Presentation for Tsvetaeva’s anniversary. Biography of Marina Tsvetaeva. Relationship with Sofia Parnok

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Mari na Ivanovna Tsveta Eva (September 26 (October 8) 1892, Moscow, Russian Empire - August 31, 1941, Elabuga, USSR) - Russian poetess, prose writer, translator, one of the largest Russian poets of the 20th century.

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Marina Tsvetaeva was born on September 26 (October 8), 1892 in Moscow, on the day when the Orthodox Church celebrates the memory of the Evangelist John the Theologian. This coincidence is reflected in several of the poet’s poems. The rowan tree lit up with a red brush. Leaves fell, I was born. Hundreds of Bells argued. The day was Saturday: John the Theologian.

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Her father, Ivan Vladimirovich, is a professor at Moscow University, a famous philologist and art critic; later became director of the Rumyantsev Museum and founder of the Museum of Fine Arts.

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Mother, Maria Alexandrovna Main (by origin - from a Russified Polish-German family), was a pianist, a student of Anton Rubinstein. Her mother had a huge influence on Marina and on the formation of her character. She dreamed of seeing her daughter become a musician.

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After her mother's death from consumption in 1906, Marina and her sister Anastasia were left in the care of their father. Anastasia (left) and Marina Tsvetaeva. Yalta, 1905. ...The azure island of childhood is becoming paler, We are standing alone on the deck. Apparently, you left sadness as a legacy, oh mother, to your girls!

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Tsvetaeva's childhood years were spent in Moscow and Tarusa. Due to her mother's illness, she lived for long periods in Italy, Switzerland and Germany. “House of Tjo” was purchased in 1899 by M. Tsvetaeva’s maternal grandfather A.D. Maine. After his death, his second wife, whom the young Marina and Asya nicknamed “Tyo,” lived in the house for the last 20 years of her life. Tyo from “aunt”, since it was not her own grandmother who told her to call her aunt. The nickname “Tyo” also transferred to the house. Marina and Anastasia Tsvetaev lived in this house during their winter visits to Tarusa in 1907-1910.

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Marina Ivanovna received her primary education in Moscow, at the private women's gymnasium M. T. Bryukhonenko. She continued it in boarding houses in Lausanne (Switzerland) and Freiburg (Germany). At the age of sixteen, she took a trip to Paris to attend a short course of lectures on Old French literature at the Sorbonne.

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In 1910, Marina published (in the printing house of A. A. Levenson) with her own money the first collection of poems - “Evening Album”. (The collection is dedicated to the memory of Maria Bashkirtseva, which emphasizes its “diary” orientation). “This book is not only a sweet book of girlish confessions, but also a book of beautiful poems” N. Gumilyov

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The “Evening Album” was followed two years later by a second collection, “The Magic Lantern.” Tsvetaeva's early work was significantly influenced by Nikolai Nekrasov, Valery Bryusov and Maximilian Voloshin (the poetess stayed at Voloshin's house in Koktebel in 1911, 1913, 1915 and 1917). In 1913, the third collection, “From Two Books,” was published.

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I defiantly wear his ring Yes, a wife in eternity, not on paper! - His excessively narrow face is like a sword... His mouth is silent, with corners down, His eyebrows are painfully magnificent. In his face two ancient bloods tragically merged... In his face I am faithful to chivalry, To all those who lived and died without fear! - Such - in fatal times - They compose stanzas - and go to the chopping block. June 3, 1914 In 1911, Tsvetaeva met her future husband Sergei Efron.

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On January 27, 1912, the wedding of Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron took place. In the same year, Marina and Sergei had a daughter, Ariadna (Alya).

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In the summer of 1916, Tsvetaeva arrived in the city of Alexandrov, where her sister Anastasia Tsvetaeva lived with her common-law husband Mavrikiy Mints and son Andrei. In Alexandrov, Tsvetaeva wrote a series of poems (“To Akhmatova,” “Poems about Moscow,” and other poems), and literary scholars later called her stay in the city “Marina Tsvetaeva’s Alexandrov Summer.” The Tsvetaeva sisters with children, S. Efron, M. Mints (standing on the right). Alexandrov, 1916

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In 1914, Marina met the poetess and translator Sofia Parnok; their romantic relationship continued until 1916. Tsvetaeva dedicated the cycle of poems “Girlfriend” to Parnok. Tsvetaeva described her relationship with Parnok as “the first disaster in her life.”

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In 1917, Tsvetaeva gave birth to a daughter, Irina, who died of starvation in an orphanage in Kuntsevo (then in the Moscow region) at the age of 3 years. The years of the Civil War turned out to be very difficult for Tsvetaeva. Sergei Efron served in the White Army. Marina lived in Moscow, on Borisoglebsky Lane. During these years, the cycle of poems “Swan Camp” appeared, imbued with sympathy for the white movement. Ariadne (left) and Irina Efron. 1919 House in Borisoglebsky Lane, 6, in which M. Tsvetaeva lived from 1914 to 1922

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In May 1922, Tsvetaeva and her daughter Ariadna were allowed to go abroad to join her husband, who, having survived the defeat of Denikin as a white officer, had now become a student at the University of Prague. At first, Tsvetaeva and her daughter lived for a short time in Berlin, then for three years on the outskirts of Prague. Homesickness! A long-debunked problem! I don’t care at all - Where to be completely alone, over what stones to walk home with a market purse To a house that doesn’t know what is mine, Like a hospital or a barracks... 1934 Marina Tsvetaeva in 1924

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In 1925, after the birth of their son George, the family moved to Paris. Moore (Georgy Sergeevich Efron), son of Marina Tsvetaeva. Paris, 1930s. M.I. Tsvetaeva with her husband and children, 1925

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Most of what Tsvetaeva created in exile remained unpublished. In 1928, the poetess’s last lifetime collection, “After Russia,” was published in Paris, which included poems from 1922-1925. Later, Tsvetaeva writes about it this way: “My failure in emigration is that I am not an emigrant, that I am in spirit, that is, in air and in scope - there, there, from there...”.

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Text content of presentation slides: For the anniversary of Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (1892-1941) Chemistry teacher Irina Prokopyevna Burakova, MKU Alygdzher boarding school, Nizhneudinsky district, Irkutsk region, 2012.

The Rowan tree lit up with a red brush. The leaves were falling, I was born. Hundreds of Bells were arguing. It was Saturday: John the Theologian
You, whose dreams are still unawakened, Whose movements are still quiet, Go to Trekhprudny alley, If you love my poems. Oh, how sunny and how starry The first volume of life has begun, I beg you - before it’s too late, Come see our house!

In the photo: Marina Tsvetaeva with her father. 1906
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style.rotation Marina Tsvetaeva. 1911 Photo by Maximilian Voloshin

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ppt_xppt_y In the photo: Marina Tsvetaeva in 1900.
In the photo: Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron. 1911

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In the photo: Marina Tsvetaeva with Moore - in the center, Pantanyac, 1928.

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Houses are up to the stars, and the sky is lower, The earth is close to him in a dream. In big and joyful Paris, There is still the same secret melancholy. The evening boulevards are noisy, The last ray of dawn has faded. Everywhere, everywhere there are couples, couples, Trembling lips and audacity of eyes. I am alone here . It’s so sweet to cling to the trunk of a chestnut tree! And Rostand’s verse cries in your heart Like there, in abandoned Moscow. In the photo: Marina Tsvetaeva with her son, Versailles, 1930.

In the photo: Marina Tsvetaeva with her son Georgiy. 1935
House of M. Tsvetaeva. Borisoglebsky lane, Moscow
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Marina Tsvetaeva lived here in 1911-1912. Moscow, Sivtsev Vrazhek, 19
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A poem by Marina Tsvetaeva on the wall of one of the houses in Leiden (Netherlands)
style.fontStylestyle.fontWeightstyle.textDecorationUnderline Who is created from stone, who is created from clay, - And I silver and sparkle! My business is treason, my name is Marina, I am the mortal foam of the sea. Who is created from clay, who is created from flesh - Thus the coffin and tombstones... - I was baptized in the font of the sea - and in my flight - I am incessantly broken! Through every heart, through every net, my self-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 - cheerful foam - High sea foam!
ppt_xppt_y Materials used https://yandex.ru/search/?lr=11268&clid=2219618&win=215&msid=1474169012.47056.22897.1094&text=%D1%84%D0%BE%D1%82%D0%BE+%D0%9C%D0%B0 %D1%80%D0%B8%D0%BD%D1%8B+%D0%A6%D0%B2%D0%B5%D1%82%D0%B0%D0%B5%D0%B2%D0%BE%D0 %B9&suggest_reqid=209999518138288003054894899955648&csg=7648%2C19738%2C21%2C21%2C0%2C1%2C0

She welcomed the February Revolution of 1917, as did her husband, whose parents (who died before the revolution) were Narodnaya Volya revolutionaries. She perceived the October Revolution as the triumph of destructive despotism. Sergei Efron sided with the Provisional Government and took part in the Moscow battles, defending the Kremlin from the Red Guards. The news of the October Revolution found Tsvetaeva in Crimea, visiting Voloshin. Soon her husband arrived here too. On November 25, 1917, she left Crimea for Moscow to pick up her children - Alya and little Irina, born in April of this year. Tsvetaeva intended to return with her children to Koktebel, to Voloshin, Sergei Efron decided to go to the Don to continue the fight against the Bolsheviks there. It was not possible to return to Crimea: insurmountable circumstances and the fronts of the Civil War separated Tsvetaeva from her husband and from Voloshin. She never saw the Voloshins again. Sergei Efron fought in the ranks of the White Army, and Tsvetaeva, who remained in Moscow, had no news of him. In hungry and impoverished Moscow in 1917–1920, she wrote poems glorifying the sacrificial feat of the White Army: White Guard, your path is high: / To the black barrel - chest and temple; Storms - blizzards, whirlwinds - winds nurtured you, / And you will remain in song - white swans! By the end of 1921, these poems were combined into the collection Swan Camp, prepared for publication.

Reading competition dedicated to the poetry of M.I. Tsvetaeva “Heart, flames are more capricious...”

TARGET:

To interest students in the personality and work of Marina Tsvetaeva;

To captivate with poetic creativity, in which there is loyalty to the Motherland, glorification of man, and passionate love;

Note the musicality of Tsvetaeva’s poetry;

To form the aesthetic taste of students.

EQUIPMENT:

Portrait of Marina Tsvetaeva, next to flowers and bunches of rowan;

Exhibition of books about Tsvetaeva;

Collections of poems by the poetess;

Presentation about Tsvetaeva’s life

The song performed by Alla Pugacheva based on the verses of Marina Tsvetaeva “At the Mirror”.

On the screen are photographs of M. Tsvetaeva

Presenter 1: The name of Marina Tsvetaeva, her work is known all over the world. As schoolchildren we become acquainted with her poems. Years later, we certainly return to her poems and perceive them through the prism of our own experiences.

Presenter 2: Queen of Russian poetry. The lonely spirit of Silver Age poetry. The greatest poet of the entire poetic era. This is what her contemporaries said about her, and this is what millions of her fans around the world think. She gave us heartfelt poetry, her immortal poems appeal to those who value sincerity, spontaneity and truthfulness.

Presenter 1: Today our reading competition is dedicated to125th anniversary of the birth of M.I. Tsvetaeva.

Just think - a whole century and another quarter have passed, and her poems are fresh and piercing - as if they were written yesterday.

Presenter 2: Those who know and love Tsvetaeva’s poems also know how difficult her fate was; today we will remember the main important milestones of her life. And the competition participants will help us with this.

So, Tsvetaeva was born in the fall, namely on September 26 (October 8), 1892, from Saturday to Sunday, on St. John the Theologian, in a cozy house in one of the old Moscow lanes - Trekhprudny.

Presenter 1 :

Red brush
The rowan tree lit up
Leaves were falling
I was born.

Hundreds argued
Kolokolov.
The day was Saturday:
John the Theologian.

To this day I
I want to gnaw
Roast rowan
Bitter brush.

Presenter 2:

At baptism she received the name Marina, the feminine form of the ancient rare name Marin, derived from the Latin word "Marinus" - sea.

And about this, and also about her character and destiny, she wrote the poem “Who is created from stone, who is created from clay.”

It will be read by…….

Who is made of stone, who is made of clay -
And I’m silver and sparkling!
My business is treason, my name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.

Who is made of clay, who is made of flesh -
The coffin and tombstones...
- Baptized in the sea font - and in flight
By your own - constantly broken!

Through every heart, through every network
My self-will will come through.
Me - do you see these dissolute curls? –
You can't make earthly salt.

Crushing on your granite knees,
With every wave I am resurrected!
Long live the foam - cheerful foam -
High sea foam!

Presenter 1:

Marina Ivanovna was born in Moscow, who became her first and lifelong love.

The poem “In Moscow…” from the series “Poems for Blok” will be read by….

In Moscow, the domes are burning,

In Moscow, the bells are ringing,

And the tombs stand in a row with me, -

Queens and kings sleep in them.

It’s easier to breathe - than anywhere on earth!

And you don’t know what will dawn in the Kremlin

I pray to you - until dawn!

And you pass over your Neva

About that time, as over the Moscow River

I stand with my head down

And the lanterns stick together.

With all my insomnia I love you,

With all my insomnia I listen to you -

About that time, as throughout the Kremlin

The bell ringers wake up.

But my river is with your river,

But my hand is with your hand

They won’t come together, my joy, until

The dawn will not catch up with the dawn.

Presenter 2:

Marina Tsvetaeva’s father is the famous art professor Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev. Mother is a talented pianist Maria Alexandrovna Main. Music and the museum - two influences merged and intertwined in one house, leaving a unique imprint on the growing sisters - Marina and Anastasia.

She started writing poetry early.The poem “To my poems written so early” will be read by...

Presenter 1:

To my poems, written so early,
That I didn’t even know that I was a poet,
Falling off like splashes from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets

Presenter 2:

Bursting in like little devils
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense are,
To my poems about youth and death
- Unread poems! –

Presenter 1:

Scattered in the dust around the shops
(Where no one took them and no one takes them!),
My poems are like precious wines,
Your turn will come.

Presenter 2:

The first book of poems, entitled “Evening Album,” was published in the fall of 1910. Marina Tsvetaeva just turned 18 years old. Love fills this book, breathes it. Love for loved ones, for life, so beautiful and cloudless.

Poem « Grandma "reads...

Oblong and solid oval,
Black dress with bells...
Young grandmother! Who kissed
Your arrogant lips?

Hands that are in the halls of the palace
Chopin's waltzes were played...
On the sides of the icy face
Curls in the form of a spiral.

Dark, direct and demanding look.
A look ready for defense.
Young women don't look like that.
Young grandma, who are you?

How many opportunities have you taken away?
And how many impossibilities? –
Into the insatiable abyss of the earth,
Twenty year old Polish girl!

The day was innocent and the wind was fresh.
The dark stars went out.
- Grandmother! - This brutal rebellion
In my heart – isn’t it from you?..

Presenter 1:

From the very beginning of her creative career, Tsvetaeva did not recognize the word “poetess” in relation to herself; she called herself “Poet Marina Tsvetaeva.”

There was a whole life ahead and there was a great desire to live it happily.

The poem “To be tender, furious and noisy” will be read by….

To be tender, frantic and noisy,
- So eager to live! –
Charming and smart, -
Be lovely!

More tender than everyone who is and was,
Don't know the guilt...
- About the indignation that is in the grave
We are all equal!

Become something that no one likes
- Oh, become like ice! –
Without knowing what happened,
Nothing will come

Forget how my heart broke
And it grew together again
Forget your words and voice,
And hair shine.

Antique turquoise bracelet –
On a stalk
On this narrow, this long
My hand...

Like sketching a cloud
From afar,
For the mother-of-pearl handle
The hand was taken

How the legs jumped over
Through the fence
Forget how nearby on the road
A shadow ran.

Forget how fiery it is in the azure,
How quiet the days are...
- All your pranks, all your storms
And all the poems!

My accomplished miracle
Will disperse the laughter.
I, forever pink, will
The palest of all.

And they won’t open up - that’s how it should be -
- Oh, pity! –
Neither for the sunset, nor for the glance,
Neither for fields -

My drooping eyelids.
- Not for a flower! –
My land, forgive me forever,
For all ages.

And the moons will melt the same way
And melt the snow
When this young one rushes by,
A lovely age.

Presenter 2. And there was love. On May 5, 1911, on a deserted Koktebel beach, eighteen-year-old Marina Tsvetaeva saw a handsome young man sorting through the pebbles that littered the shore. She was struck by the young man’s eyes – huge gray-blue, sad. She immediately made a wish: if he finds and gives her a carnelian - her favorite stone, then she will become his wife. From the pile of stones the young man took one - the only one - it was a carnelian - and handed it to Marina.

Presenter 1.

Where does such tenderness come from?
Not the first - these curls
I smooth out my lips
I knew - darker than yours.

The stars rose and went out

Where does such tenderness come from?
And what should you do with her, boy?
Crafty, wandering singer,
With eyelashes - no longer?

Presenter 2. The entire previous life apart turned out to be just preparation for their life “together”. Shortly before the Koktebel meeting, each of them experienced their own tragedy.United by the death of loved ones,Marina and Sergei rushed into each other's arms to survive.

Presenter 1. When asked who his bride was, Sergei proudly announced. “This is the greatest poetess in the world, her name is Marina Tsvetaeva.”

Efron wrote to Tsvetaeva: “I live in faith in our meeting. There will be no life for me without you, live! I won’t demand anything from you - I don’t need anything except for you to be alive... Take care of yourself. God bless you.

Yours S.” And she answered him: “My Serezhenka! I don't know where to start.

I’ll end with this: my love for you is endless.”

The poem “Love! Love! And in convulsions, and in the coffin" will read…….

Love! Love! And in convulsions, and in the coffin
I’ll be wary - I’ll be seduced - I’ll be embarrassed - I’ll rush.
Oh dear! Not in a grave snowdrift,
I won’t say goodbye to you in the clouds.

And that’s not why I need a pair of beautiful wings
Given to keep poods in my heart.
Swaddled, eyeless and voiceless
I will not increase the miserable settlement.

No, I’ll stretch out my arms, my body is elastic
With a single wave from your shrouds,
Death, I'll knock you out! - About a thousand miles in the area
The snow has melted - and the forest of bedrooms.

And if all is well - shoulders, wings, knees
Squeezing, she let herself be led to the graveyard, -
Then only so that, laughing at decay,
Rise up in verse - or bloom like a rose!

Presenter 2. Marina Tsvetaeva: “Alya-Ariadna Efron - was born on September 5, 1912, at half past six in the morning, to the sound of bells. Marina Tsvetaeva: “I named her Ariadna,” in spite of Seryozha, who loves Russian names, and dad, who loves simple names. Named from romanticism and arrogance, which guide all my

life."

Presenter 1: Alya is always next to Marina. Always a friend, always a helper, always a listener, a reader of mother’s poems and an interlocutor.

The poem “ALE” was written on June 5, 1914, it will be read by...

You will be innocent, subtle,
Adorable - and a stranger to everyone.
Captivating Amazon
Swift mistress.

And their braids, perhaps,
You will wear it 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 that I only dream,
You will have at your feet.

Everything will be submissive to you,
And everyone is quiet in front of you.
You will be like me - no doubt -
And it's better to write poetry...

But whether you will - who knows -
It's deadly to squeeze your temples,
How they are being squeezed now
Your young mother.

Presenter 2. The First World War begins, and Sergei immediately decides to volunteer for the front. The February and then the October Revolution reshaped the family life of Russians. Sergei Efron, in the ranks of the White Army, leaves for the Don to fight against the revolutionary government.

Presenter1: Marina Tsvetaeva with two children (daughter Irina was born in 1917) remained in Moscow.Efron was an officer in the Volunteer Army and, having fought with the Bolsheviks first on the Don and then in the Crimea, eventually shared the bitter fate of thousands and thousands of comrades in arms, finding himself in exile.

Presenter 2. Completely unaware of his fate, in hungry and cold post-revolutionary Moscow, she literally fights for survival - hers and her children (the second daughter of Tsvetaeva and Efron, having lived only three years, died of starvation in one of the Moscow shelters).Another scar on the heart, another gray strand.

Presenter 1. Two hands, easily lowered

On a baby's head!

There were - one for each -

I was given two heads.

But both - squeezed -

Furious - as best I could!

Snatching the eldest from the darkness -

She didn’t save the youngest.

Presenter 2. In the collection, “Swan Camp” glorifies the white movement not for political reasons, but because her lover was there.

Marina is saved by Poetry. Despite everything, she continues to write. Poems from that time were addressed to her husband. From the letter: “If God does a miracle and leaves you alive, I will follow you like a dog...”

Presenter 1. On July 14, 1921, Marina Tsvetaeva receives precious news - her beloved is alive and in Constantinople.

“My Serezhenka! If they don’t die from happiness, then, in any case, they turn to stone. I just received your letter. Petrified..."
Poem « Nailed to the pillory » will read...

Reader:

Nailed to the pillory
The ancient Slavic conscience,
With a snake in my heart and a brand on my forehead,
I claim that I am innocent.

I claim that I am at peace
Participles before communion.
That it's not my fault that I'm with my hand
I stand in the squares - for happiness.

Review all my goods
Tell me - or am I blind?
Where is my gold? Where's the silver?
In my hand there is only a handful of ashes!

And that's all flattery and entreaty
I begged from the happy ones.
And that's all I'll take with me
To the land of silent kisses.

Presenter 2: 1922 Marina is leaving abroad. Three years in Prague. A very bright and happy period; The collection “Rainbow” is published, which includes poems dedicated to Blok. She described Blok as “a knight without reproach, almost a deity,” although she was not familiar with him.

Reader:

Your name is a bird in your hand,
Your name is like a piece of ice on the tongue.
One single movement of the lips.
Your name is five letters.
A ball caught on the fly
Silver bell in mouth.

A stone thrown into a quiet pond
Sob as your name is.
In the light clicking of night hooves
Your big name is booming.
And he will call it to our temple
The trigger clicks loudly.

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.

Presenter 1. In 1925, his son Georgy, Murlyga, as he was called in the family, “Mur” was born. The time was difficult, but Tsvetaeva also produced funny poems.

Poem " When I'm a Grandmother" reads...

Reader:

When I'm a grandmother...

In about ten years -

Quirky, amusing, -

A whirlwind from head to toe!

And the grandson - curly - Yegorushka

It will roar: “Give me the gun!”

I'll throw a leaf and a feather -

My treasure!

The mother will cry: “One year three months,

And look how angry he is!”

And I’ll say: “Let him rage!

You know, he took after his grandmother!"

Egor, my womb!

Egor, rib from rib!

Egorushka, Egorushka,

Yegoriy - light - brave man!

When I'm a grandmother...

A gray-haired hag with a pipe! --

And granddaughter, sneaking at midnight,

He whispers, fluttering his skirts:

"Who, tell me, grandma,

Should I take from seven?" -

I'll knock over the bench

I'll spin like a whirlwind.

Mother: “No shame, no conscience!

And there will be dancing in the grave!"

And I said: “Hey!

You know, I took after my grandmother!”

Who is the walker in the market dance?

He is dashing and on a feather bed, -

Marinushka, Marinushka,

Marina - blue - seas!

"And kissed, grandma,

Darling, with how many?"

- "I paid tribute with songs,

I collected tribute in rings.

Not a wasted night:

Everything is in the Garden of Eden!”

- “But what about, grandma, the Lord

Will you appear in court?"

"The starlings are whistling in the birdhouse,

It's spring - look! - white...

I’ll say: “Darling, you are a sinner!”

I was happy!

Well, you are a rib from a rib,

Marinushka and Yegorushka,

A handful of my earthen soil

Take it in a bundle."

Presenter 2: And then - many years of silence; alas, she did not take root in emigration; in the West, she and her husband are perceived almost as traitors and apostates. A long seventeen-year separation from Russia. A feeling of uselessness, especially the uselessness of her poems.

Reader:

It’s night in my huge city.

I’m leaving the sleepy house - away.

And people think: - wife, daughter, -

But I remembered one thing: night.

The July wind sweeps my way,

And somewhere there is music in the window - a little.

Ah, now the wind will blow until dawn

Through the walls of thin breasts - into the chest.

There is a black poplar, and there is light in the window,

And the ringing on the tower, and the color in the hand,

And this step - after no one -

And there’s this shadow, but there’s no me.

The lights are like strings of golden beads,

Night leaf in the mouth - taste.

Free from the bonds of the day,

Friends, understand that you are dreaming of me.

Presenter 1: From the book “People, Years, Life” by I. Ehrenburg.

– Such was the torment of “Life, where we can do so little...” Tsvetaeva wrote.2 But how much she could do in her notebooks! In them, while suffering, she could create amazing poems, unique in musicality.

Presenter 2: Her poems are filled with music. Outside of music, outside of the musical atmosphere, M. Tsvetaeva does not represent her heroes. Tsvetaeva’s poems are sung and designed to be heard – without such perception it is difficult to grasp their image.

More than a dozen of her beautiful poems have inspired composers of the past and present to write beautiful songs full of genuine sensuality.

Presenter 1: It is significant that songs based on Tsvetaeva’s poems are performed by many famous singers, among them Irina Allegrova, Valery Leontyev, Tamara Gverdtsiteli, Alla Pugacheva. In the popular film in our country “The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath” one of the most lyrical and memorable romances sounds Tsvetaeva“I like that you are not sick with me”

How fresh and modern the poems sound, even though they were written in 1915. The poems were addressed to the sister's future husband, Mints.Is reading …..

I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that it's not you that I'm sick of
That the globe is never heavy
It won't float away under our feet.
I like that you can be funny -
Loose - and don't play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Sleeves touching slightly.

I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug the other one,
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn because I don't kiss you.
What is my gentle name, my gentle, not
You mention it day or night - in vain...
That never in church silence
They will not sing over us: Hallelujah!

Thank you with my heart and hand
Because you have me - without knowing yourself! -
So love: for my night's peace,
For the rare meeting at sunset hours,
For our non-walks under the moon,
For the sun, not above our heads, -
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me,
Because I am sick - alas! - not by you!

Presenter 2: M Arina Tsvetaeva admitted: Very early on I felt a certain “secret heat” in myself, a “hidden engine of life” and called it “love”. “Pushchen infected me with love. In a word – love.” This heat scorched Boris Pasternak, and Alexander Blok, andOsip Mandelstam.

The poem “My Darling,” dedicated to Osip Mandelstam, is read by...

Yesterday I looked into your eyes,

And now everything is looking sideways!

Yesterday I was sitting before the birds, -

All are larks, now they are crows!

I'm stupid and you're smart

Alive, but I'm dumbfounded.

Oh, the cry of women of all times:

“My dear, what have I done to you?!”

And her tears are water and blood - Water,

– I washed myself in blood, in tears!

Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love.

Expect neither judgment nor mercy.

The dear ships are taking away,

The white road leads them away...

And there is a groan all along the earth:

“

Yesterday I was lying at my feet!

Equated with the Chinese state!

At once he unclenched both hands, -

Life has dropped like a rusty penny!

Child killer on trial

I stand - unkind, timid.

Even in hell I will tell you:

“My dear, what have I done to you?

I'll ask for a chair, I'll ask for a bed:

“Why, why do I suffer and suffer?”

Kissed the wheel

Kiss the other one, they answer.

I learned to live in the fire itself,

He threw himself into the frozen steppe

That's what you, dear, did to me!

My dear, what have I done to you?

I know everything, don’t contradict me!

The sighted one is no longer a mistress

Where Love retreats

Death the Gardener approaches there.

It’s like shaking a tree!

– In time the apple falls ripe...

– Forgive me for everything, for everything,

My dear, what have I done to you!

Presenter 1: Throughout her life, Tsvetaeva’s spiritual and creative fire of love for the dear “shadows of the past,” for the “holy craft of the poet,” for nature, for living people, for friends and girlfriends burned unquenchably.

Many of her poems became romances and were performed in films.

The poem “Under the caress of a plush blanket” will be read by Nadezhda Grigorieva

Under the caress of a plush blanket

I induce yesterday's dream.
What was it? – Whose victory? –
Who is defeated?

I'm changing my mind again
I'm tormented by everyone again.
In something for which I don’t know the word,
Was there love?

Who was the hunter? - Who is the prey?
Everything is devilishly the opposite!
What did I understand, purring for a long time,
Siberian cat?

In that duel self-will
Who, in whose hand was only the ball?
Whose heart is it yours or mine?
Did it fly at a gallop?

And yet – what was it?
What do you want and regret?
I still don’t know: did she win?
Was she defeated?

Leading: In June 1939, mother and son boarded a train. Father and daughter are already there, bye

not yet in prison, but already in Russia. I didn’t see her and her son off from Paris

nobody. Marina’s Golgotha will last two more years, her retribution will be for

What? – dissimilarity? - intolerance? inability to adapt to

whatever? for the right to be yourself?

– Retribution for love, earthly and poetic, concrete and cosmic.

You walking past me

To not my and dubious charms, -

If you knew how much fire there is,

So much life wasted.

And what heroic ardor

To a random shadow and a rustle...

And how my heart was incinerated

This wasted gunpowder.

O trains flying into the night,

Carrying away sleep at the station...

Moreover, I know that even then

You wouldn't know if you knew.

Why are my speeches cutting

In the eternal smoke of my cigarette,

– How much dark and menacing melancholy

In my head, blonde.

I know I'll die at dawn!

Which of the two

Together with which of the two – you can’t decide by order!

Oh, if only it were possible for my torch to go out twice!

So that in the evening dawn and in the morning at once!

She walked across the ground with a dancing step!

Heaven's daughter! With an apron full of roses!

Don't disturb a single sprout!

I know I'll die at dawn!

God will not send the night of the hawk after my swan soul!

With a gentle hand, moving away the unkissed cross,

I will rush into the generous sky for the last greetings.

A slit of dawn - and a slit of an answering smile... -

Even in my dying hiccups I will remain a poet!

Leading: 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 things could get worse. Understand that

I couldn't live anymore. Tell dad and Alya if you see

– that you loved them until the last minute and explain that you got in

to a dead end."

Leading: The son could not convey anything. Alya served time, Sergei Yakovlevich

will be shot, and Georgy Efron himself will die at the front.

Oh black mountain

Eclipsed the whole world!

The snow has melted - and the forest of bedrooms.

And if it’s all right – shoulders, wings, knees

Squeezing, she allowed herself to be taken to the churchyard, -

Then only so that, laughing at decay,

Rise up in verse - or bloom like a rose!

Leading: At the cemetery in Yelabuga there is the following inscription: “Marina Tsvetaeva is buried in this part of the cemetery.”

You're coming, looking like me,

Eyes looking down.

I lowered them too

Passerby, stop!

Read - night blindness

And picking a bouquet of poppies;

That my name was Marina;

And how old was I?

Don't think that there is a grave here,

That I appear threatening...

I loved myself too much

Laugh when you shouldn't!

And the blood rushed to the skin,

And my curls curled...

I was there too, a passerby!

Passerby, stop!

Pluck yourself a wild stem

And a berry after him.

Cemetery strawberries

It doesn't get any bigger or sweeter.

But just don't stand there sullenly,

He lowered his head onto his chest.

Think about me easily

It's easy to forget about me.

How the beam illuminates you!

You're covered in gold dust...

And don't let it bother you

My voice is from underground.

Tsvetaeva wrote in her diary: “I am cramped in everything, in every feeling and person, as in any room, be it a hole or a palace. I can't live in days, every day - I always live outside of myself. This disease is incurable and is called soul ».

“Prayer” Marina Tsvetaeva, performed by...

Christ and God! I long for a miracle
Now, now, at the beginning of the day!
Oh let me die, bye
All life is like a book for me.

You are wise, You will not say strictly:
- “Be patient, the time is not over yet.”
You yourself gave me too much!
I crave all the roads at once!

I want everything: with the soul of a gypsy
Go to robbery while listening to songs,
To suffer for everyone to the sound of an organ
and rush into battle like an Amazon;

Fortune telling by the stars in the black tower,
Lead the children forward, through the shadows...
So that yesterday is a legend,
May it be madness - every day!

I love the cross, and silk, and helmets,
My soul traces moments...
You gave me a childhood - better than a fairy tale
And give me death - at seventeen years old!

Leading : A poet dies - his poetry remains. Tsvetaeva’s prophecy that her poems “will have their turn” has come true. Now they have entered the cultural life of the world, into our spiritual everyday life, taking a high place in the history of poetry.

If the soul was born winged...

Marina Ivanovna

Tsvetaeva

( 1892-1941)

My poems, like precious wines, will have their turn...

I was born

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow on October 8, 1892 in the family of professor Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev and pianist Maria Alexandrovna Main, at that moment bells suddenly rang throughout Moscow. And there was also a sign of fate - a rowan tree. The old-timers of Moscow did not remember that there were so many rowan trees.

M. Tsvetaeva around 1893

I still want to chew

Red rowan bitter brush

M. Tsvetaeva 1924

The Tsvetaev family

Father Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor at Moscow University, art critic and philologist, later founder of the Museum of Fine Arts, now the Museum of Fine Arts. A.S. Pushkin.

M. Tsvetaeva with her father

Mother Maria Alexandrovna Main came from a Russified Polish-German family and was a talented pianist.

M.F. Maine - mother of M. Tsvetaeva

Moscow

Trekhprudny Lane in Moscow

Country sofa from the Tsvetaevs' house in Moscow

M. Tsvetaeva at the piano in the Tsvetaevs’ house in Moscow

First collection of poems "Evening Album" 1910

The sincere, spontaneous poems of eighteen-year-old Marina Tsvetaeva pleased the discerning Valery Bryusov. And the poet and critic Maximilian Voloshin, who lived in Moscow, even more approved of the published collection

Confession of a poet

My soul is so joyfully attracted to you!

Oh, what grace blows

From the pages of the Evening Album!

(Why an album and not a notebook?)

... Your book is news “from there”,

Morning good news.

I have not accepted a miracle for a long time,

But how sweet it is to hear: “There is a miracle!”

Poet M. Voloshin

Through every heart, Through every network, my self-will will break through

Do not borrow anything from anyone, do not imitate, do not be influenced, “be yourself” - this is how Tsvetaeva came out of childhood and remained this way forever. She is a bright, original poet, confident in her further poetic success.

M. Tsvetaeva 1914

M. Tsvetaeva

Carnelian Bay in Koktebel

They fly, written hastily,

Hot from bitterness and negativity.

Crucified between love and love

My moment, my hour, my day, my year, my century.

M. Tsvetaeva and S. Efron

Tsvetaeva in the circle of contemporary poets

B. Pasternak

V.Ya. Portrait of Bryusov by M. Vrubel

A. Akhmatova

V. Mayakovsky

For the path of comets is the path of poets...

"Swan Camp" (1917-1921)

S. Efron on a hospital train, 1915

First Infantry Division of the Volunteer Army at the front 1919

General Alekseev - Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Army, founder of the Volunteer Army

"Versts" 1921

Your name is a bird in your hand,

Your name is like a piece of ice on the tongue.

One single movement of the lips.

Your name is five letters.

A. Akhmatova

We are crowned by the fact that we trample the same ground with you, that the sky above us is the same! And the one who is wounded by your mortal fate, Already immortal, descends to his deathbed.

In exile

Neither to the city nor to the village - Go, my son, to your country, - To the region - on the contrary to all regions! Where to go back - forward Go, - especially - for you, who has never seen Rus', My child... Mine? Her – Child!

Georgy Efron 1940