silk of hair.
More often frost, less often dew,
The scent of late roses is sweeter.

Autumn dances quietly,
Lips tremble in a whisper.
Hides a sad look in puddles.
The birds circle mournfully.

Stretching out a piece of paper like a hand,
Waving a sad goodbye...
Autumn, feeling separation,
Whispers tearfully: “Remember...”
(N. Samonii)

Sad autumn

The leaves have flown away
Following a flock of birds.
I'm in red autumn
I miss you day after day.

The sky is sad
The sun is getting sad...
It's a pity that autumn is warm
It doesn't last long!
(N. Samonii)

Plums are falling in the garden...

The plums in the garden are falling,
A noble treat for wasps...
A yellow leaf took a swim in the pond
And welcomes early autumn.

He imagined himself as a ship
The wind of wanderings rocked him.
So we will swim after him
To piers unknown in life.

And we already know by heart:
In a year there will be a new summer.
Why is there universal sadness?
In every line of poetry by poets?

Is it because there are traces in the dew?
Will the rains wash away and the winters freeze?
Is it because all moments are
Fleeting and unique?

(L. Kuznetsova)

Autumn. Silence in the dacha village...

Autumn. Silence in the dacha village,
And deserted and ringing on earth.
Cobwebs in the transparent air
Cold as a crack in glass.

Through the sandy pink pines
The roof with the cockerel is turning bluish;
In a light, hazy velvet sun -
Like a peach touched with fluff.

At sunset, lush but not harsh,
The clouds are waiting for something, frozen;
Holding hands, they radiate shine
The last two, the most golden ones;

Both turn their faces to the sun,
Both fade at one end;
The eldest carries the feather of the firebird,
The youngest is the fluff of a fire chick.
(N. Matveeva)

Late fall

The colors of autumn played out,
The riot of color fades,
And trees with a slight gray streak
Dressed up with the first snow.

Only pine trees and spruce
They don't take off their fur coats
Neither in the heat nor in a snowstorm -
The greens are preserved tenderly.

And really, it’s amazing
White color and the color is green
Combine beautifully
Only in the cold winter!

(E. Yakhnitskaya ■ )

Complains, cries

Complains, cries
Autumn outside the window
And hides his tears
Under someone else's umbrella...

pesters passers-by,
bothers them –
Different, different,
Sleepy and sick...

It's boring
Windy melancholy,
He's breathing like a cold
City moisture...

What do you need?
Strange madam?
And in response – annoying
Whiplash on wires...
(A. Herbal)

Autumn is approaching

It's gradually getting colder
And the days became shorter.
Summer is quickly running away
A flock of birds flashing in the distance.

The rowan trees have already turned red,
The grass has become withered,
appeared on the trees
Bright yellow foliage.

In the morning the fog swirls,
motionless and gray-haired,
And by noon the sun warms
It's like being in the hot summer heat.

But the wind barely blows
And autumn foliage
Flashes in a bright dance
Like sparks from a fire.
(I. Butrimova)

Golden autumn wonderful beauty

Blue sky, bright flowers,
Golden autumn of wonderful beauty.
How much sun, light, gentle warmth,
Autumn gave us this Indian summer.
We are glad to see the last warm, clear days,
Honey mushrooms on stumps, cranes in the sky.

As if an artist with a bold hand
I painted the birch trees with gold paint,
And, adding red, he painted the bushes
Maples and aspens of wondrous beauty.
It turned out to be autumn – Eye-catching!
Who else can draw like that?
(I. Butrimova)

Leaf fall

Fallen leaves rustle underfoot,
Covering the whole earth with a multi-colored carpet,
And the autumn maples have a cold flame
A farewell bonfire sparkles in the sun.

And the wind plays with a rowan branch
And the grapes flicker among the autumn leaves.
There has long been a saying among people,
That a lot of rowan - for a cold winter.

Golden eyes of the last daisies
Reminded again of the lost warmth
And drops of dew, like living tears,
Their white eyelashes flow at dawn.

And the wind keeps driving away the fallen leaves
And the cranes fly like a sad wedge.
To me the train rushed from summer into autumn,
He waves a yellow ticket in the distance.
(I. Butrimova)

It's September outside the window

It’s September outside the window... So what?
I'm enjoying this nice day.

I look into the sky lakes, I melt in them,
Sailing away into the sky-high distances.

I inhale the bitter aroma of the leaves.
I admire the lace of the gossamer.

And I rejoice in the moment I lived,
Drawing unearthly inspiration.

It’s September outside the window... So what?
I'm enjoying this fine day...
(N. Pristi)

September saddens us with tears of rain...

September saddens us with tears of rain...
Already, grasses have been hidden under silver more than once,
There are transparent frames on the puddles in the morning,
The rowan tree under the window began to glow like a child...
The river runs and hurries, trying to avoid
Tormenting sleep and long captivity...
And the maple whispers to the birch with inspiration,
How can he wait patiently...
(O. Kukharenko)

September is elegant...

In red boots, in a yellow suit,
September came out in fashionable attire.
Into a wheaten curl, to the envy of the maidens,
Viburnum ruby ​​is skillfully woven.

Walks like a dandy through the grass of the meadow,
Brings gifts to his girlfriends.
Aspens in the grove, birches in the forest
They are waiting for honey color and gold in their braids.

Generous September gave away all the colors,
But pine and cedar were not enough,
And there are not enough linden and oak...
September calls her brother for help.

In an amber tailcoat, to the sound of streams,
October feasts in gardens and parks,
And gold pours out in various grades.
November, all in white, is already on the road.

(I. Rasulova ■ )

October has arrived

October has arrived. Brought it under the crowns
Your own torch – the forests burst into flames.
One pine tree with green fire
Laughs in autumn's eyes.
The wind is blowing through the alleys
With golden foliage at the wedding.
And the forest is sad for the birds' trills,
Spilling pensive peace.
(L. Bochenkov)

November

The maples are flying faster and faster,
The low vault of heaven is getting darker and darker,
You can see more and more how the crowns are emptying,
You can hear more and more how the forest grows numb,
And increasingly hides in the darkness
The sun has cooled down to the earth...
(I. Maznin)

V.V. Rozanov
Last leaves. 1916
3.I.1916 A stupid, vulgar, fanfare comedy. Not very “successful”. E ° "luck" comes from many very successful expressions. From witty comparisons. And in general from a lot of witty details. But, truly, it would be better if they all did not exist. They covered with themselves the lack of the “whole”, the soul. After all, in “Woe from Wit” there is no soul and not even a thought. Essentially, this is a stupid comedy, written without a theme by a “friend of Bulgarin” (very typical)... But it is fidgety, playful, glitters with some kind of silver “borrowed from the French” (“Alcest and Chatsky”1 by A. Veselovsky), and I liked it to the ignorant Russians of those days and the days that followed. Through "luck" she disgraced the Russians. Nice and thoughtful Russians have become some kind of balabolkas for 75 years. “What Bulgarin failed to achieve, I succeeded,” the flat-headed Griboyedov could say. Dear Russians: who didn’t eat your soul. Who didn't eat it? Should I blame you for being so stupid now? His very face - the face of some polite official of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs - in highest degree disgusting. And I don’t understand why Nina loved him so much. “Well, this is a special matter, Rozanov’s.” Is that so? 10.1.1916 A dark and evil man, but with an unbearably bright face, and a completely new style in literature. (resume about Nekrasov) He “came” to literature, he was an “alien” in it, just as he “came” to St. Petersburg, with a stick and a bundle where his property was tied up. “I came” to mine, get settled, get rich and be strong. He, in fact, did not know how it would “come out,” and he did not care at all how it “would come out.” His book “Dreams and Sounds”2, a collection of pitiful and flattering poems about people and events, shows how little he thought about being a writer, adapting himself “here and there,” “here and there.” He could have been a servant, a slave or a servile courtier - if “it worked out”, if the line and tradition of people “in case” continued. On the kurtag he happened to stumble, he deigned to laugh... He fell painfully, but got up well. Was granted the highest smile3. All this could have happened if Nekrasov had “come” to St. Petersburg 70 years earlier. But it was not for nothing that he was called not Derzhavin, but Nekrasov. There's something about a last name. The magic of names... There were no internal obstacles to “stumbling on the court”: in the Catherine era, in the Elizabethan era, and best of all - in the era of Anna and Biron, he, as the 11th hanger-on of the “temporary worker”, could would have been able to achieve that “happy fortune” on other paths and in other ways, which he had to do 70 years “after”, and he naturally did it in completely different ways. Just as Berthold Schwartz - the black monk - while doing alchemical experiments, “discovered gunpowder” by mixing coal, saltpeter and sulfur, so, smearing various waste paper nonsense, Nekrasov wrote one poem “in his mocking tone” - in that later famous “Nekrasov’s versification”, in which his first and best poems were written, and showed it to Belinsky, with whom he was familiar and pondering various literary undertakings, partly “pushing forward” his friend, partly thinking of “using him somehow.” Greedy for words, sensitive to words, brought up on Pushkin and Hoffman, on Cooper and Walter Scott, the wordsmith exclaimed in surprise: “What a talent.” And what ax is your talent4. This exclamation from Belinsky, spoken in a wretched apartment in St. Petersburg, was historical fact- those who started decisively new era in the history of Russian literature. Nekrasov realized. Gold, if it is in a box, is even more precious than if it is sewn on a court livery. And most importantly, the box can contain much more of it than on the livery. Times are different. Not a yard, but a street. And the street will give me more than the yard. And the main thing, or at least very important, is that all this is much easier, the calculation here is more correct, I will grow “more magnificent” and “myself.” On the kurtag, “to stumble” is old stuff. Time is a turning point, a time of fermentation. The time when one thing goes, another comes. The time is not of the Famusovs and Derzhavins, but of Figaro-ci, Figaro-la" (Figaro here, Figaro there (French)). Instantly he "rebuilt the piano", putting a completely new "keyboard" into it. "The ax is good. It's the axe. From what? He could be a lyre. The time of the Arcadian shepherds has passed." The time of Pushkin, Derzhavin, Zhukovsky has passed. He has hardly heard of Batyushkov, Venevitinov, Kozlov, Prince Odoevsky, Podolinsky. But also Pushkin, with whom over time he began to "compete" as the ruler of the whole mind era, he hardly ever read with any excitement and knew only enough to write a parallel to it, like: You may not be a poet, But you must be a citizen5 But the point is that he was completely new and completely ". a stranger." A stranger to "literature" even more than a stranger "to St. Petersburg." Just as the "palaces" of princes and nobles were completely alien to him, he did not enter them and knew nothing there, so he was alien and almost did not read Russian literature; and did not continue any tradition in it. All these “Svetlana”, ballads, “Lenora”, “Song in the Camp of Russian Warriors”6 were alien to him, who came from a ruined, deeply upset and never comfortable parental family and a poor noble estate. Nothing behind, but nothing in front. Who is he? Link noble family (mother is Polish)? Common man? An official or even a servant of the state? Merchant? Painter? Industrialist? Nekrasov? Ha-ha-ha... Yes, an “industrialist” in a special way, “a jack of all trades” and “in all directions.” But still, the word “industrialist” in its harsh philology goes here. "Industrialist" who has a pen instead of an ax. The pen is like an ax (Belinsky). Well, that's what he'll do for a living. There is industry, with “patents” from the government, and there are “trades”, without patents. And there are Great Russian fisheries, and there are also Siberian fisheries, for the black and brown fox; like an ermine, and like a lost person. (interrupted, having decided to turn it into a feuilleton. See feuilleton)7 16.1.1916 I would not like a reader who “respects” me. And who would think that I am a talent (and I am not a talent). No. No. No. Not this one, another one. I want love. Let him not agree with any of my thoughts (“it’s all the same”). Thinks I'm always wrong. That I'm a liar (even). But he doesn’t exist for me at all if he doesn’t love me madly. He doesn’t think only about Rozanov. In every step. At every hour. He doesn’t mentally consult with me: “I will do as Rozanov would do.” “I will act in such a way that Rozanov would look and say yes.” How is this possible? This is why I renounced “every way of thinking” from the very beginning, so that this would be possible! (i.e. I leave the reader with all sorts of thoughts). Me - no. In fact. I am just a trend. To eternal tenderness, affection, condescension, forgiveness. To love. My friend, don’t you notice that I am only a shadow next to you and there is no “essence” in Rozanov? This is the essence of Providentia. God arranged it this way. So that my wings move and give air to your wings, but my face is not visible. And you all fly, friends, to all your goals, and truly I do not deny either the monarchy, or the republic, or the family, or monasticism - I do not deny, but I do not affirm either. for you must never be bound. My students are not connected. But a little rude is not me. A little ferocity, toughness - I’m not here. Rozanov is crying, Rozanov is mourning. "Where are my students?" And so they all gathered: in which there was only love. And these are already “mine”. That is why I say that I do not need “intelligence”, “genius”, “Significance”; and so that people “wrap themselves up in Rozanov”, as they will in the morning, and while playing, making noise, working, in the day 1/10 of a minute they remember: “This is all Rozanov wanted from us.” And just as I renounced “the whole way of thinking” so that for the sake of always being with people and never arguing with them about anything, not objecting to them in anything, not upsetting them - so “those who are mine” - let them give me their one love , but complete: i.e. mentally they will always be with me and near me. That's all. How good. Yes? 16.1.1916 Vasya Bauder (2nd - 3rd grade gymnasium, Simbirsk)8 usually came to me on Sundays at 11 am. He wore a gymnasium coat, made of gray (dark gray), thick, unusually beautiful cloth, which stood like a stake or tightly starched - and it showed such beauty that, putting it on only on the shoulders, somehow slightly I squatted with pleasure wearing such a coat. He was from an aristocratic family and an aristocrat. Firstly, this is a coat. But most importantly, they had painted floors and a separate living room, small hall, father’s office and bedroom. Only Rune were even richer than them - they had a pharmacy, and Lakhtin. The boy Lakhtin (Styopa) had a separate, cold room with a squirrel in a wheel, and for Christmas his beautiful sister and her friend Yulia Ivanovna came with her. I never dared to talk to them (the young ladies). And when one turned to me, I flushed, rushed about and said nothing. But we dreamed of young ladies. It's clear. And when Vasya Bauder came to me on Sundays, they sat with their backs to each other (so as not to get distracted) at separate small tables and wrote a poem: TO HER There was never absolutely any other topic. We didn’t know any “E°” because we didn’t know a single young lady. He, relying on his magnificent coat, still allowed himself to walk along the sidewalk along which the high school students walked, pouring out of the Mariinsky Gymnasium (after classes). My coat was baggy and disgusting, made of cheap flabby cloth that felt soft on my figure. Besides, I was red-haired and red (complexion). Therefore, he had the appearance of domination over me, in the sense that he “understands” and “knows”, “how” and “what”. Even a possibility. I lived in pure illusion. I only had a friend, Kropotov, who signed the notes: Kropotini italo9, and these “from afar” Rune and Lakhtin. We argued. I had an ear, he had an eye. He argued, mockingly, that I was not writing poetry at all, because “there was no rhyme”; on the contrary, it seemed to me that it was more likely he, not me, who wrote prose, even though he ended with consonances: “horse”, “me”, “friend”, “suddenly”, but the lines themselves were without sound at all, without these tempos and periodicities that excited my ears, and later we learned that this is called versification. For example, for me: The morning breathes with an aroma The breeze sways a little... But if “breathes” and “sway” didn’t work out, then I boldly put another word, repeating that this is still a “verse”, p. h. there is “harmony” (alternating stresses). He... He just had lines, ugly, for me - stupid, "perfect prose" but "consonance" last words, these ends of lines that seemed to me - nothing. These were not the blank verses of today: it was simply literal prose, without ringing, without melody, without melodiousness, and only for some reason with the “rhymes” that he was obsessed with. This is how we lived. I saved his letters. It was precisely when I had barely entered the fourth grade that I was taken by brother Kolya to Nizhny10; I must have “quickly developed there” (the Nizhny Novgorod gymnasium was incomparable to Simbirsk), “ascended in mind” and wrote to the “old homeland” (according to teaching) several arrogant letters to which he answered me like this: [place here without fail, without fail, without fail!!! - Bauder's letters. See Rumyantsev Museum]<позднейшая приписка>. 16.I.1916 “I” am “I”, and this “I” will never become “you”. And “you” are “you”, and this “you” will never become like “I”. Why talk? You go “right”, I go “left”, or you go “left”, I go “right”. All people are "out of each other's way." And there's no point in pretending. Everyone goes to their Destiny. All people are solo. 23.I.1916 So arr. Was Gogol not wrong at all? (The fundamental principle of Russian reality), and that’s not the point. If Gogol had been nobly accepted by a noble society: and had begun to work, “ascend,” and become civilized, then everything would have been saved. But this is not what happened at all, and it should be noted that in Gogol there was such a thing that “this is not what happened.” He did not write his “great poem” with “bitter laughter” at all; He wrote it not as a tragedy, tragically, but as a comedy, comically. He himself felt “funny” at his Manilovs, Chichikovs and Sobakeviches; laughter and “chilliness” can be felt in every line of “M.D.” Here Gogol will not deceive, no matter how cunning he is. Tears appear only at the end, when Gogol saw for himself what a monstrous thing he had done. "Finis Russorum" ("End of Rus'" (lat.)). And so the vile (“comically”) written thing was perceived vilely by society: and this is the whole point. The Chernyshevskys - Nozdryovs and Dobrolyubovs Sobakevichs laughed at the top of their lungs: - Oh, so she’s our bitch. Beat her, beat her, and kill her. The era of killing by “loyal subjects” of their fatherland has arrived. Until March 111 and “us”, until Tsushima12. 23.I.1916 Action "M.D." and it was this: that what Gogol spied here and there, which actually met him, which actually flashed before his eye, the EYE, and in what, brilliantly, senselessly and on a whim, he guessed the “essence of the essence” of the moral Sivukha of Russia - through his painting, imagery, through the great sketchiness of his soul - generalized and universalized. The pellets and particles grew all over Rus'. " Dead Souls “he didn’t “find”, but “brought”. And here they are “the 60s”, the laughing “womb”, here are the bastards Blagosvetov13 and Kraevsky14, who “would have taught Chichikov”. Here is a perfect copy of Sobakevich - Shchedrin, a genius in swearing. Through the genius of Gogol, we have a genius in abominations. Previously, abominations were mediocre and powerless. Moreover, they naturally began to flog them ("accusatory literature"). Now the Chichikovs began not only to rob, but they became teachers of society. . - Everyone ran after Kraevsky. He had a house on Liteiny. “Pavel Ivanovich has already leaned into the pipe.” Notes" was given by "Gospel to the Public". 26.I.1916 So you passed by a tree: look, it is no longer the same. It has taken from you the shadow of crookedness, deceit, fear. It will grow "shakingly" as you grow. Not quite - but with a shadow: And you can’t breathe on a tree and not change it. You can’t breathe on a flower and not distort it. And walk across a field and not kill it. . They were - for the people and the country as a repository of morality. Among the guilty - they were innocent. And among the sinner - were they really not included in the historical time? But I think, in the prehistoric time, "Caryatid" and "Danaid" ? These, precisely these groves were the place of conception, and through this the oldest temples on earth. For temples certainly arose from a special place for such a special conception as this was the first transcendence encountered by man (conception). 1916 We talked about Gogol, discussed different aspects of him, and two things flashed through his mind: - Every thing exists insofar as someone loves it. And “a thing that absolutely no one likes” - it doesn’t exist. Amazingly, a universal law. Only he said even better: that “someone’s love for a thing” brings into being the “thing” itself; that, so to speak, things are born from “love”, some kind of a priori and pre-mundane. But he did it with warmth and breathing, not as a scheme. Amazing, a whole cosmogony. And in another place, after a while: Gogol’s things don’t smell like anything15. He did not describe a single smell of the flower. There's not even a name for the smell. Apart from Parsley, which “stinks”. But this is specifically Gogol’s jargon and his mannerisms. Incl. This is also not a smell, but a literary smell. He says that Gogol is disgusting, uninteresting and unbearable. And that he has nothing but invention and composition. (With Faddey Yakovlevich Tigranov)16 He has a mother and a lovely wife, blonde (skin) and light-haired: pale, powerless hair color, with a golden tint. He said that this is the oldest root of Armenia, that in the oldest and most remote areas there are only red-haired peasant women. “Thank you, I didn’t expect it”17. He himself is a black beetle, small in stature, a theorist and philosopher. 5.II.1916 And “fallen leaves” from my readers are flying towards me. What do they mean by my “I”? A person he has never seen and with whom, due to the distance (the town of Nalchik, in the Caucasus), he will never see. And how much joy they bring to me. For what? But did I really think “why”, giving “fallen leaves” to “someone”, unknown? For I gave not to the public, but to “someone over there.” So mutual. And how glad I am, feeling how a sprout from someone else’s distant tree touched my face. And they gave me life, these alien leaves. Strangers? No. My. Their. They entered my soul. Verily, these are grains. They do not lie in my soul, but grow. At a distance of 2 weeks, here are 2 sheets: “18/I.916. Tomsk.” How I understand the sadness of “Solitary”, the sadness of the fallen leaves is close... They are carried far away by a blizzard, circling over the frozen ground, forever separating them from each other friend, covered with a shroud of snow," my poor Olya sang and fell silent at the age of 23. Life was cold for her! - my guilt, my pain until death. Once on a dark autumn night, sadness came to me as a sudden premonition of future misfortunes - I was 5 years. Since then, she often visited me until she became a constant companion in my life. She fell in love with Rozanov - he feels the sad, understands the sad, shares our sadness. How are you marks in determining mental states, depending on circumstances and age, my metaphysical age is complete. memories and premonitions, I was a pagan in happiness. Not believing in a future life means little love. I buried my whole life - my father, mother, husband, all the children died; melancholy, despair, pain and dullness dominated my soul - after the death of my last daughter Olya. I can’t accept the thought that she doesn’t exist, that her beautiful soul doesn’t live. If the beautiful and moral do not die, are not forgotten in our souls, then by themselves do they really cease to exist for further improvement? What is the meaning of their life? It is advisable to close the pipe to retain heat when the wood burns itself, but if the fire is still burning and it makes people feel warm and light, close the pipe, and you will end up with fumes and fumes. Someone brought the fire of life into us and did not determine the duration of its burning - is there a right to extinguish it? It sometimes happens that the wood burns out, but there remains a brand that cannot burn, then I don’t throw it away, but immediately use it to kindle another stove, or pour it in and then use it as fuel for heating; my soul also burned in the fire of suffering, but has not yet burned out completely - it is dark and dull, like this firebrand - it has no colors, no brightness, no life of its own - it is going under the flood, and yours is a warm, bright fire - it is impossible close the pipe. Thank you, dear, good one, for the tears with which I relieved my soul while reading “Solitary” and “Fallen Leaves” - for me they are like rain in the desert. Oh, what a life I have lived, painful and full of vicissitudes, why it was given to me, I would like to understand A. Kolivov" Other: "February 1st. I came across random uncut pages in the first box of Fallen Leaves. I was glad that there was something unread. About Tanya. How Tanya read you Pushkin’s poem “When a noisy day falls silent for a mortal,” she read it during a walk by the sea. These pages of yours are so good. Okay - everything, everything - first. How wonderful she is - Tanechka. I got excited. Everything you said is so clear and good. Then I read the last lines - Mom’s words: “No need to go to the market”18. Is it true. But not every soul is a market. Vasily Vasilyevich, my dear, 9/10 don’t understand anything, nothing, well, nothing! Do you know what they say about you? “Is this the Rozanov who is against the Jews?” Or - “is this the one in New Time?” It takes enormous courage to write like you, because this is greater nakedness than Dostoevsky." - "My dear and beloved Vasily Vasilyevich, I received your letter a long time ago, it gave me enormous joy, I immediately wanted to write to you, but I didn’t have to, but then Irina*1 got sick, and now, for the 2nd week, Evgeniy*2 has been sick, I’m taking care of him myself. I was completely overwhelmed. Yesterday I was expecting people, and Evgeniy said: “Hide Rozanov.” I understood and put your books in the chest of drawers. I can't give it to them. I can not. They'll paw at you. They will offend you. There are books that I cannot give to anyone. You have said that books should not be “given to be read.” This completely coincided with our old, sore question about books. For this, we are scolded and accused by everyone around us. If you don’t save the book, they will see it - you just need to give it - even if it’s better not to return it at all - because “it has lost its purity.” People just can't understand that giving a book is 1000 times more than putting on your dress. But sometimes we give, we give with the tender thought of giving away the best, the last, and this is never, never understood: after all, a book is a “common property” (so they say). Thank you, dear and dear, for your kindness, thank you for taking pity on me in your letter, I accept everything from you with joy and gratitude. How is your health now? Nadya, devoted and loving to you*3 A." *1) Little daughter, 3 years old. *2) Husband, school teacher. *3) “Nadya” (as a young girl) I called her in the first reply letter, - since I also have a daughter, Nadya, 15 years old.<примеч. В.В.Розанова>. 14.II.1916 What cannibalism... After all, these are critics, i.e. at least not average educated people, but outstanding educated people. Starting with Harris, who in "Morning of Russia"19 2-3 ​​days after the book came out ("Ued.") - hastily crawled out: "What a Peredonov he is; oh, if it weren't for Peredonov, because he has talent," etc. .d., from "Ued." and "Op.l." one impression: “Naked Rozanov”20, “Ooooh”, “Cynicism, dirt.” Meanwhile, how clear it is for everyone that in “Ued.” and "Op.l." more lyricism, more touching and loving than not only in your scoundrels, Dobrolyubov and Chernyshevsky, but also than in all Russian literature of the 19th century. (except for Dost). Why "Go-go-go" -? From what? Where? I am not a cynic, but you are cynics. And already a long-standing 60-year-old cynicism. Among the dogs, in the kennel, among the wolves in the forest, a bird began to sing. The forest howled. "Ho-ho-ho. Not our way." Cannibals. You are only cannibals. And when you go with the revolution, it is very clear what you want: - To bite the neck. And don’t shout that you only want to bite the throats of the rich and noble: you want to bite a person. P.ch. I, in any case, am not rich or noble. And Dostoevsky lived in poverty. No, you are a gilded noble mob. Your breakfasts are quite filling. You receive from both Finland and Japan. You pretend to be a “poor jacket” (Peshekhonov). You are betraying Russia. Your idea is to kill Russia, and in its place so that France will spread, “with its free institutions,” where you will be free to cheat, etc. the Russian policeman is still holding your coattails. 19.II.1916 Three times more has been written about “Box 2” than about 1st21. Today there is someone from Khabarovsk. Thank you. "Lukomorye"22 did not put up its company for publication. What didn’t “expose” - Rennikov23 said about this: “What boors they are.” Hm. Hm... Let's not be so direct. Still, they did a good deed: I already had about 6,000 in debt at the printing house; suddenly they offered to “publish at your own expense.” I'm happy to. And that Cor. was immortalized. 2nd, so intimately dear to me - endless gratitude to them. Still young people. Mark Nikolaevich24 (forgot his last name). Showed "Family Question" 25, all with notes. I was surprised and thought, “This is who should publish me.” But he is young: everyone cared about the cover. “What kind of cover will we make for you?” I was silent. What, except gray!!! But they let me in grape leaves . Well, the Lord is with them. Mich. Al.26 and Mark Nikolaevich - eternal memory to them for "Korob-2" Without them I would not have seen the light of day. 19.II.1916 And now the “Rozanov current” in literature will begin (I know that it will begin). And they will say: “You know: after reading the R-v, you feel pain in your chest...” Lord: let me at that time pull my leg out of the “Rozanov current.” And be left alone. Lord, I don't want the recognition of the multitude. I madly love this “many”: but when it is “it”, when it remains “itself” and in its own way is also “one”. Let be. But let me be “me”. About myself, I would like 5-7, and no more than 100 in all of Russia, who “truly remember.” Here is one who wrote to me: “When I pray, I always pray for you and yours.” Here. And nothing else. 20.II.1916 ...the fact is that “precious metals” are so rare, and rough ones are found all over the place. This is true in metallurgy and in history. Why is there so much iron, why is gold so rare? Why do you have to go to India or Africa for diamonds, but feldspar everywhere? There is sand and clay everywhere. There is an iron mountain "Grace"27. Is it possible to imagine a golden mountain? Only exists in fairy tales. Why in fairy tales and not in reality? Is it not the same for God to create and for nature to create? He who “could do everything” could also “do this.” But no. Why not? Obviously does not correspond to some plan of the universe, some thought in it. So it is in history. Is Granovsky readable? Everyone prefers Kareev, Schlosser28, and in the sense of “philosophy of history” - Chernyshevsky. Nikitenko was a rather insightful person and expressed his personal impression from Mirtov (“Historical Letters”) that this was Nozdryov29. Nozdryov? But under Chichikov he was beaten (or beaten - the devil knows), and in the era of Solovyov and Kavelin, Pypin and Druzhinin he was elevated to the level of a “genius persecuted by the government.” What is it? Yes, there is a lot of iron, but little gold. But only. Nature. Why am I still sad? Why have I had such grief in my soul since university? “If they don’t read Strakhov, the world is stupid.” And I can't find a place for myself. But they don’t even read Zhukovsky. No one reads Karamzin at all. We don’t read Granovsky: Kireevsky, book. [V]. F. Odoevsky - how many bought them? They are printed by philanthropists, but no one reads them anyway. Why do I imagine that the world must be witty, talented? The world must “be fruitful and multiply,” but this does not apply to wit. In the gymnasium, I was irritated by the immeasurable stupidity of some students and then (in the 6th-7th grades) I told them: “Yes, you need to get married, why did you go to the gymnasium?” A great instinct told me the truth. Of humanity, the vast majority out of 10,000 9999 have the task of “giving children of themselves,” and only one has the task of giving “something” beyond this. Just “something”: a prominent official, a speaker. The poet, I think, is already 1 in 100,000; Pushkin - 1 per billion “Russian population”. In general, there is very little gold, it is very rare. The story goes “on the edge,” “near the swamp.” She, in fact, does not “walk”, but drags along. "There's a huge fog creeping in." This “fog”, this “in general” is history. We all look for games, brilliance, and wit in it. Why are we looking? History must “be” and does not even have to, in fact, “go.” It is necessary for everything to “continue” and not even to continue: but so that one can always say about humanity: “but it still exists.” "Eat". And God said: “Be fruitful and multiply,” without adding anything about progress. I myself am not a progressive: so why am I so sad that everything just “is” and isn’t going anywhere. History screams from within itself: “I don’t want to move,” and that’s why they read Kareev and Kogan. Lord: it’s a consolation for me, but I’m so worried. Why am I worried? 29.II1916 He is a nightingale, after all, and will sing his song from every cage in which he is put. Will Maeterlinck build him a cage and call him “Blue Bird”30. The new T. Ardov31 will roll his eyes and sing: “Oh, you blue bird, a wonderful vision that the Brussels poet created for us. Who was not attracted in his youth by blue skies and a distant, unsettling star...” Or he will build them a cage by L. Tolstoy and call it “With a green stick”32 And Nazhivin will say33: “Green stick, a magical dream of childhood! Do you remember your childhood? Oh, you don’t remember it. We then lay at the breast of our Mother Nature and did not bite her. This is us, now adults , let’s bite it. But come to your senses. Let’s be brothers. Let’s look at each other’s noses, let’s bury our guns and all militarism in the ground, and let’s gather together and remember the green stick.” Where would a Russian poet begin, and he will continue. And the bankers know this. And they buy it. Saying: “They will continue. But first, we will show them the Blue Bird and throw the Green Stick.” (XL-year anniversary of "N.Vr.")34 9.III.1916 I have lived my whole life with people who are deeply unnecessary to me. And I was interested from afar. (for a copy of Chekhov’s letter)35 I lived on the outskirts of the monastery. I watched the bells ring. Not that I was interested, but they still called. He picked his nose. And looked into the distance. What would come of friendship with Chekhov? He clearly (in the letter) called me, beckoned me. I did not answer the letter, which was very nice. Even disgusting. Why? Rock. I felt that he was significant. And he didn’t like getting close to significant people. (at that time I only read his "Duel", which gave me a disgusting impression; the impression of a fanfare ("von-Koren" is the most vulgar reasoner, to the point of "hanging himself" [from him]) and an intellectual braggart. Then this woman, bathing in front of the men passing by on a boat, lay down on her back: disgusting, I didn’t read or suspect His wondrous works like “Women”, “Darling”. So I didn’t see K. Leontyev36 (he called me to Optina), and Tolstoy, to whom it was so natural and simple to go with Strakhov - I saw each other for one day37. For the (extraordinary) heat of his speech I almost fell in love with him. And I could fall in love (or hate). I would hate it if 6 saw cunning, elaborateness, (possibly). Or immense pride (possibly). After all, my best friend (friend - patron) Strakhov was internally uninteresting. He was wonderful; but this is different than greatness. I have never seen greatness in my entire life. Strange. Sperk was a boy (the boy was a genius). Rtsy38 - all crooked. Tigranov loving husband his lovely wife (blond Armenian. A rarity and a marvel). Strange. Strange. Strange. And maybe scary. Why? Let's accept that this is rock. Backyards. Back streets. Mine is passion. Did I love it? So-so. But here’s the conclusion: not seeing much interest around me, not seeing “towers” ​​- I spent my whole life looking at myself. A devilishly subjective biography came out, with interest only in one’s “nose”. It's insignificant. Yes. But worlds also open up in the “nose”. “I only know my nose, but my nose contains a whole geography.” 9.III. 1916 Nasty. Nasty, disgusting my life. It was not for nothing that Dobrovolsky (editorial secretary) called me “sacristan.” And he also called it “sucking” (the seed of the berry was sucked and spat out). Is very similar. There is something sexist in me. But the priestly - oh, no! I hang around "near the service of God." I hand over the censer and pick my nose. This is my profession. I wander around the backyards in the evening. "Wherever your feet take you." With indifference. Then I’ll fall asleep. I'm basically forever in a dream. I lived like this wild life, that I “didn’t care how I lived.” I would like to “curl up, pretend to be asleep and dream.” To everything else, absolutely everything else, I was indifferent. And here my “nose” unfolds, “Nose - World”. Kingdoms, history. Melancholy, greatness. Oh, so much greatness: how I have loved the stars since high school. I went into the stars. Wandered between the stars. Often I did not believe that there was land. About people - “absolutely incredible” (that they exist, they live). And the woman, and the breasts and belly. I was approaching, breathing it. Oh, how I breathed. And now she’s gone. She is not and she is. This woman is already the world. I never imagined a girl, but already a “married” one, i.e. married. Copulating, somewhere, with someone (not with me). And I especially kissed her belly. I never saw her face (I wasn’t interested). And breasts, stomach and thighs to the knees. This is “The World”: that’s what I called it.