Live special meta analysis. “Go away, my dear Rus'...”

Open lesson "Native nature in the poems of S.A. Yesenin"

1) To acquaint students with the life and work of S. Yesenin, to show the originality of his lyrics, to awaken a desire to further explore the poet’s work.

2) Develop skills expressive reading, independent text analysis, group interaction skills.

3) Foster love for the Motherland, nature, poetry.

Equipment: presentation, decorated with various portraits of the poet, audio recordings of songs, collections of poems.

Lesson type: learning new material.

Lesson type: research lesson

Epigraph “All my creativity grew from one great feeling- love for the Motherland...” (S. Yesenin.)

I)Org. moment. Greeting, message of the topic, lesson goals, mood for work.

II)Examination homework based on the works of I. A. Bunin. The story "Mr. from San Francisco."

1. Brainstorming technique

1. Where was I.A. born? Bunin?

2. At what age does he start writing poetry?

3.Which Russian writer did you meet personally in 1895?

4. What gift did I.A. Bunin have?

5. In what year was the story “Mr. from San Francisco” written?

6. Why was the Atlantis ship chosen?

7. How long did Mr. plan to go on a trip?

8.What places did Mr. want to visit?

9. Do you agree that the lack of a name hero-symbol his inner lack of spirituality, emptiness?

10. How did those around you perceive the Master’s death?

III. New topic. Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin. Lyrics. Discoverer of 2 Blue Rus'." Deep feeling for my native land. To the Motherland.

In this name - word autumn

Autumn, ash, autumn color

There is something in it from Russian songs:

Heaven, bring the quiet

There is something about spring in him too.

Sadness, youth, purity

They will only say: Sergei Yesenin

The whole of Russia has its own features.

Teacher: Our lesson today is dedicated to the life and work of the wonderful poet Sergei Yesenin. He is the most popular, the most widely read poet in Russia, although he lived only 30 years. It is impossible to imagine him as an old man: he remained young forever, his tender lyrics remained forever alive among people.

Teacher: Before we start working on the texts of Yesenin’s poems, let’s listen to messages about the poet himself.

1) Acquaintance with the life and work of S.A. Yesenin.

1 student: S.A. Yesenin was born in 1895, on September 21, in the village of Konstantinovo, Ryazan province. The village of Konstantinovo was located on the high bank of the Oka River, from where a beautiful view opened. This is where the love for native nature, which inspired him to create beautiful poems.

Yesenin's birth was marked by a historical event for Russia. On September 20-21, 1895, Ryazan celebrated its 800th anniversary. In all corners of the Ryazan region, bells were ringing and making noise. folk festivals, so the ancient Russian land welcomed the birth of its genius.

2 student: The poet calls his family “simple peasant”, although this is not entirely true. The poet's father, Alexander Nikitich, lived and worked in Moscow, in a butcher shop. Coming home only on vacation, he could neither mow nor plow. Realizing that even children could not live off the land, he tried to give them an education.

Mother, Tatyana Fedorovna, was illiterate, but was considered the best songwriter in the village, she sang beautifully, she knew a lot folk songs. She also lived in Moscow for some time and worked in a confectionery factory.

Yesenin was given to his grandfather, Fyodor Andreevich Titov, to be raised. He was smart, sociable, cheerful, and taught his grandson to be strong so that no one could defeat him. “Among the boys he was always a horse breeder and a big fighter and always walked around with scratches,” the poet recalled in his autobiography. These memories are reflected in his work.

(1 student reads expressively)

“Everything alive has a special meta»

All living things have a special meaning
Celebrated from an early age.
If I weren't a poet,
He was probably a swindler and a thief.

Thin and short,
There is always a hero among boys,
Often, often with a broken nose
I came to my home.

And towards the frightened mother
I muttered through my bloody mouth:
"Nothing! I tripped over a stone
It will all heal by tomorrow.”

And now, when I caught a cold
These days are boiling water,
Restless, defiant force
It spilled over my poems.

Golden, verbal pile,
And above each line without end
The old prowess is reflected
Bullies and tomboys.

As then, I am brave and proud,
Only newness splashes my step.
If before they hit me in the face,
Now my soul is covered in blood.

And I’m not already telling my mother,
And into the alien and laughing rabble:
"Nothing! I tripped over a stone
It will all heal by tomorrow!”

3 Student: His uncles took a big part in raising his nephew. maternal line. Desperate and mischievous, they put three-year-old Sergei on a horse and let him gallop, or taught him to swim, throwing him like a puppy into the water.

I learned to read at the age of 5 under the guidance of my uncle. Since then, reading has become one of his favorite pastimes. “I started writing poetry early, at the age of nine, but conscious creativity I attribute it to the age of 16-17,” the poet recalled.

4 student: Yesenin's early poems, which appeared in 1914, sound like a declaration of love to his native nature. Yesenin grew up in the village, so early years Folk tales, proverbs, sayings and songs sank into his soul. Folk art strengthened the song basis of his lyrics.

Yesenin's first published poem is "Birch", which appeared in January 1914 in the magazine "Mirok" with the signature "Ariston" (which means "the best" in Greek)

(1 student reads expressively)

White birch
Below my window
Covered with snow
Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches
Snow border
The brushes have blossomed
White fringe.

And the birch tree stands
In sleepy silence,
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire.

And the dawn is lazy
Walking around
sprinkles branches
New silver.

Brief comment on the organization:

The class is divided into groups, the students' level of preparation and personal interests are taken into account, which gives the teacher the opportunity to take a differentiated approach to teaching and implement a student-centered approach to teaching.

Each group receives a folder with tasks (advanced) for completing the research project.

Task 1. What colors does Yesenin give to his father’s land?

Group I. "Golden" question. Find Yesenin’s “dressed in gold” lines.

Color painting is one of the characteristic features Yesenin's poems. It is least associated with decoration. In color painting, his “wildness of eyes” and “flood of feelings” find a way out, i.e. an excited perception of existence and a romantically elevated attitude towards it. The epithet “golden” is especially significant for the poet. He is one of the most frequently found in Yesenin’s lyrics:

Golden leaves swirled

In the pinkish water of the pond,

Like a light flock of butterflies

Freezingly, he flies towards the star.

“Golden foliage began to spin…”

I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry,

Withered in gold,

I won't be young anymore.

Blue board of heaven.

Teacher: Gold, i.e. yellow, but certainly with a tint highest value. In the poem “The feather grass is sleeping. Dear plain..." gold is not so much the color of the hut as a symbol of its value as a symbol of the way of village life with its inherent beauty and harmony:

I still remained a poet

Golden log hut.

Teacher: The poet gave his land the color of gold, because... he is a symbol of the highest value and affection for places dear to his heart.

Task 1. What colors does the poet use in his poems?

2nd group. Question - “Colors of the rainbow” of the small homeland.

In Yesenin’s poems, the rainbow is a kind of bridge to the invisible world, connecting heaven and earth, the real and the miraculous. Everyone is used to seeing Rus' as poor, beggarly, wretched, but Yesenin turned it into an elegant side. Everything he touched with a word, be it a rickety hut or a broken tree, became beautiful. He didn’t just paint, he had his own special way of “dying” that gave a great sound.

In Yesenin’s poems there are various shades of red:

Rode on a pink horse...

“I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry...”

The scarlet light of dawn was woven on the lake.

On the forest, wood grouse are crying with ringing sounds.

“The scarlet light of dawn was woven on the lake...”

About Rus' - raspberry field

And the blue that fell into the river.

“The hewn horns began to sing…”

Swans and don't look for a trace.

“Don’t wander, don’t wander in the crimson bushes...”

Shades of yellow often take on a “metallic” sound: gold, silver, copper; a lot of green:

The sleepy birches smiled,

Silk braids were disheveled.

Green earrings rustle

And the silver dews burn.

There are white, black, and gray colors:

Black, then smelly howl!

How can I not caress you, not love you!

“Black, then smelling howl...”

Teacher: But in general, Yesenin’s poems are painted in pure, clear, sometimes tender, sometimes bright colors and shades. They permeate the lines of Yesenin’s poems. When the poet wants to give the blue a special festive sonority, he uses crimson paint, but this is not just paint, but also an image with which many purely Russian associations are associated: the crimson ringing of bells, the melody of the song “Kalinka-Malinka”, the crimson furs of the Talyanka.

Teacher: Among all the colors there is a special one that is superior to all other colors.

Task 1. “Blue” question. The poet's favorite color. Remember the "blue" lines

3rd group. "Blue" question.

This “blue” is the element of his simple soul, woven from music. It splashed out in waves in poetry. And Yesenin is not afraid of either repetition or monotony of his epithets: he uses them not out of poverty of poetic imagination, simply because he would not want and could not say otherwise.

Yesenin's nature is multicolored, multicolored. But still, he also has his favorite colors – blue and cyan. The epithet “blue” appears more than 50 times in Yesenin’s poems:

Subtle lemon moonlight...

"Blue fog. Snow expanse..."

A blue fire began to sweep,

Forgotten relatives...

“A blue fire began to sweep…”

Wheel behind the blue mountains

The sun went down quietly.

“The fields are compressed, the groves are bare...”

Teacher: The blue color scheme helps convey the subtlest moods, adds romantic spirituality and freshness to the images created by Yesenin. This is best expressed, in my opinion, in the poem “I’m Wandering Through the First Snow”:

I'm wandering through the first snow,

Evening star with a blue candle

It shone over my road.

“I’m wandering through the first snow...”

Blue and dark blue color tones enhance the feeling of the vastness of Russia:

Goy, my dear Rus',

The huts are in the robes of the image...

No end in sight -

Only blue sucks his eyes.

“Go away, my dear Rus'...”

Yesenin blue color can be different: from soft blue, almost pearlescent, to thick, to black.

In the transparent cold the valleys turned blue,

The distinct sound of shod hooves...

For dark strand pereslesits,

In the unshakable blue,

Curly lamb – month

Walking in the blue grass.

"Behind the dark strand of woods..."

I won't be back soon, not soon!

The blizzard will sing and ring for a long time.

Guards blue Rus'

An old maple tree on one leg...

"I left my home..."

Teacher: I think that only Yesenin could say: “Russia! Which good word. And “dew”, and “strength”, and “blue” something! The poet not only saw the blue of his native expanses, but also heard it in the name of the Motherland, in the abyss of space of the word most dear to him - Russia.

Conclusion according to the task

1. Gold, pink, crimson, blue colors. The poet’s mood seems to be based on the color details of the landscape, and they, in turn, sharpen feelings and thoughts. Take away the color and the verse will fade.

V. Pinning a new topic.

1. General tasks for groups.

2. Expressive reading and analysis of the poem?

3.What mood is this poem permeated with?

4.What picture does the poet paint?

5.Find examples of color images.

Winter sings and echoes,

The shaggy forest lulls

All around with deep melancholy

Sailing to a distant land

And there's a snowstorm in the yard

1. Golden foliage began to spin

Golden leaves swirled
In the pinkish water of the pond,
Like a light flock of butterflies
Freezingly, he flies towards the star.

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 I did not listen to rational flesh,
It would be nice, like willow branches,
To capsize into the pink waters.

It would be nice, smiling at the haystack,
The muzzle of the month chews hay.
Where are you, where, my quiet joy,
Loving everything, wanting nothing?

2. I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry,
Everything will pass like smoke from white apple trees.
Withered in gold,
I won't be young anymore.

Now you won't fight so much,
A heart touched by a chill,
And the country of birch chintz
It won't tempt you to wander around barefoot.

Wandering spirit, you are less and less often
You stir up the flame of your lips.
Oh my lost freshness,
A riot of eyes and a flood of feelings.
I have now become more stingy in my desires,
My life, did I dream about you?
As if I were a booming early spring
He rode on a pink horse.

All of us, all of us in this world are perishable,
Copper quietly flows from the maple leaves...
May you be blessed forever,
What has come to flourish and die.

3. "Swamps and swamps..."

Swamps and swamps,
Blue board of heaven.
Coniferous gilding
The forest rings.

Tit shading
Between the forest curls,
Dark spruce trees dream
The hubbub of mowers.

Through the meadow with a creak
The convoy is stretching -
Dry linden
The wheels smell.

The willows are listening
Wind whistle...
You are my forgotten land,
You are my native land.

4. The scarlet color of dawn was woven on the lake,
On the forest, wood grouse are crying with groans.
An oriole is crying somewhere, burying itself in a hollow,
Only I don’t cry, my soul is light.

I know that in the evening you will leave the ring of roads,
Let's sit in a fresh haystack, under a nearby haystack.
I'll kiss you until I'm drunk, I'll fade away like a flower,
Drunk with joy, there is no gossip.

You yourself, under the caresses, will throw off the silk veil,
I’ll carry you drunk into the bushes until the morning.
In the morning you will wash your face with ice water,
And then you won’t go home as a girl.

You will turn into a woman with sadness and longing,
And again you won’t find a date with me.
And let the wood grouse cry with the bells,
And joyful melancholy in the delights of dawn.

5. “The hewn horns began to sing…”

The hewn horns began to sing,
The plains and bushes are running.
Again chapels on the road
And funeral crosses.

Again I'm sick with warm sadness
From the oat breeze.
And on the limestone bell towers
The hand involuntarily crosses itself.

O Rus', raspberry field
And the blue that fell into the river,
I love you to the point of joy and pain
Your lake melancholy.

Cold sorrow cannot be measured,
You're on a foggy shore.
But not to love you, not to believe -
I can't learn.

And I won't give up these chains
And I won’t part with a long sleep,
When the native steppes ring
Prayer feather grass.

6. “Do not wander, do not crush in the scarlet bushes...”

Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes
Swans and don't look for a trace.
With a sheaf of your oat hair
You belong to me forever.

With scarlet berry juice on the skin,
Tender, beautiful, was
You look like a pink sunset
And, like snow, radiant and light.

The grains of your eyes have fallen off and withered,
The subtle name melted like a sound,
But remained in the folds of a crumpled shawl
The smell of honey from innocent hands.

IN quiet time when the dawn is on the roof,
Like a kitten, it washes its mouth with its paw,
I hear gentle talk about you
Water honeycombs singing with the wind.

Let the blue evening sometimes whisper to me,
What were you, a song and a dream,
Well, whoever invented your flexible waist and shoulders -
He put his lips to the bright secret.

Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes
Swans and don't look for a trace.
With a sheaf of your oat hair
You belong to me forever.

7. “Good morning!”

The golden stars dozed off,
The mirror of the backwater trembled,
The light is dawning on the river backwaters
And blushes the sky grid.

The sleepy birch trees smiled,
Silk braids were disheveled.
Green earrings rustle
And the silver dews burn.

The fence is overgrown with nettles
Dressed in bright mother of pearl
And, swaying, whispers playfully:
"Good morning!"

8. Black, then smelly howl!

Black, then smelly howl!

I'll go out onto the lake into the blue road,

The huts stand like gray ropes,
The squelching reeds softly lull.

In the brushwood are the white eyelids of the moon.

The mowers listen to the old man's story.

Somewhere in the distance, on the edge of the river,
The fishermen sing a sleepy song.

The puddle grass glows with tin.
Sad song, you are Russian pain.

9. Blue fog. Snow expanse,

Blue fog. Snow expanse,

Subtle lemon moonlight.

The heart is pleased with quiet pain

Something to remember from my early years.

The snow on the porch is like quicksand.

Here under the same moon without words,

With a cat hat pulled down on his forehead,

I secretly left my father's wood.

I returned to my native land again.

Who remembers me? Who forgot?

I stand sadly, like a persecuted wanderer, -

The old owner of his hut.

Silently I crumple up a new hat,

I don't like sable fur.

I remembered my grandfather, I remembered my grandmother,

I remembered the loose snow of the cemetery.

Everyone has calmed down, we will all be there,

How in this life for the sake of not for the sake of, -

That's why I'm so drawn to people

That's why I love people so much.

That's why I almost cried

And, smiling, my soul went out, -

This hut on the porch with the dog

As if I'm seeing for the last time.

10. "There was a blue fire"

A blue fire began to sweep,

Forgotten relatives.

I was all like a neglected garden,

He was greedy for women and potions.

I stopped liking drinking and dancing

And lose your life without looking back.

I just want to look at you

See the eye of a golden-brown pool,

And so that, not loving the past,

You couldn't leave for someone else.

Gentle gait, light waist,

If you knew with a persistent heart,

How can a bully love?

How he knows how to be submissive.

I would forget the taverns forever

And I would have given up writing poetry.

Just touch your hand subtly

And your hair is the color of autumn.

I would follow you forever

Be it in your own or in someone else's.

For the first time I sang about love,

For the first time I refuse to make a scandal.

The fields are compressed, the groves are bare,

Water causes fog and dampness.

Wheel behind the blue mountains

The sun went down quietly.

The dug-up road sleeps.

Today she dreamed

Which is very, very little

We have to wait for the gray winter.

Oh, and I myself am in the ringing thicket

I saw this in the fog yesterday:

Red moon as a foal

He harnessed himself to our sleigh.

12. 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 slight frost warms my blood!
I just want to press you to my body
The bare breasts of birches.

Oh, forest, dense dregs!
Oh, the joy of snow-covered fields.
I just want to close my hands
Over the tree hips of the willows.

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."

Sergey
Yesenin

Analysis of Sergei Yesenin’s poem “Black, then smelling howl!”

The works of this difficult period include the poem “Black, then smelling howl!...”, written in 1914. Trying to capture what he saw in childhood and youth, Yesenin does not seek to ennoble the storyline, although he understands that the secular public expects something completely different from him. Nevertheless, poems appear, many of the words in which seem foreign and incomprehensible to sophisticated Moscow critics. Indeed, it is difficult for them to guess that howl is a small plot of land that in the Ryazan province was allocated to families for sowing wheat. And it’s completely impossible to understand why this plot smells of sweat.

Meanwhile, Yesenin, who grew up among the Ryazan meadows and forests, is well aware of the effort the work of a plowman requires. And how joyful rest can be when all the worries of the day fade into the background. “I’ll go out onto the lake into the blue gate, evening grace clings to my heart,” the poet notes. Nature seems to give all rural workers an amazing feeling of joy and peace. On such evenings, there is nothing better than sitting by the fire and listening to stories, as mowers who are tired from the day do.

However, they are not the only ones awake this late evening. Life in the village and its environs does not cease even at night, and the poet notes with tenderness and warmth that “somewhere in the distance, on the kukan of the river, fishermen are singing a drowsy song.” This idealistic picture that emerges in Yesenin’s imagination is so different from what he sees in Moscow that the author tries to at least mentally transport himself back to the past and linger there longer. He understands how hard the work of a peasant is, but at such moments he is ready to exchange his calm, well-fed and measured life in the capital for the opportunity to sit by the fire at night or go fishing. However, this is not destined to come true, because the poet has already made his choice, cutting off the last threads connecting him with his father’s house.

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