I'm wandering through the first snow...
Sergey Yesenin
I'm wandering through the first snow,
In the heart are lilies of the valley of flaring forces.
Evening star with a blue candle
It shone over my road.
I don't know, is it light or darkness?
Is the wind or a rooster crowing in the thicket?
Maybe instead of winter in the fields
These swans sat down in the meadow.
You are beautiful, oh white surface!
A light frost warms my blood!
I just want to press you to my body
Bare breasts of birches.
Respect the historical context of the work. Poetry and other arts are the recreation of the sociocultural reality of the moment in which it is produced. You've never seen Kamus' poem talking about the Internet, right? Knowledge historical context, in which the book was written, is of fundamental importance for its comprehensive study.
Know the characteristics of the author's style and time. Each period has a set artistic characteristics which we call literary school or period style. Likewise, each author has a set stylistic characteristics, which personalize his work. When reading a book in search of a comprehensive reading, we must always be careful to perceive these signs of the style of the period and the author, which will serve both to answer possible question about this, and for understanding the text read.
O forest, dense dregs!
About the joy of snow-covered fields!...
I just want to close my hands
Over the tree hips of the willows.
Shagane, you are mine, Shagane!
Sergey Yesenin
Shagane, you are mine, Shagane!
I'm ready to tell you the field,
About wavy rye under the moon.
Shagane, you are mine, Shagane.
Because I'm from the north, or something,
That the moon is a hundred times bigger there,
No matter how beautiful Shiraz is,
It is no better than the expanses of Ryazan.
Because I'm from the north, or something.
It was in this language that were written early chronicles Rus' before the chronic Nestor makes instead of a founding legend not only for the identity of Ukrainians, but also for Belarusians and Russians. Today this text occupies a place in the canon of school literature in Ukraine. We still do not know the author of this text, but its degree of popularity is very high, so that Rainer Maria Rilke translated it into German and Mikhail Bulgakov into English.
In addition to these medieval legacies, there are still several articles left before the Enlightenment period that have important. Slavon remained until the 18th century in official institutions both in the church language of scientists and under Russian hegemony. For a long time it was difficult to see writing in the Ukrainian language, hence the impossibility of the birth of the Ukrainian written language.
I'm ready to tell you the field,
I took this hair from the rye,
If you want, knit it on your finger -
I don't feel any pain.
I'm ready to tell you the field.
About wavy rye under the moon
You can guess by my curls.
Darling, joke, smile,
Just don’t wake up the memory in me
About wavy rye under the moon.
Shagane, you are mine, Shagane!
There, in the north, there is a girl too,
She looks an awful lot like you
Maybe he's thinking about me...
Shagane, you are mine, Shagane.
Only with the philosopher Grigory Skovoroda did the first texts appear that were used in addition to Russian and Ukrainian and played with the differences between these two languages. Another person who tried to prepare the Ukrainian language as literary language, suffered greatly from negative attitude its authors, the poet Tarass Shevchenko. Although his poems in Ukrainian were of great interest, Russian nobility believed that these poems had lost their beauty due to the "dialogue" used by the country.
For Ukrainians, the name Shevchenko is synonymous with freedom. Before today he is known not only for his influence on the Ukrainian language. Indeed, he was born as a deer and constantly fought against his rights to literary freedom; he was attached to his ideals of democracy and parity until his death. Although the Tsar himself sent Shevchenko into exile and forbade him to draw and write, the writer still managed, thanks to the help of friends, to continue publishing texts, such as his collection of poems "Kobsar", which is still popular.
In the blue evening, in the moonlit evening...
Sergey Yesenin
In the blue evening, in the moonlit evening
I was once handsome and young.
Unstoppable, unique
Everything flew by. far... past...
The heart has grown cold and the eyes have faded...
Blue happiness! Moonlit nights!
I remember, my love, I remember...
Sergey Yesenin
I remember, darling, I remember
The shine of your hair...
It’s not happy and it’s not easy for me
I had to leave you.
Born in Velyki Sorochchintsy near the city of Poltava, a friend of Purchkin, under his pen he saw that this day works like “The Inspector General” or “ Dead Souls" The writers came from outside the country. The following summer he married his long-time partner, Evelina Hanske, a Ukrainian nobleman shortly before his death.
There is a calm in the fields, full of melancholy...
The latter was the secret center of the Decembrists, to which the young poet felt bound by ideas. During his stay he worked on some of these very important works, among other things, the cycle of poems “Eugene Onegin”, where chapter 10 describes the city. The poet stopped after his exile for some time in Odessa, where, despite his exile and thanks to regular contact with a foreigner, he claimed to be able to breathe the whole of Europe.
I remember autumn nights
Birch rustle of shadows...
Even if the days were shorter then,
The moon shone longer for us.
I remember you told me:
“Blue years will pass,
And you will forget, my dear,
With the other one forever.”
Today the linden blossoms
I reminded my feelings again,
How tenderly then I poured
Flowers on a curly strand.
And the heart, without preparing to cool down
And sadly loving another,
Like a favorite story
On the other hand, he remembers you.
New literary lights
For Anton Chekhov, Ukraine was a kind of port of salvation. In another case, a young Czech man suffering from tuberculosis sought refuge in Crimea. On the advice of his doctors, he bought a small property in Yalta, where he settled. This led to the creation of centers literary creativity outside Russian Empire and growing interest in the topic national identity. Poet, playwright, prose writer, he used socio-psychological and socially active works, such as “Stolen Happiness”, as national resident Ukrainians, and opened the door to modern Ukrainian literature.
This is stupid happiness...
Sergey Yesenin
This is stupid happiness
With white windows to the garden!
Along the pond as a red swan
The sunset floats quietly.
Hello, golden calm,
With the shadow of a birch tree in the water!
A flock of jackdaws on the roof
Serves the evening star.
Somewhere beyond the garden timidly,
Where viburnum blooms
Tender girl in white
Sings a tender song.
Changing the old features
With the ban on the Ukrainian language, the literature of other nationalities flourishes, whose literary center is concentrated especially in port city Odessa. It is the birthplace of the Jewish writer Isaac Babel, who became famous in Russia and has long been home to the Israeli national poet Volyn Chaim Nachman Bialik, who gave his name to one of the most famous literary dissections. Bialik price.
Conrad, however, most spent his life in Britain, accepting his nationality and writing such works as "In the Heart of Darkness" on English language, a language he began learning on his 21st birthday. Another Brodie-born writer who has denied a career as a German man of letters and often has little connection with Ukraine is the Jewish journalist and writer Joseph Roth. Marked by the early loss of his parents, this senior political writer devoted himself to deepening the socio-political themes of his time and searching for inner truth, which was heavily influenced by his religion.
Spreads with a blue cassock
The night chill from the field...
Stupid, sweet happiness
Fresh rosy cheeks!
I'll look into the field, look into the sky...
Sergey Yesenin
I'll look into the field, I'll look into the sky -
There is paradise in the fields and in the sky.
Drowning again in heaps of bread
My unplowed land.
Again in the ungrazed groves
Inexorable herds,
And flows from the green mountains
Gold-jet water.
Horrors of the 20th century in the multicultural memory of Ukraine
His works mainly play into his hometown. Olga Kobylyanskaya, who also wrote in Ukrainian, was very good friend Lessiki Oukrainka. Nietzsche, she made her first attempts to write in Polish and German languages, but didn't find a solution. Inspired by the great authors of her time, such as Shevchenko and Ivan Franko, she turned to Ukrainian language, and then found the desired recognition in literary world. Likewise, the writer Mykhailo Kotsiubynsky felt the desire to devote himself to literature, especially after his intensive studies on Shevchenko, which greatly inspired him.
Oh, I believe - to know for the torment
Over the Lost Man
Someone's gentle hands
Spills milk.
I'm going. Quiet. Rings are heard...
Sergey Yesenin
I'm going. Quiet. Rings are heard
Under the hoof in the snow.
Like gray crows
They shouted in the meadow.
Bewitched by the invisible
The forest slumbers under the fairy tale of sleep,
Like a white scarf
A pine tree has tied up.
Born in Vinitsa, he spent most of his life in Chernigov, where there is still a national museum dedicated to him. Later, Kotsyubinsky's works were rewritten in Soviet period and published in the direction Soviet realism. His work “Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors,” known in France as “Horses of Fire,” was adapted into film by director Sergei Parajanov. Embedded in a love drama, the story is noted primarily for its mystified view of the life and traditions of the Hutsurs, Rusyns primitive people Carpathians 100 years ago they lived in complete autarky, cut off from the rest of the population and managed to preserve their traditions and customs.
Bent down like an old lady
Leaned on a stick
And right under the top of my head
A woodpecker is hitting a branch.
The horse is galloping. There's a lot of space.
Snow falls and a shawl is laid out.
Endless road
Runs off like a ribbon into the distance.
Sunrise
Sergey Yesenin
The red dawn lit up
In the dark blue sky,
The lane appeared clear
In its golden shine.
If you are more interested in the traditions and myths of the Hutsuls, take with you the work “On High Heights” by Stanislav Vincenets. Polish writer grew up in this region and found himself, as he himself said, among 14 different cultures. Today he passes mainly to be a great connoisseur of this people of Ruthenian shepherds, who are Hutsurs.
Since its founding Soviet Union In the mid-1920s, the power of Ukrainian-language literature emerged, and several movements appeared, such as futurism and impressionism. Under the auspices of the Soviet regime, there were several writers' associations that introduced the ideology of socialist realism into literature. However, this literary society was divided into two groups. If we were a party supporter and we followed their example, then we would be considered a "comrade" and we could devote ourselves in any peace to writing works determined by the party.
The sun's rays are high
Reflected light in the sky.
And scattered far away
There are new ones in response.
The rays are bright golden
The earth suddenly lit up.
The skies are already blue
Spread around.
Golden foliage began to swirl...
Sergey Yesenin
Golden leaves swirled
In the pinkish water of the pond,
Like a light flock of butterflies
Freezingly, it flies towards the star.
However, if we opposed, or if we had deviant positions, we were threatened with exile and even worse. This led to many people publishing abroad or going into exile. IN Stalin era and subsequent waves of repression, pressure intensified in many parts of the Ukrainian literary scene. The agenda included prohibitions, arbitrary imprisonments, torture, being sent to the Gulag for many years and executions. More than 300 Ukrainian writers became victims of these repressions.
Many Ukrainians felt their identity was threatened. There was a sequel big wave immigration during World War II. The fate of the Jewish girl Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger from Chernivtsi in Bukovina is part of one of the tragedies of this war among millions. WITH early age the German-speaking poet was delighted with poetry and even after his deportation to German camp Mikhailovka continued to write. 57 extremely moving poems could have been saved after his death at the age of 18. She describes her insatiable desire for life in the face of death, which threatens her.
I'm in love this evening,
The yellowing valley is close to my heart.
The wind boy up to his shoulders
The hem of the birch tree was stripped.
Both in the soul and in the valley there is coolness,
Blue twilight like a flock of sheep,
Behind the gate of the silent garden
The bell will ring and die.
I've never been thrifty before
So did not listen to rational flesh,
It would be nice, like willow branches,
To capsize into the pink waters.
The literature of the Jewish population was primarily marked by a desire to convey their traditions and beliefs, as well as to rework the traumatic experiences caused by the pogroms. Thus, in the books of the German-language writer Pavel Selan, his work reveals a recurring motif of the tragic loss of his parents and the associated feelings of guilt, which he tried to address in his poems, such as the "Fuga" of death. However, he fails to overcome his suffering and eventually decides to end his days.
His friend Moses Rosenkranz emerged from the atrocities of war and, despite the many deaths he had to face during the occupation, for a long time lived The poet Rose Auslander was also a friend of Paul Selan, whom he met in the Chernivtsi ghetto and greatly influenced his writing style for more years. late meeting in Paris. Her career began with immigration to the United States, where she published her first works at the age of 20. However, she returned to her homeland several times due to her mother's illness, until she was deported to Germany.
It would be nice, smiling at the haystack,
The muzzle of the month chews hay...
Where are you, where is my quiet joy -
Loving everything, wanting nothing?
Well, kiss me, kiss me...
Sergey Yesenin
Well, kiss me, kiss me,
Even to the point of bleeding, even to pain.
At odds with cold will
Boiling water of heart streams.
Overturned mug
Among the merry ones is not for us.
Understand, my friend,
They only live once on earth!
Look around with calm eyes,
Look: damp in the darkness
The month is like a yellow raven
Circling, hovering above the ground.
Well, kiss me! That's how I want it.
Decay sang a song to me too.
Apparently he sensed my death
The one who soars on high.
Fading Power!
To die is to die!
Until the end of my sweetheart's lips
I would like to kiss.
So that all the time in blue slumbers,
Without being ashamed and without hiding,
In the gentle rustle of bird cherry trees
It was heard: “I am yours.”
And so that the light over the full mug
It didn’t go out with a light foam -
Drink and sing, my friend:
They only live once on earth!
20 years after the war, she became famous as a poet with his collection of poems, “Summer Blind.” He's one of the last letters, written in Yiddish, and wrote about twenty novels, despite a creative break of 40 years. Polish Jewish writer Stanislaw Lem is an official from Lvov. His medical research and his medical experience were constantly interrupted and prevented from finally devoting himself entirely to writing. He fled from Soviet occupation and wrote fiction in Austria and Poland, which made him so famous that his works were translated into 60 languages.
Shine, my star, don't fall.
Sergey Yesenin
Shine, my star, don't fall.
Drop cold rays.
After all, behind the cemetery fence
A living heart does not beat.
You shine with August and rye
And you fill the silence of the fields
Such a sobbing trembling
Unflying cranes.
And, raising my head higher,
It’s not behind the grove - behind the hill
I hear someone's song again
About the father's land and the father's house.
And golden autumn
Reducing sap in birch trees,
For everyone I loved and abandoned,
Leaves are crying on the sand.
I know, I know. Soon soon
Not my fault or anyone else's
Under the low mourning fence
I'll have to lie down the same way.
The gentle flame will go out,
And the heart will turn to dust.
Friends will put a gray stone
With a funny inscription in verse.
But, heeding the funeral sadness,
I would put it this way for myself:
He loved his homeland and land,
How a drunkard loves a tavern.
August 1925
I'm sad to see you...
Sergey Yesenin
It makes me sad to look at you
What a pain, what a pity!
Know, only willow copper
We stayed with you in September.
Someone else's lips were torn apart
Your warmth and trembling body.
It's like it's drizzling rain
From a soul that is a little deadened.
Well! I'm not afraid of him.
A different joy was revealed to me.
After all, there's nothing left
As soon as yellow decay and dampness.
After all, I didn’t save myself either
For quiet life, for smiles.
So few roads have been traveled
So many mistakes have been made.
Funny life, funny discord.
So it was and so it will be after.
The garden is dotted like a cemetery
There are gnawed bones in birch trees.
That's how we will bloom too
And let's make noise like guests of the garden...
If there are no flowers in the middle of winter,
So there is no need to be sad about them.
Favorite region! The heart dreams...
Sergey Yesenin
Favorite region! I dream about my heart
Stacks of the sun in the waters of the bosom.
I would like to get lost
In your hundred-ringing greens.
Along the boundary, on the edge,
Mignonette and riza kashki.
And they call to the rosary
Willows are meek nuns.
The swamp smokes like a cloud,
Burnt in the heavenly rocker.
With a quiet secret for someone
I hid thoughts in my heart.
I meet everything, I accept everything,
Glad and happy to take out my soul.
I came to this earth
To leave her quickly.
What it is?
Sergey Yesenin
Enchanted by this forest,
By the fluffs of silver,
I'm with a loaded rifle
I went hunting yesterday.
Along the path, clean and smooth
I passed, didn't follow...
Who was sneaking around here?
Who fell and walked here?
I'll come and take a closer look:
The fragile snow is all broken.
Here are the claws, then the skis...
Someone strange was running around here.
If only I knew the secret
Enchanted speeches
I would have found out even by chance,
Who wanders here at night?
Because of the tree it would be tall
I looked at the circle:
Who deep trace far
Leaves it in the snow?
The main theme of the issue is poems about the Motherland of Russian poets.
There is no doubt that poems about native land, native nature or about the place where you and I were born and raised will be of great interest to every citizen of our great country Russia.
On this page we invite you to familiarize yourself with wonderful poems about the Motherland, Rus', Russia written by great Russian poets of different eras, enjoy reading and love Russia:
The poem is “Rus”.
I am weaving a wreath for you alone,
I sprinkle flowers on the gray stitch.
O Rus', peaceful corner,
I love you, I believe in you.
I look into the vastness of your fields,
You are all - distant and close.
The whistling of cranes is akin to me
And I am no stranger to a slimy path.
The swamp font is blooming,
Kuga calls for a long vespers,
And drops ring through the bushes
The dew is cold and healing.
And even though your fog clears away
The stream of winds blowing with wings,
But all of you are myrrh and Lebanon
Magi, secretly doing magic.
Poem - “Go you, Rus', my dear...”
Goy, Rus', my dear,
The huts are in the robes of the image...
No end in sight -
Only blue sucks his eyes.
Like a visiting pilgrim,
I'm looking at your fields.
And at the low outskirts
The poplars are dying loudly.
Smells like apple and honey
Through the churches, your meek Savior.
And it buzzes behind the bush
There is a merry dance in the meadows.
I'll run along the crumpled stitch
Free green forests,
Towards me, like earrings,
A girl's laughter will ring out.
If the holy army shouts:
“Throw away Rus', live in paradise!”
I will say: “There is no need for heaven,
Give me my homeland."
Poem - “Oh, I believe, I believe, there is happiness!..”.
Oh, I believe, I believe, there is happiness!
The sun hasn't gone out yet.
Dawn with a red prayer book
Prophesies good news.
Oh, I believe, I believe, there is happiness.
Ring, ring, golden Rus',
Worry, irrepressible wind!
Blessed is he who celebrates with joy
Your shepherd's sadness.
Ring, ring, golden Rus'.
I love the murmur of wild waters
And on the wave of the star shine.
Blessed suffering
Blessing people.
I love the murmur of wild waters.
Poem - “To the Fatherland”
The sons of the fatherland swear!
And heaven hears their oath!
Oh, how their hearts beat so hard!
It is not the blood that flows, but the fire in them.
You, holy fatherland,
To love you, to serve you -
This is our direct title!
We buy our lives
Your prosperity is ready.
Death for you is bliss,
And death is immortality for us!
Let us not tremble in the terrible hour
Among the swords on the battlefield,
We will call on you as God,
And the enemy will never see the sun again
Or we, slain, will fall -
And our death will be blessed!
The sleep of eternity will cover us;
When we breathe our last breath,
This sigh is dedicated to you!..
Poem - “Motherland”
I love my fatherland, but with a strange love!
My reason will not defeat her.
Nor glory bought with blood,
Neither complete proud trust peace,
Neither dark antiquity cherished legends
No joyful dreams stir within me.
But I love - for what, I don’t know myself -
Its steppes are coldly silent,
Her boundless forests sway,
The floods of its rivers are like seas;
On a country road I like to ride in a cart
And, with a slow gaze piercing the shadow of the night,
Meet on the sides, sighing for an overnight stay,
The trembling lights of sad villages;
I love the smoke of burnt stubble,
A convoy spending the night in the steppe
And on a hill in the middle of a yellow field
A couple of white birches.
With joy unknown to many,
I see a complete threshing floor
A hut covered with straw
Window with carved shutters;
And on a holiday, on a dewy evening,
Ready to watch until midnight
To dance with stomping and whistling
Under the talk of drunken men.
Poem - "Motherland".
Can you hear the song of the stream?
This is your homeland.
Do you hear the nightingale's voice?
This is your homeland.
Your mother's hands
The sound of rain and the noise of branches,
And there are currants in the forest -
This is also my homeland.
Poem - “I’m not afraid of getting lost!”
I'm not afraid of getting lost
Flying like a speck of dust through the centuries.
You give me so much strength, Rus'!
Either with a carrot or with a whip.
I was pain and melancholy
By your humility and battle.
Open your tender embraces
And I will become your prayer.
I don't swear my love to you.
You are my source of inspiration.
You are my trembling sadness,
My story of oblivion.
Poem (song) - “Where does the Motherland begin?”
Where does the Motherland begin?
From the picture in your ABC book,
From good and faithful comrades,
Living in the neighboring yard.
Or maybe it's starting
From the song that our mother sang to us,
Since in any test
No one can take it away from us.
Where does the Motherland begin?
From the treasured bench at the gate,
From that very birch tree in the field,
Bowing in the wind, it grows.
Or maybe it's starting
From the spring song of a starling
And from this country road,
Which has no end in sight.
Where does the Motherland begin?
From the windows burning in the distance.
From my father's old budenovka,
What we found somewhere in the closet.
Or maybe it's starting
From the sound of carriage wheels
And the oath that in my youth
You brought her in your heart...
Where does the Motherland begin?...
Poem - “To the Motherland”.
They mock you
They, O Motherland, reproach
You with your simplicity,
The miserable look of the black huts...
So son, calm and impudent,
Ashamed of his mother -
Tired, timid and sad -
Among his city friends,
Looks with a smile of compassion
To the one who wandered hundreds of miles
And for him, on the date of the date,
She saved her last penny.
The poem is “You can’t understand Russia with your mind.”
You can't understand Russia with your mind,
The general arshin cannot be measured:
She will become special -
You can only believe in Russia
The poem is “Hello, Russia is my homeland!”
Hello, Russia is my homeland!
How joyful I am under your foliage!
And there is no singing, but I hear clearly
The choral singing of invisible singers...
It was as if the wind was driving me along it,
All over the earth - in villages and capitals!
I was strong, but the wind was stronger
And I couldn't stop anywhere.
Stronger than storms, stronger than any will
Love for your barns by the stubble,
Love for you, hut in the azure field.
I give her all the mansions
Your own low house with nettles under the window...
How peaceful it is in my upper room
The sun was setting in the evenings!
Like all the space, heavenly and earthly,
I breathed happiness and peace through the window,
And the glorious air of antiquity emanated,
When the yellowing field is agitated
And the fresh forest rustles with the sound of the breeze,
And the raspberry plum is hiding in the garden
Under the sweet shade of a green leaf.
When sprinkled with fragrant dew,
On a ruddy evening or morning at the golden hour,
From under a bush I get a silver lily of the valley
Nods his head affably;
When the icy spring plays along the ravine
And, plunging the thought into some kind of vague dream.
Babbles a mysterious saga to me
About the peaceful land from which he rushes -
Then the anxiety of my soul is humbled.
Then the wrinkles on the forehead disperse, -
And I can comprehend happiness on Earth,
And in the heavens I see God...
Poem - “Motherland ( Immortal happiness is our…)".
Our immortal happiness
It has been called Russia for centuries.
We have never seen a more beautiful edge,
And they were in many places.
But wherever the path runs,
We dreamed of Russian land.
Exile, where is your sting,
Foreign land, where is your strength?
We know such prayers
That the heart is easy at night;
And the proud muses of Russia
They accompany us invisibly.
Thanks to the dense noise
Forests on native plains,
Behind them is the inspired thought,
For every song about them.
Our home is in a random foreign land,
Where the exile's sleep is peaceful,
Like the wind, like the sea, like a secret,
Always surrounded by Russia.
The poem is “In the Motherland.”
You are luxurious, reserved breads
Dear fields -
The ears are blooming, the ears are growing,
And I'm barely alive!
Ah, strange, I was created by heaven,
This is my fate
Like the bread of fields cultivated by slaves,
It won't do me any good!
Poem - "Words".
There are many words on earth. There are daily words -
They show the blue of the spring sky.
There are night words that we talk about during the day
We remember with a smile and sweet shame.
There are words - like wounds, words - like judgment, -
With them they do not surrender and are not taken prisoner.
A word can kill, a word can save,
With a word you can lead the shelves with you.
In a word you can sell, and betray, and buy,
The word can be poured into striking lead.
But we have words for all words in the language:
Glory, Motherland, Loyalty, Freedom and Honor.
I don’t dare repeat them at every step, -
Like banners in a case, I treasure them in my soul.
Who often repeats them - I don’t believe him
He will forget about them in fire and smoke.
He won't remember them on the burning bridge,
They will be forgotten by someone else in a high position.
Anyone who wants to profit from proud words
Insults the heroes of countless ashes,
Those in dark forests and in damp trenches,
Without repeating these words, they died for them.
Let them not serve as bargaining chips, -
Keep them as a golden standard in your heart!
And do not make them servants in small households -
Take care of their original purity.
When joy is like a storm, or grief is like night,
Only these words can help you!
The poem is “Our Motherland.”
And beautiful and rich
Our Motherland, guys.
It's a long drive from the capital
To any of its borders.
Everything around you is your own, dear:
Mountains, steppes and forests:
The rivers sparkle blue,
Blue skies.
Every city
Dear to the heart,
Every rural house is precious.
Everything in battles is taken at some point
And strengthened by labor!
IN this section presented: poems by poets about their native places, as well as beautiful poems about the Motherland, Russia, and Russian poets.
