Scenario for Poetry Day
"Souls beautiful impulses"
Purpose of the event: instill a love of poetry, develop creative abilities, the ability to use the visual and expressive means of the language.
Presenter1 :
According to the decision of UNESCO, March 21 is World Poetry Day.
Presenter2:
Poetry is probably one of the most ingenious achievements of mankind. To pour out one's feelings in poetic form, to capture one's worldview in rhyme, to dream of the future and remember the past, while simultaneously addressing millions and remaining alone with oneself - only poetry, the greatest of the arts created by man, is capable of this.
Presenter1:
Not many become great and famous poets, but many at least once in their lives tried to compose poetry. After all, most people are far from alien to those “beautiful impulses of the soul”, which prompt a person to take a pen, a piece of paper and start creating.
Presenter2:
Write poetry without thinking about fame and immortality. After all, even a small, unknown poem written by a child is also a huge spiritual contribution to the cultural and intellectual prosperity of the whole society.
Music sounds softly (Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata").
Presenter1:
Poetry always leaves in the heart a trace of "sublime dreams, and sincere sorrow, and human thoughts."
What is poetry?
She is the combination of magical sounds,
Souls of agitated dreams,
The torment of a proud mind.
In verse - a melody familiar from childhood.
He's been known for so long.
And the heart, listening to him, trembles,
And the lines keep flowing...
Beckon, take away.
V. Pechurova What is poetry?
Reader
The old syllable attracts me.
There is charm in ancient speech.
It can be more modern and sharper than our words.
Shout: "Half the kingdom for the horse!"
What a temper and generosity!
But it will come down on me
last fervor futility.
Someday I'll wake up in the dark
forever losing the battle,
and it will come to my mind
madman of the ancient decision.
Oh, what a half kingdom for me!
A child taught by the age
I will take a horse, I will give a horse
for half a moment with a man,
loved by me. God is with you,
about. my horse, my horse, zealous horse.
I will weaken your reason for free
– and you will catch up with the herd, dear,
catch up there, in the steppe empty and red.
And I'm bored with the chatter of these victories and defeats.
I feel sorry for the horse! I'm sorry love!
And in a medieval manner
lies under my feet only a trace,
left by a horseshoe.
B. Akhmadulina "An old style attracts me ..."
Presenter2:
From poetry you expect the impossible. And only poetry gives this impossible. The greatest miracle happens when simple words and lines are suddenly combined into poetic stanzas, and unreal, supernatural pictures of the world arise.
Reader
Clouds are rushing, clouds are winding;
Invisible moon
Illuminates the flying snow;
The sky is cloudy, the night is dark.
I'm going, I'm going in an open field;
Ding ding ding bell...
Terrible, terribly scary
Amid the unknown plains!
“Hey, the coachman has gone! ..” - “No urine:
Horses, master, it's hard;
The blizzard sticks my eyes;
All roads skidded;
For the life of me, no trace is visible;
We got lost.
What should we do!
In the field the demon leads us, apparently
Yes, it circles around.
Look: out, out playing,
Blows, spits on me;
Out - now pushes into the ravine
wild horse;
There's an unprecedented milestone
He stuck out in front of me;
There he flashed a small spark
And disappeared into the empty darkness!
Clouds are rushing, clouds are winding;
Invisible moon
Illuminates the flying snow;
The sky is cloudy, the night is cloudy.
We have no strength spinning share;
The bell suddenly stopped;
The horses became ... "What is there in the field?"
- “Who knows them? stump or wolf?
The blizzard is angry, the blizzard is crying;
Sensitive horses snore;
There he jumps far away;
Only eyes in the darkness burn;
The horses raced again;
Ding ding ding bell...
I see: the spirits have gathered
Among the whitening plains.
Endless, ugly
In the muddy month game
Various demons swirled
Like leaves in November...
How many of them! where are they driven?
What is it they sing so plaintively?
Do they bury the brownie
Are witches getting married?
Clouds are rushing, clouds are winding;
Invisible moon
Illuminates the flying snow;
The sky is cloudy, the night is cloudy.
Demons rush swarm after swarm
In the boundless height
Screeching plaintively and howling
Breaking my heart...
A. S. Pushkin "Demons"
Presenter1:
The poet-singer is forever alone in the universe. The loneliness of the poet at all times gives rise to captivating songs full of inexplicable sadness, bright sadness and dreams of immortality.
The romance “I go out alone on the road” is performed
Presenter2:
When would you know from what rubbish
Poems grow, not knowing shame,
Like a yellow dandelion by the fence
Like burdock and quinoa.
A. Akhmatova If only you knew from what rubbish
Presenter1:
How are poems born? Sometimes it's easy and random, sometimes it's excruciatingly hard. Undoubtedly, one thing: the poetic gift is the Gift of God. And the image of the Muse - one of the eternal images of poetry - is the image of the messenger of heaven.
Reader
Muse-sister looked into the face,
Her gaze is clear and bright.
And took away the golden ring
First spring present.
Muse! you see how happy everyone is
Girls, women, widows...
I'd rather die on the wheel
Just not these chains.
I know: guessing, and I cut off
Delicate daisy flower.
Must experience on this earth
Every love torture.
I burn a candle on the window until dawn
And I don't miss anyone
But I don't want, I don't want, I don't want
Know how to kiss another.
Tomorrow they will tell me, laughing, mirrors:
"Your gaze is not clear, not bright ...
Quietly answer: "She took away God's gift."
M. Tsvetaeva "Muse"
Presenter1:
The inexorable Muse requires sacrifice and sacrifice, and the greatest exertion of strength. Listening to himself, the poet in pain gives birth to the music of the verse from individual sounds.
Reader
It happens like this: some kind of languor;
In the ears the clock does not stop;
In the distance, a rumble of fading thunder.
I feel both complaints and groans,
Some kind of secret circle narrows,
But in this abyss of whispers and calls
One, victorious sound rises.
So irremediably quiet around him,
What is heard, how grass grows in the forest,
How famously he walks on the ground with a knapsack ...
But the words have already been heard
And light rhymes alarm bells -
Then I begin to understand
And just dictated lines
Lie down in a snow-white notebook.
A. Akhmatova "Creativity"
Presenter1:
The birth of poetry is hard work, not for the glory of the earth, not for its own sake, but by the will of God. The poet, in spite of everything, overcoming all obstacles, in a stubborn struggle, creates immortal creations with sweat and blood.
Presenter2:
All the beauty of the world, all the routine of life, the smallest details and the grand scale of the event, all the inexplicable complexity of being can only be described by a poet.
Reader
As ever, carefree and kind,
I went out into the snow of the Arbat yard,
And there it was: it was getting light!
The light bloomed with a lilac bush,
And in the yard, recently so empty,
Suddenly it became light and cramped from the children.
Irish Setter, frisky as fire,
He put the back of his head in my palm,
Puppies and children rejoiced in the snow,
Snow fell into my eyes and lips,
And this little incident was ridiculous
And everyone laughed and bowed to laughter.
How at that moment I loved Moscow
And I thought: the longer I live,
The simpler the mind, the fresher the soul.
Here is the snow, here is the janitor, here is the child running -
Everything is and is to be sung,
What could be more reasonable and sacred?
Day of life, like a living being,
Standing and waiting for my participation,
And the air of the day seems to me healing.
Ah, not enough luck that - lived,
I was completely happy
In that alley that is called Khlebny.
B. Akhmadulina "As never careless and kind"
Presenter 1:
A changeable, ever-changing world, unforgettable moments of life, the breath of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the flight of an alder earring - everything is so tightly intertwined and linked together in life and in poetic lines.
Performs the romance "Alder Earring"
(music by E. Krylatov, lyrics by E. Yevtushenko)
Presenter2 :
Everything starts with love...
They say in the beginning, there was a word.
And I proclaim again
Everything starts with love.
And illumination, and work.
The eyes of flowers, the eyes of a child
Everything starts with love.
Presenter1:
Love…! It is difficult to establish when it appeared on Earth! Obviously with a human. This is the most ancient and the greatest feeling.
Presenter2:
How does love arise?
Presenter1:
Already from birth, the first feelings and sensations of affection, care give us maternal love. There is no person in the world dearer and closer than a mother. Her love for children is boundless, selfless, full of selflessness.
Presenter2:
Motherhood in Russia has always been synonymous with holiness, and the birth of a new life is considered one of the greatest mysteries on Earth.
Take care of mothers! (R. Gamzatov).
Everyone stand up and listen standing up
Preserved in all its glory
This word is ancient, holy!
Straighten up! Get up!..
Stand up everyone!
This word will never deceive,
There is a life being hidden in it.
It is the source of everything.
He has no end.
Get up! I pronounce it:
- Mother!
Presenter1 :
Poetry and love are inseparable. Feelings - whether the first, tender or later, the last yearns to pour out on paper, to sound like a song of delight or sadness. And only poetry can express the joy of meeting and the boundless ecstasy of a date.
Reader
At a late hour we were with her in the field.
I, trembling, touched the tender lips ...
"I want hugs to the point of pain,
Be ruthless and rude to me!”
Tired, she asked tenderly:
"Sleep, let me rest,
Don't kiss so hard and rebellious
Put your head on my chest."
The stars sparkled softly above us,
There was a faint smell of fresh dew.
Gently touched my lips
To hot cheeks and to braids.
And she forgot. Once I woke up
Like a child sighed in the semi-darkness,
But, looking, she smiled weakly
And she hugged me again.
Night reigned for a long time in a dark field,
For a long time I guarded a sweet dream ...
And then on the golden throne,
Quietly shone in the east
A new day, - it became cool in the fields ...
I gently woke her up
And in the steppe, sparkling and scarlet,
He walked me home through the dew.
I. A. Bunin “At a late hour we were with her in the field”
Presenter1 :
How much is written about the love of magical songs and beautiful poems. Light sadness and melancholy are everywhere accompanied by a deep, strong feeling that transforms human souls and the world around us.
Presenter2:
How much is incomprehensible, unknown in the world of love. Mystery. Secret. Incomprehensibility. Everything contains a grand feeling. And everything is subject to this feeling - people, gods, demons. The great temptation is fraught with a demonic declaration of love.
Presenter1:
A declaration of love is often accompanied by an invitation to dance. And an invitation to dance can be an invitation to life.
Reader
What a ball!
The intensity of movement, sound, nerves!
Hearts pounded in three counts instead of two.
In addition, ladies invited gentlemen
On a white waltz, traditional - and breathtaking.
You yourself, although you dance with grief in half,
Long ago I decided to invite her alone,
And now, getting closer, becoming more and more real,
She, whom I intended to approach,
She goes by herself to invite you to the waltz,
And the blood in your temples is knocking in the rhythm of a waltz.
She rushed about, broke, she trembled in the unsteady light of candles.
There was a white waltz - the end of the doubts of the unbelievers
And the end of young dreams, fun, joy,
Today ladies invited gentlemen -
Not because, not because they have little courage.
Erected for the time of the ball in the rank of ladies,
And the waltz turns our heads, as in the old days.
But you always have to go away on business
Rush to the rescue, gather for war.
Whiter than snow, white waltz, spin, spin,
So that the snowfall does not stop longer!
She came to invite you to life
And you were white - whiter than the walls, whiter than a waltz.
You are outwardly calm in the midst of a noisy ball,
But the shadow behind you betrayed you -
Tossed, trembled, she broke in the unsteady light of candles.
And carefully holding, and circling furiously,
You could take her on a knife edge
Don't just stand there with your hands folded, you're not your own and no one's!
Wherever the ball was - in the Lyceum, in the House of Officers,
In the palace hall, at school - how lucky you are -
In Russia, ladies invited gentlemen
In all ages on a white waltz, and everything was white and white.
Downcast eyes, not looking around,
Through despair, silence, silence
Women hurried to come to our aid,
Their ballroom is the size of the whole country.
Wherever it throws you, wherever it disappears,
Remember the waltz - how white you were! - and smile.
A century will be waiting for you - both from the sea and from heaven -
And they will invite you to a white waltz when you return.
V. Vysotsky "White Waltz".
A musical excerpt from F. Chopin's play "Rain Waltz" sounds.
They dance the waltz.
Presenter1 :
Thoughts about Russia, its fate, past and present, about its beauty, chosenness and extraordinaryness - everything merged into one in the poetic image of the Motherland - an eternally beautiful wife, lover, mother. Love and pain are sharp and piercing in verses about Russia.
Reader
I love my homeland, but with a strange love!
My mind won't defeat her.
Nor glory bought with blood
Nor full of proud trust peace,
No dark antiquity cherished legends
Do not stir in me a pleasurable dream.
But I love - for what, I do not know myself -
Her steppes are cold silence,
Her boundless forests sway,
The floods of her rivers are like the seas;
On a country road I like to ride in a cart
And, with a slow gaze piercing the shadow of the night,
Meet around, sighing about an overnight stay,
The flickering lights of sad villages.
I love the smoke of the burnt stubble,
In the steppe, an overnight convoy,
And on a hill in the middle of a yellow field
A couple of whitening birches.
With joy unknown to many
I see a complete threshing floor
Thatched hut,
Carved shuttered window;
And on a holiday, dewy evening,
Ready to watch until midnight
To the dance with stomping and whistling
To the sound of drunken men.
M. Yu. Lermontov "Motherland"
Presenter1 :
Life is impossible without this strange love, without it everything loses its meaning, and a deaf, hopeless longing sets in.
The romance "Fragrant clusters of white acacia" is performed
Presenter2 :
But the poetic word is immortal, dispelling darkness and creating light, creating wisdom and goodness.A. Akhmatova in the poem "Our sacred craft" wrote:
Our sacred craft
There are thousands of years...
With him and without light, the world is light.
But no poet has yet said,
That there is no wisdom, and there is no old age,
Or maybe there is no death.
Presenter1:
Years go bycenturies change. Thinkers, philosophers, scientists seek to unravel the mysteries of being. But the most complex mystery of the world remains man and his soul. The answers to the most complex questions are hidden in the human soul; the innermost secrets are kept by the immortal soul.
Presenter2:
To break through to every human soul, to awaken it from sleep, to set it up for goodness, joy and intoxication with life - this is the true purpose of the greatest mystery of poetry.
The air is full of a storm that has swept by.
Everything came to life, everything breathes, as in paradise.
With all the dissolution of brushes lilac bunches
Lilac absorbs a stream of freshness.
Everything is alive with the change of the weather.
Rain floods the roofs of the gutter,
But the transitions are brighter than the sky,
And the sky behind the black cloud is blue.
The artist's hand is even more powerful
Removes dirt and dust from all things.
More transfigured from his dye-house
Life, reality and reality come out.
Memories of half a century
A swept thunderstorm goes back.
The century was out of his care.
It's time to give way to the future.
No upheavals and upheavals
Clearing the way for a new life
And revelations, storms and bounties
Someone's inflamed soul.
B. L. Pasternak "After the Thunderstorm"
Presenter1:
Rhythms, styles, poetic forms change, only mother, Motherland, love will always remain unchanged. So let poetry be filled with enchanting love magic to these concepts. And we urge you not to hide your feelings, as the bard Bulat Okudzhava said: "Let's exclaim."
The song "Let's shout" is performed
(music and lyrics by B. Okudzhava)
Akhmadulina, B. A. The old style attracts me / B. A. Akhmadulina. - Moscow: Eksmo-Press, 2000. - 528 p.
Akhmatova, A. A. Collected works in 6 volumes / A. A. Akhmatova. – Moscow: Ellis Luck, 1998.
Bunin, I. A. Collected works in 9 volumes / I. A. Bunin. - Moscow: Fiction, 1965.
Voznesensky, A. A. Collected works in 3 volumes / A. A. Voznesensky. - Moscow: Fiction, 1983.
Vysotsky, V.S. Did not leave the battle / V.S.
Vysotsky. - Voronezh: Central Black Earth Book Publishing House, 1988. - 560 p.
Evtushenko, E. A. My most - the most / E. A. Evtushenko. - Moscow: JSC "Kh. G.S., 1995. - 630 p.
Lermontov, M. Yu. Collected works in 3 volumes / M. Yu. Lermontov. - Moscow: IPO "Polygran", 1996.
Okudzhava, B. Sh. Poems / B. Sh. Okudzhava. - St. Petersburg: Humanite. Agency "Academic Project", 2001. - 711 p.
Pasternak, B. L. Collected works in 2 volumes / B. L. Pasternak. - Moscow: Fiction, 1989.
Pushkin, A. S. Golden Volume / A. S. Pushkin. - Moscow: Crown - Print, 1999. - 975 p.
Fet, A. A. The smile of beauty / A. A. Fet. - Moscow: School - Press, 1995. - 735 p.
Tsvetaeva, M. I. Collected works in 7 volumes / M. I. Tsvetaeva. - Moscow: Terra - Bookstore, 1997.
1. 1st leader. A poet in Russia is more than a poet… “Poetry is not needed or, on the contrary, it is necessary. You can argue to the point of hoarseness about this. You can ban poets or invent insignia for them. Poetry ignores all of this. She was, is and will always be where human feelings live, moreover, the brightest and most beautiful. Where the Soul speaks.
2nd leader. The beautiful month of spring is not in vain chosen to celebrate the wonderful, romantic Day of Poetry. After all, March is the month that personifies the beginning of spring, the rebirth and awakening of nature. Poetry has always glorified mood and warmth, the birth of life, new feelings and hopes.
2. Slide 3. Video about the history of the World Poetry Day (not all).
3. Slide 4.
1st presenter
How many names come to mind!
Yesenin, Pushkin, Blok and Fet,
Akhmatova, Barto, Tvardovsky ...
In Russia, if you are a poet -
You must be bright and catchy.
Know that the word should ignite,
And heal the soul with words.
Don't you know this
A poet living next to us?
Poetry is a great gift!
Who managed to saddle Pegasus,
He will never be old
Rhyming thoughts hourly.
(Elena Kozlova-Gyra)
And how many brilliant lines were signed by these names! Where did these terms come from and where do they go, leaving a mark on our souls? This is a great mystery, which, however, no one wants to solve - just some want to write poetry, while others read them and find a response to their feelings in them.
4. 2nd leader. It seems to me that writing poetry is like being able to fly like a bird. This cannot be learned, but anyone can learn to understand poetry. Poetry will be the real hostess of this evening, and poems will be the long-awaited guests.
5. Slide 5.
1st presenter
We have not forgotten that it is radiant
Only a word amid earthly anxieties,
And in the Gospel of John
The Word is said to be God.
A word born of pain...
A word that hurts mortally...
Word - with the most tender love ...
The word is like a pectoral cross...
The word that shines in the darkness
The word that warms in bad weather ...
The word, like the signs of Time,
The word is a reward and happiness!
World poetry cherishes the names of those who found and said the right words to people in time - sometimes peppy and kind, and sometimes bitter or ironic - and said in such a way that they wanted to believe him. Poets are always living witnesses of time. And we, the people of the 21st century, in our stormy, intense and demanding life, want to believe the poet when he reveals his innermost feelings ...
6. Slide 6.
2nd leader. The flame of a candle has long been a symbol of poetic evenings. I invite all of us, following a long tradition, to light our hearth of a poetic evening - these candles.
7. Slide 7. Romance "The candle burned on the table" to the verses of Boris Pasternak performed by Irina Skazina.
2nd leader. Poetry comes into our lives at an early age. We may not yet be able to read and write, but we already remember well the simple lines from the poems of Agnia Barto and remember them, oddly enough, all our lives: “Our Tanya is crying loudly ...” or “We dropped the bear on the floor ... ". It's lyrics lit up with a smile. The cycle of poems - "Toys" (1936), addressed to the little ones, turned out to be readable by people of all ages.
Word to the girls of group 24.
Dropped the bear on the floor
They cut off the bear's paw.
I won't throw it away anyway.
Because he's good.
A bull is walking, swinging,
Sighs on the go:
- Oh, the board ends,
Now I will fall!
The hostess threw the bunny -
A bunny was left in the rain.
Couldn't get off the bench
Wet to the skin.
Truck
No, in vain we decided
Ride a cat in a car:
The cat is not used to riding -
Overturned a truck.
Time to sleep! The bull fell asleep
Lie down in a box on a barrel.
Sleepy bear went to bed
Only the elephant does not want to sleep.
The elephant nods its head
He sends a bow to the elephant.
boat
Tarpaulin,
Rope in hand
I am pulling a boat
On the fast river
And the frogs jump
Behind me
And they ask me:
— Ride it, captain!
8. 1st leader. At school, we all learned poems and then recited them at the blackboard for evaluation. Everyone has a love for poetry, only for someone it dies at the bottom of the soul in the bud, and for someone it reaches such strength that it easily breaks through the thick skin acquired over the years. And now, in your free moment, you re-read the pages of Pyotr Pavlovich Ershov's wonderful fairy tale "The Little Humpbacked Horse", written by him after reading Pushkin's fairy tales that had just appeared. The words with which Alexander Sergeevich awarded the author of The Little Humpbacked Horse are known: “Now this kind of compositions can be left to me.”
9. The word to Anna Vladimirovna Portnykh, teacher of history.
Slide 9 - 10.
Beyond the mountains, beyond the forests
Beyond the wide seas
Against the sky - on the ground
An old man lived in a village.
The old woman has three sons:
The older one was smart,
Middle son and so and so
The younger one was an idiot.
The brothers were sowing wheat
Yes, they were taken to the city-capital:
Know that the capital was
Not far from the village.
They sold wheat
Received money by account
And with a full bag
They were returning home.
In a long time al soon
Woe happened to them:
Someone began to walk in the field
And move the wheat.
The men are so sad
They did not see offspring;
They began to think and guess -
How would a thief peep;
Finally realized to themselves
To stand guard
Save bread at night
Watch out for the evil thief.
That's how it became only dark,
The elder brother began to gather,
He took out the pitchfork and the ax
And went on patrol.
A stormy night has come;
He got scared...
(before the words: How much time has passed since that night)
10. 1st leader. For centuries, a feeling of love for their land, for the land of their ancestors, was born. And while a person did not have this feeling, humanity did not know its past, was not proud of it, did not think about the future. Years, centuries, millennia passed. Everything disappeared into dead oblivion. And only the feeling of the Motherland gave and gives a person historical memory.
11. Slide 11. Video of the dream of the girl Lyuba from the opening of the Olympics in Sochi - 2014. (An excerpt about the letters of the Russian alphabet, about the history of the motherland; before the words: “A new phase of sleep is opening - a dream about Russia.)
12. Valery Dukhanin. What is Russia? Reading Lyusov Artyom, student of group No. 24
What is Russia? It's a hot summer
When there are many flowers on a green meadow,
When the spray on the sea is pearly,
When the bread is ripe and the grass is mowed.
What is Russia? It's a wonderful autumn
When the cranes fly in the sky, chirping,
When ripe cones fall from the pines,
When the leaves turn to the ground.
What is Russia? It's a winter fairy tale
When silver snow lies on the ground,
When the boys rush from the mountain on a sleigh,
When you see the pattern on the window pane.
What is Russia? It's full of life
Happiness, cheerfulness, joy, spring light,
When cool rain suddenly splashes on the ground,
When the forest rustles, departed from sleep.
When the wind stirs the young grass,
When the birds sing again in our land.
I am my Russia, my native land,
This is so simple, I love it so much!
13. Slide 12.
1st leader. The 19th century in our literature has rightfully been called the Golden Age of Russian poetry. With this name, the thought of a national Russian poet immediately dawns. He was born in Moscow, in the heart of Russia, and became the heart of Russian literature himself. He was born in a wonderful spring month on the day of the Ascension - and his entire life and creative path showed an unceasing ascent to the ideal of Perfection, unattainable on earth, which, in his understanding, was a triple image of Truth, Goodness and Beauty. It is no coincidence that his last dying words - "higher, let's go higher" - called to strive to the heights. The pistol shot that killed Pushkin awakened Lermontov's soul. His poem "The Death of a Poet" shocked Russia. Lermontov exposed the conspiracy around Pushkin, he pointed to the instigators of the vile murder. This rebel who broke into Russian literature had the courage to say a lot without embellishment and mercy.
14. Slide 13. M.Yu. Lermontov’s poem “The Death of a Poet” is read by Ilya Petrovich Kryukov, teacher of special disciplines.
15. 2nd leader. And on April 23, 1840, the highest order was published. Lieutenant Lermontov was exiled under Chechen bullets to the North Caucasus. At the Karamzins' house, he said goodbye to his literary friends. Standing at the window and looking at the clouds crawling over the Summer Garden and the Neva, he sketched the poem "Clouds". He looked at everyone with a sad look and read:
Heavenly clouds, eternal wanderers!
Steppe azure, pearl chain
You rush as if like me, exiles
From the sweet north to the south.
The trio was waiting at the entrance. From here he went from the dear north towards the south.
16. 1st leader. On his way to the Caucasus, he stopped in Moscow and attended Gogol's name day. Lermontov was asked to read new poems. He agreed and, according to the recollections of the participants of this evening, read an excerpt from the just completed poem "Mtsyri" - a fight between a young man and a leopard.
17. Slide 14. Word to Zhikhorenko Natalya Apollonovna, teacher of chemistry. Reading an excerpt from M.Yu. Lermontov's poem "Mtsyri".
18. Slide 15.
2nd leader. The 20th century began. This turning point went down in the history of literature under the beautiful name of the Silver Age. Suddenly, an incredible number of poets appeared to the world. And everyone is talented! All are original! All are multifaceted.
But I had a chance to live in a difficult era, at a turning point, at the junction of two times. In these terrible times, the Motherland, Russia, was tormented, burned, torn to pieces.
The fates of the remarkable poets of the "Silver Age" developed differently. Someone could not bear life in an inhospitable homeland, someone, like Gumilyov, was shot without guilt, someone, like Akhmatova, remained in his native land until his last days, having experienced all the troubles and sorrows with her, someone put a “bullet point at its end”, like Mayakovsky, or a loop turn, like Yesenin. But all of them created a real miracle at the beginning of the 20th century - the "silver age" of Russian poetry. They had to go through ups and downs, victories and defeats. Creativity became a salvation and a way out, maybe even an escape from the Soviet reality that surrounded them.
19. Slide 16.
1st leader. Yesenin returned from abroad. Breakup with Isadora Duncan.
I have never been so tired.
Into this gray frost and slime
I dreamed of the Ryazan sky
And my unlucky life.
Many women loved me, Slide 17.
Yes, and I myself loved more than one,
Isn't this the dark force
Made me feel guilty...
She appeared. We met daily. We wandered around Moscow, went out of town and walked there for a long time. At meetings, Yesenin often repeated: "I am with you as a high school student." Miklashevskaya did not hear a single, not only rude, but even harsh word from him. It was as if during meetings with her, everything that had tormented him during these months was moving away somewhere, heavy, sad thoughts vanished, and he himself was transforming before his eyes. He called her sister and friend, near Miklashevskaya he felt calm and balanced. It was Augusta Miklashevskaya who dedicated 7 poems of the famous cycle “The Love of a Hooligan”. Here is one of them...
20. Slide 17
Sergey Yesenin. "A blue fire swept ...". Dygalo Evgeniy, a student of group No. 22, who is a Welder, reads.
A blue fire swept
Forgotten relatives gave.
For the first time I refuse to scandal.
I was all like a neglected garden,
He was greedy for women and potion.
Enjoyed drinking and dancing
And lose your life without looking back.
I would just look at you
To see the eye of the golden-brown whirlpool,
And so that, not loving the past,
You couldn't leave for someone else.
Tread gentle, light camp,
If you knew with a stubborn heart,
How does a bully know how to love,
How can he be humble.
I would forever forget taverns
And I would give up writing poetry,
Just to gently touch the hand
And your hair color in autumn.
I would follow you forever
At least in their own, even in others they gave ...
For the first time I sang about love,
For the first time I refuse to scandal. 1923
In general, Yesenin could not love anyone and nothing but his POETRY. Rurik Ivnev recalls: “... Yesenin's life and work were closely intertwined, like a rope of one rope. For all the marvelous warmth of his lyrics, his love was "pointless".
21. Slide 18
2nd leader. Vladimir Dal wrote: "Every decent Russian person consists of three parts: soul, body and passport." Was your passport always the same as it is now? In Kievan Rus, a belt was a kind of identity card. According to its ornament, it was possible to determine from which region its owner was from. The men's belt was wide and long, while the women's was narrow, graceful, and brightly colored. The child was girded with thread. The history of the Russian passport begins in the 18th century.
22. Slide 19. "Poems about the Soviet passport" by Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky will be read by Kryukov Ilya Petrovich, teacher of special disciplines.
23. Slide 20
2nd leader. Akhmatova declared herself as a true poet already in 1912 with the release of the collection Evening. Most of the poems of that period are devoted to love, which is not surprising: after all, she was a little over twenty years old. But she does not seem in these verses to be either young, or naive, or pampered, or fragile. On the contrary, we see a strong, wise woman. The poems of her first collections are about love, about the joy of meeting and the bitterness of parting, about unfulfilled hopes. These verses resembled the pages of a diary in their simplicity, they excited with the subtlety of feelings and the depth of experiences.
24. Anna Andreevna Akhmatova. "Oh, you thought I was like that too..." Ekaterina Solovieva, a 1st year student, reads.
Oh, you thought I was the same
That you can forget me
And that I will throw myself, praying and sobbing,
Under the hooves of a bay horse.
Or I'll ask the healers
In spoken water spine
And I will send you a terrible gift -
My treasured fragrant handkerchief.
Be damned. Not a groan, not a look
I will not touch the damned soul,
But I swear to you by the garden of angels
I swear by the miraculous icon
And the nights of our fiery children -
I will never return to you. (1921)
25. 1st leader. Another woman, Ekaterina Vasilievna, who lived for many years for the sake of her husband, did not see any care or affection from him. He treated her ... Here are the lines from his poem "Wife":
In the morning he writes and writes everything,
Immersed in unknown work.
She barely walks, hardly breathes,
As long as he stays healthy.
... and at the age of 48, she goes to Vasily Grossman - a writer, a famous heartthrob. “If she had swallowed the bus,” writes the son of Korney Chukovsky Nikolay, “Zabolotsky would have been less surprised!”
Surprise was followed by horror. The poet was crushed, helpless and pathetic. Misfortune nailed him to a lonely, young (28 years old), smart woman Natalya Roskina. He kept the phone number of a lady who loved his poems. That's all he knew about her. From her youth, she recited almost all of his poems by heart. He called her. Then they became lovers - it was more pity on her part (at least, that's how she explained in her memoirs). It is curious that Grossman was something like a foster father for Natalia. Everything was intertwined, but no one was happy. Everyone in this triangle (Zabolotsky, his wife and Roskina) suffered in his own way. Ekaterina Vasilievna returned to her husband in 1958. They were not destined to experience the joy of connection: the poet suffered a second heart attack. A month and a half later, on October 14, 1958, he died.
26. Nikolai Zabolotsky. "Confession". Reads Dits Nikita, student of group No. 22
Kissed, bewitched
Once married to the wind in the field,
All of you, as if chained,
My precious woman!
Not happy, not sad
As if descended from the dark sky,
You and my wedding song
And my star is crazy.
I will bow down on your knees
I will embrace them with fierce force,
And tears and poems
I will burn you, bitter, sweet.
Open my midnight face
Let me enter these heavy eyes,
In these black eastern eyebrows,
In these hands are your half-naked.
What will increase - will not decrease,
What will not come true - will be forgotten ...
Why are you crying, beautiful?
Or is it just my imagination? 1957
26. Slide 21
2nd leader. “Without the sun, flowers do not bloom, without love there is no happiness, without a woman there is no love, without a mother there is neither a poet nor a hero, all the pride of the world comes from mothers!” These wise words belong to M. Gorky.
Elena Blaginina's poem "Do not forget mothers!" read by a first-year student Yana Strunina.
Don't forget Mothers!
They mourn in separation.
And there is no worse pain for them -
The silence of their own children.
Don't forget Mothers!
They are not to blame for anything.
As before their hearts are embraced
Anxiety for your children.
Write letters to mothers
Give them a call!
They are so happy for you
To any of your bows.
Don't forget Mothers!
After all, there is no reason for silence,
And deeper every day wrinkles
From the indifference of children.
Amid the bustle and idle days
Hear, Lord and Ladies:
Your Mom hurts!
Don't forget Mothers!
Write letters to mothers!
Call them on the phone
They are so happy for you
To any of your bows.
27. 1-leader. Dmitry Sergeevich Likhachev said: “Good is the happiness of all people, it is the ability to see and feel the beautiful.” Human kindness, spiritual sensitivity, mercy, disposition towards people, the ability to rejoice and worry about other people, benevolence create the basis of human happiness.
Mark Shekhter's poem "Life is given for good deeds" is read by Matsko Denis, a second-year student.
There are many evil
In any human destiny,
And they will only say a kind word -
And lighter on your heart.
But such a good word
Not everyone can find
To cope with longing for a friend,
Overcome adversity along the way.
There is no better word
The cherished word of that
But rarely, my friends, yet
We pronounce it out loud.
We are given life for good deeds!
Puchkova Antonina
Scenario of entertainment "Evening of poetry"
move: children enter the hall to the music, walk around and sit on the chairs.
Leading:
-Poetry wonderful page
Opens the door for us today
And let any miracle happen!
You, most importantly, believe in him with all your heart!
Love and beauty of nature
The road of fairy tales, the world - any, -
Everything is subject Poetry,- Try!
And open the door to her country!
The rustle of leaves underfoot, a drop of rain,
A rainbow in the sky, a nightingale trills, -
Here the frost draws a pattern on the glass.
The world around is beautiful! And everyone is an actor.
(E. Nekrasova)
Leading:
Hello guys! I invite you to our event dedicated to poetry. As you may have guessed, the hostess of today's holiday will be poetry.
By the way, guys, do you know who writes poetry? It seems to me that these are composers!
Children are not.
Leading: - Well, then - the artist!
Children are not.
Leading: - Well, tell me, what are they called?
Children are poets.
Leading: - That's right, guys, poetry is written by poets. And our guest today is the Naryshkin poetess Ponomareva Valentina Anatolyevna. Let's welcome her!
Leading: - Guys, guess the riddle.
Opened the snowy arms
The trees are all dressed up in dresses.
It's cold weather
What time of year is this? (Winter)
Song "Winter"
Leading: - Guys, not only songs are written about winter, but also poems, I suggest reading them.
Reading a poem "Snowdrifts are growing..."
Reading a poem "Snowflakes are flying, spinning ..."
Reading a poem "They went down to my palm ..."
Dance "Snowflake"
Leading: - Children guess the next riddle:
Sparrows, swifts, penguins,
bullfinches, rooks, peacocks,
Parrots and tits:
In a word, it is. (birds)
(Yu. Svetlova)
Leading:- Today we will listen to interesting poems about birds.
Reading a poem “Again frosts and snowstorms….”
Reading a poem "My guest"
Poem readings "We built a birdhouse."
Leading:- Guys, and now I suggest you play the game "Guess the bird".
If you give the correct answer, it will appear on the screen.
The game "Guess the bird"
1. What bird is called a gossip. (Magpie).
2. This bird does not build its nest - it lays its eggs in other people's (Cuckoo).
3. A blizzard howls in the autumn forest, the trees crackle from the frost, and this bird makes a nest in the very cold, brings out the chicks! And her beak is unusual -
cruciform to get the seeds of the cones. (Crossbill).
4. What is the name of a large bird with long legs and a straight beak,
who hunts in the swamp? (Stork).
Moldavian folk game "Bird Without a Nest"
Leading:- Well done children! Tell me, please, do you like to work? Now I propose to listen to a poem about one good deed.
Reading a poem "Someone made me shoes."
Leading: - And now two doctors will come to us, meet us!
Reading a poem "Two Doctors"
Leading:- Guys, and this riddle about whom?
A tailor walks through the forest,
One hundred needles behind your back! (Hedgehog).
Reading a poem "Where are you in a hurry, Hedgehog?"
Leading:- Children, I want to introduce you the author of all the poems,
voiced today. This is Ponomareva Valentina Anatolyevna, let's welcome her!
The word of V. Ponomareva.
Leading: - Our holiday was a success.
And we think that everyone liked it!
Related publications:
This year we continue to cooperate with the Children's City Library. Yu. F. Tretyakova. November 3 was 128 years since the birth of the child.
Slide 1 in the background
What is the magic of poetry?
Perhaps in the nudity of feelings?
In the ability to touch the strings of the heart?
After all, the words that fly from the mouth can
Happy to make the day gloomy.
Or maybe it's just an obsession?
And yet, as long as there is light,
Behind the line, a line, like a necklace,
Slowly stringing words ... a poet.
Moderator: Good afternoon dear guests. The beautiful month of March is coming to an end. And it is not in vain that this month was chosen to celebrate the wonderful, romantic holiday of Poetry Day. After all, March personifies the beginning of spring, the rebirth and awakening of nature.
It seems to me that writing poetry is like being able to fly like a bird. This cannot be learned, but anyone can learn to understand poetry.
Each of us has moments in life when we want to move away from current problems and plunge into another, restless and exciting world - the world of poetry. And, having opened a volume of poems by our favorite poet, we begin to feel and think in a different way.
Yesenin, Pushkin, Nekrasov, Tyutchev, Lermontov, Blok, Akhmatova still warm our hearts and give admiration regardless of where we live.
It is amazing where such strength, such energy from poets comes from.
Slide 2 (I. Talkov)
Host: Each of us has our favorite poet, whose work we turn to at certain moments in our lives. And today you will hear declarations of love to poets who, with their creativity, managed to penetrate into our hearts and souls, lit an unmelting candle of hope in them, awakened unquenchable faith in goodness, justice and humanity.
Slide 3 in the background
1st student: The great Russian poet Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin enters our life in childhood and remains with us to the end. Everyone finds in it something of their own, close and understandable only to him. I see in him just a friend to whom you can tell the innermost secrets of your soul. I love Pushkin for fun and wisdom, sadness and nobility, for the ability to feel happy even when it is very difficult. For the fact that he loved people and knew how to be friends with them. Pushkin was both unhappy, and disappointed, and exhausted, and wounded, and dying ... But he always illuminated life around him with light. And the more you get to know him, the more you understand: he was not just involved in the world of poetry - it was the world of poetry that was enclosed in him, and he was his master ...
I would present Pushkin with red tulips, inside of which a fire seems to burn.
This fire of life, the fire of love that will never go out, we see in the heart of the poet.
(A.S. Pushkin “What is in my name for you?”)
What's in a name?
It will die like a sad noise
Waves splashing on the distant shore,
Like the sound of the night in a deaf forest.
It's on a memento
Leave a dead trail like
1
Tombstone lettering pattern
In an unknown language.
What's in it? long forgotten
In new and rebellious unrest,
It won't give your soul
Memories pure, tender.
But on the day of sadness, in silence,
Say it longingly;
Say: there is a memory of me,
There is a heart in the world where I live...
Host: The life paths of geniuses are always difficult. Creatively gifted people try to understand, comprehend their life, the life of the people around them, the whole world.
(video clip from the film "Sergey Yesenin" - "Hooligan")
Slide 4 in the background
2nd student: I believe that there is no person who would be indifferent to the poetry of Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin. Having penetrated the world of his poetic images, we begin to feel like brothers of a lonely birch, an old maple, a rowan bush. These feelings help us keep humanity. Yesenin is dear to me, because he gave people the gems of his soul. He loved the way only a poet could love - tenderly, passionately and painfully. Reading his poems, I feel the fragrant smell of hay, I see quiet river backwaters with white lilies and yellow water lilies. But the white birch was especially dear to Yesenin.
That is why I would bring to my beloved poet a birch twig intertwined with meadow flowers, which the poet loved so much.
The golden grove dissuaded
Birch, cheerful language,
And the cranes, sadly flying,
No more regrets for anyone.
Whom to pity? After all, every wanderer in the world -
Pass, enter and leave the house again.
Hemp dreams about all the departed
With a wide moon over the blue pond.
I stand alone among the naked plain,
And the cranes are carried by the wind into the distance,
I'm full of thoughts about a cheerful youth,
But I don't regret anything in the past.
Host: No one can say more about the poet than he himself does in his poems.
3rd student: I would give modest cornflowers and delicate daisies to Nikolai Mikhailovich Rubtsov. Love, tenderness for his homeland - that's what distinguishes his poetry. Behind every line of his poems lies a painful and all-consuming love for his native land, tenderness for its meadows, forests, its slow waters and tart berries. Let these modest wild flowers awaken the brightest, kindest and most beautiful in the souls of people.
(video A. Barykin "Bouquet")
Host: At all times in society, poetry has enjoyed great attention and occupied a special place. The people have always appreciated its lofty and sacred mission. Every person needed poetry. They sought solace in her, the beauty of feelings and the world, they loved her ...
Have you ever wondered why a person begins to write poetry? Where does the amazing gift come from to make words sound different, in a new way, from which other people take their breath away and their hearts beat faster? How to make a person feel the whole world in just two lines?
Slide 6 in the background
3rd student: (B. Pasternak "I disappeared like a beast in a pen")
I disappeared like an animal in a pen.
Somewhere people, will, light,
And after me the noise of the chase,
I have no way out.
Dark forest and the shore of the pond,
They ate a fallen log.
The path is cut off from everywhere.
Whatever happens, it doesn't matter.
What did I do for a dirty trick,
Am I a killer and a villain?
I made the whole world cry
Above the beauty of my land.
But even so, almost at the coffin,
I believe the time will come
The power of meanness and malice
The spirit of good will prevail.
Chrysanthemums, slightly shrouded in light frost, are a symbol of perseverance, courage, and love of life. I present them to an extraordinary person, my favorite poet Boris Leonidovich Pasternak. I am fascinated by his poetry because it is about the meaning of human life. There is a beautiful symbol in Pasternak's poetry - a burning candle. This is a symbol of the difficult life of the poet, a flame that could be extinguished many times. The poet has passed away, but the fire of his poetry burns to this day.
(Video "The candle burned on the table")
Host: Poetry. What is the definition of this truly magical phenomenon? Poetry is a word that comes not so much from the mind as from the heart. Life itself breathes in poetry - everyone knows this.
Unfortunately, in the history of poetry there are not only beautiful pages, but also tragic pages. Our poets walked a difficult path, which is why amazing, aching hearts, sometimes terrible, but always humane poems were born.
Slide 7 in the background
4th student: My love for Anna Andreevna Akhmatova is so great that I would erect several monuments to her: a barefoot seaside girl in Chersonese; to the charming Tsarskoye Selo schoolgirl, the refined beautiful woman with a thread of black agate around her neck in the Summer Garden. And also, where she wanted - in front of the Leningrad prison, there should be, in my opinion, a monument to a woman who turned gray with grief, holding a bundle with a transfer for her only son, whose entire fault is 3
consisted only in the fact that he was the son of two great poets - Nikolai Gumilyov and Anna Akhmatova.
And I would bring red carnations to the foot of the monument as a symbol of the courage of this amazing woman and a symbol of the immortality of her poetry.
(Art - e “I want to haunt you”)
Slide 8 (Clenched her hands under a dark veil)
Host: A real poet is a worker of the soul, restless, not indifferent. And in order to be one, one must live, struggling with oneself, not letting one's conscience sleep. And only in this case, life will really not be in vain.
5th student: I would give scarlet poppies to my favorite poet. I will tell you the legend of Yevgeny Nosov, and I think you can guess who they are intended for.
Slide 9 in the background
“In the center of the flower bed, among pansies, Parisian beauties and snapdragons, red poppies rose, throwing their tight, heavy buds towards the sun. They broke up the next day. From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live flames blazing merrily in the wind. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you! Poppies burned wildly for two days. And at the end of the second day, they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately on a lush flower bed without them it became empty.
I picked up from the ground still quite fresh, in drops of dew, a petal and straightened it in my palm.
- That's it, burned down. He has a short life. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. And it happens to people...
Of course you guessed it? Yes, poppies - to Vladimir Semenovich Vysotsky, a man who embodied the pain and conscience of the twentieth century, a wonderful poet, singer, actor and Man with a capital letter.
(video by V. Vysotsky “There is no me, I left Russia”)
Host: One of the most favorite topics in poetry is love. How many lines have been written by poets about this sublime feeling, how much paper, papyrus, and ink have been translated by poets. The great bright feeling is sung by almost all the poets of the world. Love inspired poets to great deeds, they dedicated their best creations to their loved ones.
Slide 10 in the background
6th student: White roses are considered symbols of innocence and purity. Usually they are given to young people. Snow-white buds symbolize eternal love - the strongest, purest and strongest feeling of all on earth. Bouquets of white roses are like clouds - incredibly airy and carry emotions, feelings, thoughts ... That is why I would give these wonderful flowers to Tatyana Valerievna Snezhina - a young, but very popular, poetess and singer. And, although Tatyana lived far from Lugansk, she was born here, on our land. Her songs are performed by many famous singers. If I die prematurely,
Let the white swans carry me away
Far, far, to an unknown land,
High, high, in the sky bright ...
These are words from a romance that have become prophetic. Tatyana performed it at one of the presentations, and on the third day, the Nissan minibus, in which Tanya was traveling with her fiancé and friends, got into an accident, as a result of which everyone died.
23 years of life, but a great legacy - collections of poems, books, albums with songs. In our city, in the park of the Komsomol, a monument was erected to Tatyana Snezhina. four
(video by T. Snezhin “Let me live without time”)
Host: One of my favorite poets is Eduard Arkadevich Asadov. In bewitching lines about love, war, friendship, nature, feelings, everyone can find something of their own. As a sign of gratitude and admiration, I would present him with red roses, as a symbol of courage, courage, love and hope. After all, only a brave person can, without hesitation, being wounded, drive a truck with ammunition to an artillery battery; only the courageous, having undergone the most difficult operations after being wounded and left blind, can continue to write such wonderful works. In the 1980s, Eduard Asadov's poems were incredibly popular among young people. Schoolgirls who started writing poetry did it “according to Asadov”.
Millions of people read the poems of this poet - although sometimes the texts seemed naive, even rustic, perhaps because it was precisely such poems that attracted their attention. But over time, and with age, everything changes. I want to read you a poem that was liked not by a naive girl from the 70s and 80s, but by an older one.
Slide 11 (background)
Spouses quarreled in the evening,
Many harsh words were spoken.
In the heat of the moment they did not understand each other,
They completely forgot about love.
My husband has to go to work early in the morning
And on the heart - bitterness seal.
During the night he realized the stupidity of the quarrel,
He came to kiss his wife.
Didn't sleep, but still pretended
She turned her face away.
In the depths of resentment lurked
Like a boa constrictor curled up.
The door closed - not a word of goodbye,
I looked out the windows from the courtyard...
If they knew, if they knew
That he left home for good.
And the wife with the usual things,
As always, she took care of her own:
Washed baby clothes
She cooked borscht, cleaned the house.
Clean floor, washed dishes,
And my husband will be home from work soon.
- I won't talk to him.
Let him ask for forgiveness, let him understand.
Pride in the heart reared high:
I won't go to him first!
A quarrel played out by roles
In the brain inflamed by the devil. 5
Six struck, seven and half past eight ...
The door is motionless, the threshold is silent.
And in anxiety something heart aches,
Where could he stay like that?
Suddenly some scream and commotion,
Someone's voice, crying sobbing,
And the neighbor boy Alyokha
Shouted out of breath: "There's an explosion in the mine!"
Explosion. A very short word
The heart seemed to be torn to shreds.
No, she's not ready for this!
Maybe he's alive, maybe he's lucky.
And in tears she ran down the street,
Remembering with pain the past day,
How offended she was angry and screamed,
A shadow veiled the mind of malice.
She repeated with a wound up doll:
- My dear, oh if only you didn't.
I would fall at your feet now
Whispered a short "I'm sorry."
They should know yesterday what will happen tomorrow,
Everything could have been different.
Death, like a thief, comes so suddenly
Leaving no chance to fall in love.
Thunder inexorably menacingly
Sentence. Don't change him.
It's too late to correct mistakes
She has to live with this pain.
People, be gentler to your neighbors,
Treat with kindness, kindness
And do not offend, otherwise
You can bitterly repent later ...
Host: In my opinion, poets live among us, because almost every one of us at least once in his life composed something like that, thereby expressing his feelings or attitude towards someone or something. It’s just that someone didn’t develop this way of expressing himself, spinning in the whirlpool of life and losing interest in poetry inside his soul ...
(word to guests)
So our literary evening came to an end. We have touched upon only the smallest part of the literary works of poets. Much remains unsaid. Poems of many poets remained unread.
We sincerely hope that this day and our meeting will be remembered for all of you as a good and happy day spent with friends. All the best to you! See you soon!
The municipal competition of readers "Drips of sonorous verses" has already become a tradition in our kindergarten, and the teacher-speech therapist Borzunova Nadezhda Alexandrovna is the constant leader of this competition. The first qualifying stage of the competition was held on March 26, 2018 in the first building, children 3-7 years old from all three buildings took part. The following nominations were presented - “Everyone needs peace and friendship”, “We are your friends, nature and “Severchats are sports guys”, the nominations were also presented - “For the most expressive reading”, “For the most heartfelt reading” and “For most original poem.
It should be noted right away that there were many people who wanted to participate in the competition. Smart, joyful and inspired children were waiting for their exit. The competition was held in a festive atmosphere, loud applause, the eyes of the teacher and the support of friends inspired the guys. Children did not just read poetry, but lived through the events they were talking about. For the first time, such an event was attended by children with disabilities, who also showed the ability to expressively read poetry, feel and convey poetic images.
Our stars, Vorobieva Polina, Karankevich Zlata and Filippova Ulya performed at this event. Vorobieva Polina and Karankevich Zlata received certificates of participation, gifts and vast experience in participating in such competitions. Filippova Uliana was awarded a diploma of the first degree for winning the first round of the reading competition and received a diploma for winning the nomination "For the most expressive performance."
And on April 4, 2018, the second qualifying stage of the municipal competition took place in kindergarten No. 17, at which the winners of three buildings performed. Filippova Uliana, Shabalin Yaroslav, Borovov Arseniy, Tasha Varya adequately presented our kindergarten. Continued success to you guys!