Romance in Akhmatova’s lyrics. Lyrical miniatures Lyrical miniature example

Thorn Anya

lyrical miniatures

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Sorceress - winter.

Winter is the most magical, most beautiful, amazing time of the year.

Many writers have found inspiration in this time of year. Although very often winter was presented as angry and insensitive due to blizzards. But our idea of ​​it becomes completely different on a sunny New Year’s day, when there is no wind and there is only snow falling in large flakes and soft frost. On such days, you want to go out for a walk, come to the farthest and most deserted corner of the park, lie down in the snow and make a “butterfly”.

In moments of such serene happiness, we see all the magic of winter. It’s not for nothing that people say: “the sorceress is winter.” Even ordinary frost turns black and lifeless trees into beautiful, white and magical ones. I’m already silent about the miracles that “good Santa Claus” creates. After all, the windows he touched amaze the imagination with the beauty and subtlety of the pattern. And the Christmas trees! What beautiful Christmas trees in the snow, as if wearing white caps! The mirror-like surface of the ice-bound river is no less beautiful. Even the snow is beautiful! Especially when it's a sunny day. The snow sparkles and sparkles to the point of pain in the eyes and a miracle in the soul!

But there are also phenomena that are not as frequent as they are beautiful. For example, in Khabarovsk I saw how frost and water turned a simple old window grill into a wonderful icy miracle!

Truly, “the sorceress is winter”!

Anya Ternovaya, 6th grade A. 2010

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We say goodbye to gentle autumn, we dream that it will not leave us longer, we listen to the whisper of the leaves... What are the leaves whispering about?

This is what the students of class 5A of school No. 5 heard:

The leaves are turning yellow. The trees become empty and the leaves fly away in the wind. It is so beautiful. You stand in the park or even just look through the window and see how the wind tears leaves from tree branches, picks up one leaf after another and carries them far, far away. It’s especially nice when you go out into the street in the evening and walk to where it’s quiet, stand, freeze and listen to the leaves rustle as the wind picks them up! When he blows on them, they seem to say: “Goodbye!” And they fly their way. But the oak leaves are unlucky: they cannot fly away with their brothers and sisters. The oak tree holds its children tightly and does not want to let them go. But sooner or later he will have to do it. And then a strong wind blew, and the oak leaves were torn off, the wind caught them, and they whispered to us in unison: “Goodbye...”

Mukhina Lada.

We are walking through the autumn park. Multi-colored tree crowns flaunt high above your head. A light breeze blew and we heard the gentle whisper of leaves.

What are they whispering about? Probably about the past summer. They remember the flocks of cheerful birds that chirped on their branches, and the bands of mischievous children who played carefree in their shade. Probably the leaves are whispering that cold weather is approaching and we have to say goodbye to the warm sun. Some of them open from the branches and, quietly circling, lie at our feet like a beautiful rug.

I'm a little sad.

Dolzhenko Anya.

An autumn breeze blew, and the leaves began to whisper: “My friends, autumn is coming, we are destined to fall to the ground. Cheerful children will gather us together to make a herbarium of us.”

Nikitenko Slava.

And here is a lyrical miniature"Tender Autumn" talented Ani Ternova, 6th grade student:

The most beautiful, most golden time of the year is autumn. Autumn evokes many emotions, often contradictory. Many works are dedicated to her beauty. She is truly charming!

Imagine a park or the edge of a forest. Sunny day. There is a carpet of leaves on the ground. Sunlight streams through the bare branches. It penetrates the leaves remaining on the trees and plays on the cobwebs. Everything around is so sunny, playful and golden.

The autumn forest is beautiful! The trees in their attire are as majestic as monarchs. When you walk along the path, the leaves rustle under your feet, as if whispering about something, probably about summer.

A light mischievous breeze ran through. He patted the leaves of the trees as if they were hair, and seemed to make them smile.

I love wandering around the park in this weather. Everything around seems to be crystal. The air is clean, and in the morning it seems to ring. The sky is blue and high. I want to fall into it.

The mood on such clear autumn days is simply fabulous! But at the same time, a quiet sadness appears. You remember the summer, the holidays... A slight blues appears. But even this cannot spoil the charm of a warm autumn day. Winter will come soon and cover everything with a white blanket.

But for now you can still collect golden and crimson leaves, throw them high above your head, and then enjoy the play of the sun on your veins...

This is my sweet autumn!

Valova N.L., teacher of Russian language and literature.

Sections: Russian language

Class: 6

Goals:

1. Repeat the definitions of the concepts “miniature” and “miniature essay”, pay attention to the features of the lyrical miniature.
2. Develop the ability to analyze small texts and create miniature texts; develop students' speech;

Epigraph to the lesson: “If a writer, while working, does not see behind the words what he is writing about, then the reader will not see anything behind them. But if the writer sees well what he is writing about, then the simplest and sometimes even erased words acquire newness, act on the reader with striking force and evoke in him those thoughts, feelings and states that the writer wanted to convey to him. (K.G. Paustovsky)

During the classes

I. Class organization.

P. Conversation on previously studied material.

We are already familiar with the concept of “miniature”. Define this genre.

(Miniature- this is a short essay on a narrow topic, complete in form and content.)

Listen to a musical fragment from the cycle “The Seasons” by A. Vivaldi and share your impressions of what you listened to.

How (with what?) does a composer manage to create unique images in your imagination, convey emotions and feelings? What do you think, what means does a writer use to convey his experiences and emotions in order to interest his listener (reader)?

Sh. Text analysis.

Read the texts and answer the question, which one did you like best and why?

Text No. 1.

Not long ago, one winter evening I was returning home. Approaching the entrance, I noticed the blue-violet light of the lantern. I raised my head and admired him. In the light of the lantern, I saw large snow flakes slowly falling to the ground. "What a beauty! – I thought. - But once upon a time there were no such lamps at all. And we owe such beauty to the discovery of Pavel Nikolaevich Yablochkov, who was the first to invent the electric light bulb. It is thanks to him that our homes are now comfortable and cosy, the streets are illuminated with comfortable lanterns, the shops are decorated with multi-colored illumination.”

Text No. 2

In the evening, a lonely lantern illuminates the road to the entrance and the snow lying around. If you go to the window at dusk and look down, you can imagine a theater spotlight instead of a lantern, and a large white stage instead of snow. Fluffy snowflakes, like ballerinas in sparkling tutus, dancing in a slow waltz, quietly fall to the ground.

What do these texts have in common? Can both texts be classified as miniatures? Why?

How are these texts different? Which of them expresses the author's feelings more clearly? Which of the texts contains what is drawn, presented to the inner eye, imagination, and is distinguished by lyricism?

A lyrical miniature is an expressive description of something or someone with a clearly expressed feeling of the author. The master of lyrical miniature was M. M. Prishvin.

IV. Analysis of lyrical miniatures.

Read the text. Think about what the author's feelings are expressed in miniature. Introduce them when reading aloud.

Here is a clearing where I recently picked mushrooms. Now the clearing is all white: every stump is covered with a white tablecloth and even the red rowan is powdered with frost. (M. Prishvin)

What picture (what image) did you imagine? Describe her.

What helps you see this picture so clearly? What visual and expressive means does the author use? For what purpose?

Let's conduct a linguistic experiment. Write down the first part of M.M. Prishvin’s lyrical sketch and try to complete the second part.

Snow fell at night, and early in the morning in the dark, lying in bed, I happily guessed that...

By what signs could the writer guess that snow fell at night? (Analysis of options for completing the task.)

It snowed at night, and early in the morning in the dark, lying in bed, I happily guessed about it from the scrapers of the windshield wipers and once again thought that, in a pinch, I would not be without pleasure as a janitor. (M. Prishvin)

Draw a conclusion about what needs to be done to write a lyrical miniature?

Let us turn to the text of another master of lyrical miniature - A.P. Chekhov. Read the text and say what mood is created in the reader. What means of artistic expression does the author use to convey his emotional state?

Recently the first snow fell, and everything in nature was under the power of this young snow. There was a smell of snow in the air, and the snow crunched softly underfoot. The earth, the roofs, the trees - everything was soft, white, young, and from this the houses looked different than yesterday, the air was more transparent, the carriages knocked more muffled, and a feeling similar to white, young asked to enter the soul along with the fresh, light frosty air , fluffy snow. (A.P. Chekhov)

V. Drawing up a diagram of “The procedure for working on a miniature essay.”

1. Think about what you want to “draw” with words.
2. What will be the main idea of ​​the essay? What is the author's intention? What feelings do you want to evoke in readers?
3. What expressive language do you use in your work?

VI. Creation of a lyrical miniature text (work in groups).

Before you is the beginning of a landscape sketch. Based on our developed “The procedure for working on a miniature essay”, complete the text.

It was winter days, gloomy, dreary: it dawns late, it gets dark early, there is no white light to be seen. It’s like a continuous, long twilight stretches on...

And suddenly the weather smiled:...

(Analysis of the resulting options.)

Let's turn to the epigraph to our lesson. How do you understand the words of K.G. Paustovsky?

VII. Homework. Write a miniature essay based on the first line (“You enter the forest and it’s like you’re in a fairy tale,” “The frost suddenly hit…” or your own version.)

Literature

1. Deykina A.D. Essays of small form in school teaching of the Russian language // Russian language at school. – 1994. - No. 5. – P.16-21, 34.
2. Deykina A.D., Novozhilova F.A. Miniature texts in Russian language lessons: A manual for teachers. – M.: Flinta, Nauka, 1998. – 144 p.
3. Prishvin M.M. Forest drops: Favorites. – Krasnodar: Book. publishing house, 1983. – 213 p.

ON THE EDGE OF THE Abyss

You never know where your road of life will lead you: to a wide, free field, where you can breathe deeply and freely, where the sun shines, generously scattering its rays on the earth, where the past leads you to the threshold of this day and rushes into the future. The grass sways quietly, and springs replace one another. Everything in this life is clear, stable and calm. But not all roads have been traveled. The trials are not over yet. And, having crossed a wide field, Fate brought you to Love - the edge of the abyss, where every step is a risk, every movement is conditioned... A wrong step is a cliff. It’s scary to look down - there’s no bottom to the abyss. The earth crumbles under your feet, your voice echoes away. You can't scream, you can't shake the air. The echo is now your enemy, it will awaken passion in the Soul. Feelings will pour in like an avalanche, and the regularity of your life will collapse overnight. All that remains is to raise a prayer to Heaven: Save and Preserve. Yes, it’s already too late to ask. Now you can’t stop your heart from loving, you can’t protect yourself from sleepless nights. And thoughts about him, endlessly loved, doomedly distant, became constant companions. They will never be abandoned, becoming memories over time. Now I’m not asking for myself. For him. He can't get into that avalanche. He’s not ready, he can’t, this avalanche is not for him. It is not easy for his soul to get out of the labyrinth of his trials, it cannot withstand the double burden...
And I need him to live. I just saw the sun, breathed and enjoyed every new day. I just have to know: he exists, and his star burns in the sky. Then I won’t look down, so that my head won’t spin from the infinity of falling into it, but my gaze would rise to the sky, finding my guiding star.
-What are you asking for then?
- Save and keep him... from me.
Her eyelashes drooped sadly. A tear froze on my cheek. Suddenly their hands touched her tenderly, drawing her away from the edge where she stood as if enchanted. She recognized the Angel with her mother's eyes. He led her away from the edge of her bitterness. Eternal love shone in his eyes. She remembered these eyes from her distant childhood.
“You are not alone,” the Angel whispered to her. There are many roads in the world. This is the road to people, go, do not be afraid of anything, I will not leave you in a moment of bitterness, and in happiness I will be next to you. It was getting dark. The stars were shining in the sky. But her Guiding Star burned brighter than others.

I DEDICATED TO YOU ALONE... The candles were burning on the table, flickering shudderingly. The light suddenly began to rush about and the shadows became restless. A special night. Once a year. Tomorrow is a bright holiday. Maybe these are our souls left alone? There, behind the flickering candles, are your eyes. Is this a dream? I can reach out and touch your shoulder. Just one touch to understand, realize and be sure: you are here, next to me, and your beloved eyes are opposite. Tell me who destined us to meet so by chance, so unexpectedly and so forever... To recognize you among the multitude. Now we can talk in silence. We know each other's thoughts. Words... I'm afraid to speak, I'm afraid to waste time. Seconds are passing. And I need to remember you, remember this moment. Perhaps my entire previous life was a prologue to this meeting. It was given to me to meet you in order to measure the depth of my soul. My gaze became moist. You've never been this close before. Now the vision will disappear. I know, I'm used to it. You come from a dream, leaving me into the bright day only to return again. How long does this last? Years already... One more second, one more, to remember you. Today is a special night before the rebirth into the bright holiday of life... From the hustle and bustle of life, the soul will rise and understand: no, it is no longer possible for us to disappear, leave or get lost... Do you want, I will be a drop of rain in your window, or I will sit on your palm like a weightless moth, so that I can touch you with my caress with my wing, or I will be the morning ray of sun, so that your soul will warm up from the twilight of the night. And I will shine as a midnight star for you, so that your dream will be high. But more than that, I want to become your rainbow over your house, so that you can always be sure: the world is colorful if the rainbow shines brightly. This night sounds like music to us, enveloping us, shortening the distance. Yes, and it does not exist at all, if there is a unity of Souls. You and I will live a long time. Always. Never losing. Always finding each other, my beloved...

Frederic Chopin Prelude No. 4.

AUTUMN THRILL OF THE GARDEN

The old garden said goodbye to summer. The branches rustled under the autumn wind. He froze in his thoughts. The leaves sadly said goodbye to the last rays of the warm sun. Everything passes... It was summer, the earth breathed with passionate heat. The aroma of flowers was intoxicating, dizzying with its tenderness. Just recently... Now the last colors of summer are fading, the flowers are drooping to the ground. Their love has left. The leaves rustled...she lived her whole life from the rebirth of spring to the sadness of autumn, farewell. She fell, spinning in the wind. The garden gave away its fruits to spring tremulous passion... Summer rains, cleansing with their fresh breath, are a thing of the past. The birds fell silent, flying away...

This is how the human heart freezes, saying goodbye to its past, like this garden. Everything passes: both bitterness and joy. It lies at the bottom of the soul with memories of the past. Inevitability. The law of nature - the law of life - is to leave... It's time for contemplation to replace the raging passions of youth. Autumn thoughts about your happy days, mistakes and losses. And human life is the same autumn garden.

Suddenly a gust of wind touched the bare branches, they trembled anxiously, losing their last leaves. My heart trembled, remembering, reviving the dear image for a moment. This means that nothing went into oblivion, it only froze until spring, until the meeting, until the spring rays of the sun, until the touch of his gaze. Memory does not disappear, Love does not leave... The old garden, wise, patient. I will stand among your bare branches. You and I will wait for spring...your white blossoms and new hope. The Soul does not fall asleep, it only freezes in anticipation...

FEBRUARY Blizzards He was in a hurry home. It seemed like there would be no end to this business trip. The area is large. Checks, acts, tension of confrontation, fatigue. But that was not what depressed him now. How is she doing? Five days, no call, no answer...February turned out to be so blizzard and cold. It’s not like that from the darkness of the outskirts of the region - you just have to return home.

“It’s not like something can happen to her in five days,” he tried to reassure himself, but he couldn’t find strong arguments for his confidence, and therefore the last kilometers to the city were a test of patience for him.
-As she said: “I can live without you for a while, but then I can’t do it at all.” ". Well, be patient, dear, another forty minutes...
She's stuck at the dacha. It was warmer here and safer to survive these frosts alone, waiting for him. Every day I stood at the dusty window. The path was visible. Here she usually waited for him from work in the evenings. He walked towards the house, saw her in the window, cheerfully waved his hand, which meant:
-Here I am. I allow myself to kiss, feed and immediately talk about all women’s stupidities and cleverness, which always make me happy... because I only listen to your voice, but I no longer analyze your cleverness - I can’t, I turn off my intellect next to you, I let it go too rest until morning...
She smiled sadly. She sighed shakily. The telephone has been disconnected for five days, the roads have been skidded and cut off from the world. For five days she stands at the window...useless. Waiting. Will always wait.
He opened the front door in a hurry. The key did not want to obey his frozen hands. The house was alarmingly quiet. In a chair by the window I saw her, fragile, sleeping, wrapped in his gray housecoat... Without undressing, he squatted in front of her.
-You said that you could live without me for a while, but then you couldn’t do it AT ALL. “This is exactly what happened to me today,” I thought, looking into her haggard face. Her palms were warm like a child. He pressed his lips to them.
- You...she exhaled without opening her eyes. Finally... My sun, - her eyes shone
“How bad I feel without you, how unbearable I am without you,” his gaze was thoughtful.
Suddenly he pulled out something from the depths of his coat, unclenched her hand, and put this SOMETHING on her palm. It was a small heart. Souvenir. Symbol.
-I thought about you for five days. I had no peace. I give you my heart. I want it to be in your palms. I only trust them. This is my irrevocable gift to you. I can’t live without you, I can’t do it AT ALL,” I was surprised at my quiet voice, at my insight...
Blizzards, what do these two care about you now? You can walk around the world, spin around, cover the roads with snow... What do they care about you now? They found each other, waited...
The snow-covered world of February fell asleep calmly... And spring... For it its own time in everyone’s soul...

NIGHT SERENADE She woke up. All of a sudden. Something changed in the silence of the night. It entered her dream. Her consciousness was disturbing. She opened her eyes and listened... Bare-haired, barefoot, in a long night robe, she opened the window. The garden rained down its blossoms on her. She burst into the room and was dizzy by the heady aroma. A man’s voice sang. The branches of flowering trees obscured his face. Sitting on the windowsill, I listened. She would recognize this voice from among the many, that distant and familiar, recognizable timbre. The quiet shimmer of the guitar echoed him. What was he singing about? About the beauty of the night and the stars, about the sky and the first rays of the sun... Without understanding all the words, she understood: it was he, her wanderer. All his life he walked towards her through life’s hardships and hardships along the dusty roads of fate. Now he's close. You can’t see his eyes in the dark - don’t. She knew them, having studied their face to the smallest detail, she could have painted his portrait from memory. On long sleepless nights, she peered into his eyes in old photographs and talked. Yes, he could not answer all the questions, leaving her the right to find the answers herself. She had only to close her eyes before - he was there, always with her. And now he sang under her window about his wanderings and his former melancholy. How long was his road to this garden, to her, how he walked at random through life, and only her guiding star never faded, was a guide all his life. He sang, not hoping that she would wake up and hear his serenade. It was not she who heard - her soul. The coolness of the night hugged her shoulders, and the voice sang as the morning wind touched her lips and warmed her with a ray of sunshine, lying at her head. At midnight she felt warm. The one she was waiting for, about whom she dreamed before the daring sea surf, or near a burning candle, or looking at the floating clouds, was now nearby. This was the first time in many years that this was so close. In the glow of the bright silver light of the moon, two people did not sleep. ...The man sang about his love...The woman's body trembled either from the night coolness of the garden, or from the desire awakening in her to feel his strong hands, cling to him and give herself to his caresses. Now there were no long years of separation and inexorable distances. Her heart joyfully listened to these sounds of a simple melody. They remained alone in these moments, and the world around them retreated, froze, became silent, so that these two yearning souls would understand: they had waited for each other. What is this? Fairy tale? No. This is their dream come true... The woman could not tear herself away from this night serenade and just like that, barefoot, immediately run down the steps. The voice was mesmerizing. Their thoughts, both before and now, pulsated in time with their hearts: they now have one road, one path.

I will never give you to anyone...
-I will never let him go from my heart...
And the moon kept shedding its light, the night protected them in this confession. Thin silver threads of happiness connected two souls, tired from a long journey.
“You will be back in an hour, in a day or in eternity,” she remembered his words.
They both returned, now forever...

Quotes are a cunning creature, nothing less. You say one thing, but convey another meaning. Guess, try, get to the meaning through this chain mail. There is irony, mockery or just a figurative meaning. "I love ". If it's in quotation marks, it means I hate it. The difference is just two small quotes. However, they change the meaning to the opposite. That's a misunderstanding.

A comma is a cessation of breathing, a pause or an endless repetition to the point of dizziness. If you stop yourself, you can suffocate. I love, I love, I love... And I want to endlessly repeat the same thing, like a spell or a mantra

The ellipsis is an open ending, an understatement, and there is hope to still do something, still give or still accept. The ellipsis is time flowing like a river between two banks - you and me. Is everything said, everything decided? The ellipsis is a chance to complete the open ending of the relationship

The point is the end. No refund. Impossibility to fix. Hopelessness. Sentence. He said how he cut it off. That's it. Dot. Don’t put it on, don’t rush, hold your breath, hesitate, freeze. Don't put your pen down on the paper, don't shake off the ink in a blot at the end. You couldn't install it. Hold on. We experienced adversity, overcame alienation, left, returned. They suffered grievances. Isn’t it a merciless reason not to install it, isn’t it an excuse, isn’t... everything that happened for nothing?
Ellipsis or period. Eternal choice.

Here they are, the signs. Are they really that insignificant? Each of them can mean a decision or refusal to act, ridicule or a painful search. Maybe they become milestones in fate? Ever wondered?
Who to call for help in choosing a sign? Eternal truths.
“Love never fails” cannot be refuted. Let's put an end here. LOVE NEVER FAILS. Then we place signs in accordance with this truth. Are we going to make a mistake?

PUNCIPATION MARKS OR SIGNS OF DESTINY? The word is life-giving moisture. Brings you back to life. Inspires to believe in the impossible. Gives away his energy of hope. It's poison, a slap in the face. It makes you shudder from the cruelty of what was said, the meaning thrown in your face. Dust that blinds your eyes. Water diluting the meaning of the main thing, chaos of thoughts.

What about punctuation marks? What are they, placed after the word?

Exclamation is delight, multiplicity of joy. I love! I want to listen and listen to this melody of sounds. This is an impulse of the Soul, recognition. Repeat it, my love. I will not get tired of listening to this exclamation. How many shades: joy to delight, a quiet whisper, to the sinking of the soul. Echo of memory. There is no escape, no hiding, no deception. A discovery suddenly dawned on you. The most important, the most amazing thing in your life. A decision after painful deliberation. Conclusion: I love it!

The question mark is sleepless nights. Painful thoughts, when your whole being is looking for an answer, but it still eludes. You can't do anything. You are walking in a vicious circle. You are solving this problem. You get rid of doubts, but... no answer is given to you. Do you love me?

The dash is an endless comparison. Search for rainbow colors, or bitter epiphany. Love is bitterness. Love happiness. Love is a dream. Love is hope

Brackets are reflections taken “behind the scenes” of current events. I can’t imagine myself without those eyes opposite, without his voice, without his anxiety and his tenderness (I can’t imagine myself any other way). How many unspoken words remain, hidden feelings in these mysterious parentheses. They do not give free rein to words, they protect them with their brackets, tie them up, and slow them down with understatement. The word freezes, then hides behind their cover. Where should I put them? Where to throw it?

TWO SHORES What is our life? River. It's flowing. Violently overcomes the thresholds of problems. It spreads with a calm surface, as if stopping. Filled with the melt waters of our feelings. You and I are two shores, two destinies. But they burned all the bridges themselves, without looking, without thinking. But now there is a way out: to ford this river. By touch, step by step, slowly overcoming these underwater failures and the flow of circumstances. You are from one bank, I am from the other. Toward. Taking risks. It was easy to walk across the bridge. They got used to it, stopped appreciating it, and are arrogant in their pride. Punished. Now the ford is salvation, a new understanding of each other. Are you afraid of the cold of this water? No? It burns with the unknown. Why ask, we entered this river again. Let's meet each other halfway again.

Where are you -s -s -? -Echo along the river.
-I’m nearby, here... Hear-and-and-sh?! – the voice rushes in response.
I'm following your voice. I'm not afraid of anything. Even if I don’t see you, I still know: you, too, step by step, are comprehending the bottom of my soul. Providence has prepared another test for us. It's okay, we'll get through it. We have this magic of attraction. Doesn't weaken. Doesn't leave us. And I have a guideline - your heart, and you have mine. We are glad that we found this ford, we both did not fall into the abyss of emptiness, and the pools of indifference spared us. You are strong, and I suddenly freeze from fear of losing you. Then I’ll whisper again
- Where are you? And the wind will bring me from your shore:
- Be patient. There is an island in the middle of the river - our Hope. Go don't stop
- Day after day, minute after minute I comprehend you, my dear, overcoming this ford, because I love...
-You...you...you... - the echo responds

LATE CALL How many days like this were there in her teacher's life? There are many days of Last Bell, graduation, the end of the school year... Lots of them. But this spring she said goodbye to her last class. Seven years of life and they, small, different, in bows and curls, “her blue-winged doves,” now stood next to her on the line, beautiful in their youth. Now the last bell will ring, and her heart will freeze from the bitterness of parting. This is the law of life: you cannot hold them, her students, you cannot help but let them go. This circle of life is inevitable, from small to great, from barefoot childhood to the high dreams of youth... Today she will let them go, just as she will now release from her hands a fluttering dove into the sky. The palms opened and the doves flew up like a white cloud from the school porch high into the sky. They stood as if spellbound on the school porch: the class and their teacher. The sounds of the last school waltz were fading.

Silence of the class... no dear eyes, no children's pranks and stress of the lesson, no them...
The phone call made her jump
“Congratulations...One more graduation...you have,” a voice from the distant past sighed sadly.
- I recognized you. I understood where you got through from... I remember this steppe of your youth... our youth. And I remember myself as a girl with a university diploma. You brought me armfuls of tulips, and the lark sang high in the sky. Our first graduation, and doves flying into the sky, just like today. It is far away, this spring steppe now.
“I want to confess... I was head over heels in love with you, but I couldn’t tell it to my teacher - the receiver went silent - to you,” he hastily corrected his voice. I was in love with you. I didn't dare say
She was taken aback. The tube almost fell out of her hands.
- How is that?
- But the main thing now is that I was in love. I love you all my life. If you want, I’ll draw your portrait from memory, as you checked your notebooks, your hair fell in waves from your shoulders. I'm already gray. And I had enough time to understand this truth: you are the only woman for me since then. You see... you’re still like that for me now,” he fell silent.
She closed her eyes, remembering that first exam in the eleventh grade. And the poems that he read: “I loved you...” I clearly remembered how she trembled, then a young teacher, rejoicing at his success. It turned out decades later - he told her this in the poetry of a poet...
“Today was my last call,” she sighed, “and yours... is already late.” Late. We will leave this in the past in the bright haze of memories.
- Nothing like that, what is the past? After a five hour flight, meet me at the airport. I recognize you out of a thousand, but you will hardly be able to find me, your gray-haired student, with your eyes, as it used to be. I realized: life is passing away. We won’t wait any longer for the last calls, my love...
The phone went silent. They were in a hurry. Nothing seemed to happen in those minutes. So it seemed... But she now knew: there, in the heights of the clear sky, their pigeons found each other one day... many years later.

REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR - Who do I look like!? What am I seeing in the mirror? Whose face? My? No, I want something else - familiar questions to one’s reflection in the mirror, isn’t it? What are we expecting in response?

How can I leave you, I was daydreaming. Whatever it is, be patient. Not a mask - your own face. Do you need anything else? Well, the scar is small, well, there are wrinkles around the eyes, well, the mole is in the wrong place, so what? So they know you by your face, they recognize you.
- It’s a big thing to recognize someone by their face. This is a business card: look - find out. I have one more face in stock. For other needs.
- Is it possible to find out more about the needs?
- Well, of course, there are different needs. When you come to the office, you have to get a face without a smile so that even your eyes don’t smile. You can relax in a friend's kitchen. More naturalness. In the kitchen it makes no difference what is hidden in your eyes, and there is nothing hidden there. To communicate with a girl, you generally need to roll your face in powdered sugar. Smile sweetly, promisingly. And hope that he will suddenly believe? When you go to take an exam, you need an intelligent face, with a touch of tragedy from the nights you didn’t sleep enough.
- Are you going to mock yourself for a long time? I forgot about the iron.
- Why else is this?
- What’s incomprehensible here - smooth out wrinkles so that your face becomes a glossy magazine cover!
- You're kidding me. Understand. You know, reflection, sometimes I myself get tired of my many faces. And sometimes it will become so sad, even cry!
- Haven’t you forgotten how to cry yet? To cry, it’s not enough just to have a face. A soul is needed.
- Yes, mirror, I once knew how to laugh and I also knew how to cry. When I had a lot of faces, my soul abandoned me, and I lost myself. If it weren’t for you, old mirror, I would have stopped recognizing myself. Why have I become so many-sided? For what?
- You're lying again! You adapted, and adapted your faces to all occasions. You became disgusted with yourself. All is not lost, it means, with you.
- How can I get myself back? Find your face? Mine, the only one? The one with the scar and wrinkles?
- Think, you are a human being, you are capable of thinking. And I am just your reflection in the mirror.
Maybe it’s worth taking care of how not to lose yourself among many people in advance, before your soul leaves you? And there was no reflection of you left in the mirror - that’s all...

my associations in miniature

(“Reflection in the Mirror” by Lyudmila Grigorashchuk.)

REFLECTION OF MIRRORS

Mirrors of fate, a reflection of a whole life,

Behind the masks they keep the answer to the life lived,

Many-faced sad obsession,

Creates a convenient portrait for all occasions.

Mirrored faces of lost greatness,

The pretentious dress in diversity,

A masquerade of guises flashes like a carousel.

A gallery of frozen life... am I living?

The real reflection has melted away,

I'm lost among many unnecessary faces

I take defeat for granted,

The soul is gone, the blitz of a lifetime is lost.

THESE EYES OPPOSITE The garden was old. The gloom from the spreading trees did not frighten me, it brought relaxation on a hot day, and pleased me with the golden foliage in autumn. He had an amazing property - the peace of silence. There you could not utter words and sit opposite each other by the fire. Everyone could think about their own things when they cleaned the garden, burned dry leaves and dried grass, and sometimes boiled a kettle on the fire. She picked late apples from the branches, smelling of the passing summer. The fire burned dimly, the flames engulfed the dry twigs, reached the bottom of the teapot hanging above it, and each time you could brew it in a new way from these gifts of summer warmth. They both needed this silence. Why - they themselves did not know. They just sat on opposite sides of the dim flame, looking at each other. We listened to our garden.
- I never get tired of looking into your eyes. Why are they sad? It’s as if you knew the imperfection of the world. Your gaze is penetrating, it sees my soul. They don’t talk about her, words are unnecessary. They know the soul...Do you agree?
The wind, changing direction, sometimes obscured the silent interlocutor with a white curtain of smoke, interrupting her thought, but the flames came to life again. The kettle was boiling and making noise.
“Maybe we need moments like this: to sit like this under the old trees, without words, together.” The main thing often escapes. The scenery of life obscures it. Some things, problems. Phone calls...Tinsel. And only in this way, silently, can we compare the heartbeat in unison, understanding at the same time: if there are these dear eyes opposite, and no words are needed, it means that trust is here, sitting next to us, and the heart temperature is stable. Silence in the world. Peace envelops me in warmth, I know: I am not alone in this time, space among the unsteady shadows of the evening. Your hands will not let go, will not betray, will not disappear. They are reliable - a support in life. The world will not shake, will not collapse overnight, but these eyes will always be opposite.
Sitting by the dying fire, the two of us did not notice the evening coolness. The clean garden sighed gratefully. The stars were shining. And they didn't need anyone. Now they themselves were two parts of the unity of their universe.

Looking back...

A glimpse of the passing summer,

A frozen image in the haze of a fire.

And the sadness in the eyes, on the contrary, is touched by the knowledge of the soul,

Drowning in gaze, sharp in insight.

The peace of evening, in the unsteady space of shadows,

The light of the fire gives rise to a dance of chimeric sculptures...

The peace of happiness in the eyes opposite... and there is no stronger support,

The smoke of silence is shrouded in the warmth of spiritual contemplation...

Life flies by, and the main thing slips away in the vanity,

Behind the tinsel of eternal decorations, consciousness is like a long dream.

Here words are unnecessary, only the eyes opposite the soul know,

The beating of hearts merges the melody of souls in unison.

And hope will not disappear, love will not betray for rewards,

And the eyes, on the contrary, will always look into the soul, into eternity.

Life has passed... and we, looking into each other, are happy about it,

By the unity of fragile universes, another star is lit...

Associations to the miniature “those eyes opposite”

Our summer is exhausted by the bustle of life lived,

Languidly, lazily the haze of a fire hangs over the old garden,

The secret of unity spread in the apple aroma,

Insight brings kindred souls together.

The ridges of trees are our joy of rest and garden,

And the shadows are cool and gloomy, spreading with age.

With the imperfections of the world we sharpen the gaze of love,

The silent dialogue of the eyes fills the soul with joy

And in the eyes opposite, two universes are drowning,

Swaying to the beat of the faded flame of the fire,

Literature 8th grade. Lesson from 01/29/2011
“Fet’s poetry is nature itself,
mirrored

Gazing

Through
human soul..."
(K.D. Balmont)
Guys, in today's lesson we will look at Fet's poems about
nature.
The genre in which Fet recreated pictures of nature can be called a genre
lyrical miniature.
Lyrical miniature is a work of small form in which
feelings and experiences dominate the rational principle. (those.
poetic, moving, figurative work of small form.)
Write down in your notebooks the definition of the lyrical miniature genre.
The poet's delight is caused not by the exotic nature of the southern countries, but by the simple
Russian paintings, which under Fet’s pen acquire a special poetry,
at the same time, maintaining amazing accuracy when conveying specific
details.
At the end of the 19th century in France, impressionism became popular in painting.
Impressionism– direction in art of the last third of the 19th century – the beginning of the 20th century
century, whose representatives sought most naturally and
impartially capture the world in its mobility and variability, convey
your fleeting impressions. The most famous French
impressionists Edouard Manet, Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas. Among the Russians
painters can be called K.A. Korovina, I.E. Grabar.
Main features of impressionism:
Expression of the author's private impression;
Refusal of an objective picture of reality;
Image of every moment;
Lack of plot;
Replacing thought with perception, and reason with instinct.
Write down in your notebooks the definition and features of literary
impressionism movements.
Fet can be called one of the first impressionists in poetry: he always
sought to convey an instant impression from pictures of nature. Fet
1
noted: “For the artist, the impression that caused the work is more valuable
the very thing that caused this impression.”
Landscapes in his poems express the state of the human soul.
Dissolving in nature, the hero Fet gains the opportunity to see beautiful
soul of nature. This happiness is a feeling of unity with nature:
Night flowers sleep all day long,
But only the sun will set behind the grove
The leaves are quietly opening,
And I hear my heart bloom.
The blossoming of the heart is a symbol of spiritual connection with nature. Human
looks into nature and learns its laws and possibilities. Nature is wise
a person's adviser and his best mentor.
Based on the above, analyze the proposed poems,
answering questions.
“What a night! How clean the air is..."
* * *
What a night! How clean the air is
Like a silver leaf slumbering,
Like the shadow of the coastal willows,
How serenely the bay sleeps,
How a wave will not breathe anywhere,
How the chest is filled with silence!
Midnight light, you are the same day:
Whiter is only the shine, blacker is the shadow,
Only the smell of juicy herbs is subtler,
Only the mind is brighter, the disposition is more peaceful,
Yes, instead of passion he wants breasts
Breathe this air.
1840-1892
1. In what meter is this poem written?
2. What stylistic figure is used in the first stanza?
3. What words set the rhythm of the poem?
4. The poem seems to be dominated by opposition
darkness and light, but this is not a real contradiction. This
connection and mutual enrichment of two opposing qualities.
Illustrate this idea with words from the poem.
5. What feeling does the rhythmic structure of the poem create?
“This morning, this joy...”
2
This morning, this joy,
This power of both day and light,
This blue vault
This cry and strings,
These flocks, these birds,
This talk of the waters
These willows and birches,
These drops - these tears,
This fluff is not a leaf,
These mountains, these valleys,
These midges, these bees,
This noise and whistle,
These dawns without eclipse,
This sigh of the night village,
This night without sleep
This darkness and heat of the bed,
This fraction and these trills,
This is all spring.
1. What type of one-part sentences predominates in this
poem?
2. At what time does the poem begin and when does it end? Which
What time period does it cover?
3. What phenomena of life does the poet absorb, what does he see and hear?
Feels it?
4. What does the poet say at the conclusion of the poem? What is the intonation?
5. What feeling, mood does the lyrical miniature “This morning,
this joy..."
“What sadness! The end of the alley..."
What sadness! End of the alley
Again in the morning he disappeared into the dust,
Silver snakes again
They crawled through the snowdrifts.
There is not a shred of azure in the sky,
In the steppe everything is smooth, everything is white,
Only one raven against the storm
It flaps its wings heavily.
And it doesn’t dawn on my soul,
It has the same cold as all around,
Lazy thoughts fall asleep
Over dying labor.
3
And all the hope in the heart is smoldering,
That, perhaps, even by chance,
The soul will become younger again,
Again the native will see the land,
Where storms fly by
Where the passionate thought is pure, -
And only visibly to the initiates
Spring and beauty are blooming.
4
1. What picture is presented in this poem? What phenomenon
nature described?
2. Who is trying to resist the wind?
3. “Again the silver snakes/Crawled through the snowdrifts...” - what trope is this?
4. What is the state of the lyrical hero?
5. What does it look like in this context? hope? (“And all hope is in the heart
smoldering...) What is it? What does the lyrical hero hope for?
6. How does the native land appear in this poem? Is everyone
Is it possible to enter this region?
Write an essay on the topic: “The main motives of Fet’s lyrics about nature.”
Send answers to the submitted tasks by email to:
[email protected]

Lyrical miniatures

Kingdom of Autumn

It was summer recently. But now we can only remember this. Queen Autumn spread a soft golden carpet of leaves. The wind blew and tilted the trees. Autumn walked and took away days and gave away nights. The scarlet rowan beads turned red, and autumn took off the berries and strung them on silver threads. Autumn walked, tapping the transparent heels of its shoes on the crystal crusts of frozen puddles.

Autumn

Autumn is a golden bird. If he flaps his right wing, the sun will come out. If it flaps its left wing, it will get colder. The golden bird will fly to see the birds off to warmer lands. A golden bird sat on a willow, waved its golden plumage, and the willow became magical, beautiful and bright. A golden bird flies, catches up with clouds, and behind it is the wind. The wind knocks down the leaves, and they, exhausted, fall to the ground.

Autumn

There are four sisters in the world: Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn. They are all kind and beautiful, but they differ from each other in character.

Sister Autumn is the most fickle. Either she is joyful, cheerful, or sad, despondent.

I love sunny Autumn. The blue sky is high, high. A velvet coat of leaves lies on the ground. The trees are charming. Lipa loves to dress in lemon-colored suits. Birch dresses up in a wonderful golden dress. Red, yellow, green maple leaves just attract you.

I don't like rainy days. Autumn's mood is spoiled. She puts on gray clothes and cries about something. Maybe she is sad that her sister Winter will soon come and they will forget about her.

Musical sketch. P.I. Tchaikovsky "On Troika"

We're going for a ride. I'm very happy, I'm having fun. Here we go! The bells are ringing and playing! The trio galloped quickly out of the gate. The fervent wind blows the snow in our faces, we drive as if we were fluttering. The snow is glistening. It is silver, but from the sun there is snow red, yellow, and in the shade - blue. The snow sparkles, this makes the eyes tired, but they are still wide open, looking around: fields, meadows... The trio rushes merrily, runs into snowdrifts, gallops across a bridge over a river that has long been covered with ice.

And the frosty smell hits my nose - it’s fresh, fragrant, it burns my chest! What a great ride!

View from the window when I'm in a good mood

Walking soon. Everything is self-made, so they will pick me up early. Snow fell outside. The snow is wet, you can play snowballs. It's quite warm outside, only 0 degrees. Some interesting new car was parked near the road. There is a bustle on the street, like before a holiday: someone is in a hurry to get somewhere. There is no bright sun, and therefore you no longer have to squint your eyes. The trees, dusted with snow, reminded me of the forest growing near the dacha: the quiet whispering of the trees and the soft smell of pine. I looked out the other window and saw our calm, sedate school yard, everything in the yard seemed to be waiting for a walk.

View from the window when I'm in a bad mood

I looked outside. There, passers-by were fussy like ants, running here and there. So tired of their endless bustle that my head is cracking, and there is no sun - immediately a gloomy mood. If warming continues, you will drown in the mud. In general, everything seemed disgusting: the crows rummaging in the trash, this dull unjustified silence, the lifelessness and stillness of the school yard.