World Poetry Day. World Poetry Day What date is World Poetry Day
Poems of poets, especially remembered by the staff of the portal God of Literature.RF
Text: Year of Literature. RF
Photo: Muse Erato. Francois Boucher (1703-1770)
In the “reporting year”, two poets became a discovery for me. The first is not accidental: Muscovite Alexander Kurbatov received the St. Petersburg Poetry, and this turned out to be the first time in its history when the choice of a professional jury coincided with the choice of the public in the hall. Which is not surprising: “A song about a man and a dog (s) ku” makes a different, but equally indelible impression, being read from a sheet and.Mikhail Vizel, writer, translator, editor-in-chief of the GL portal.
ALEXANDER KURBATOV
About a man and a dog
Alexander Kurbatov
- Doggy, doggy,
Please tell me doggy, doggy
And where is Lobachik street, Lobachik street,
And then I can't find it.
The dog thought
“You won’t understand if I say it like a dog ...
And she began to shake her nose to the right side:
- Come with me, I'll take you.
It's hard for us to go
On ice and on potholes, potholes,
We place our feet carefully, our feet on-
-shi legs, so as not to break.
The places here are unkempt,
Industrial zone, railway, road,
Frostbitten Germans roam here
And they speak German.
- Doggy, doggy,
For a long time there is no Lobachik Street.
Are we going the right way, doggy, doggy?
Look, it's already dark!
The dog thought
Probably should have turned around earlier.
Man, what do you need on Lobachik Street?
Let's go to my house!
- There is a Babaevsk factory ..
I have sweets there ... March 8th is approaching.
As a gift, women are supposed to have something ...
So I wanted to buy candy ..
- Spit on those candies!
Giving candy makes no sense.
All your life you gave sweets, sweets,
And you still live alone.
- Doggy, doggy,
Admit it, you're not really a dog
After all, you are really Lena, Lena Danchenko,
Don't be afraid, I recognized you.
The dog cried:
- Man, do you really remember Lena, Lena Danchenko?
She's been gone for forty years, Lena Danchenko,
You are forty years too late.
And here they are, embracing
Joyfully recognizing each other and hugging,
Pro Kindergarten remembering,
Somewhere slowly wandering.
V bermuda triangle,
Where the mill "Sokolniki", "Sokolniki",
And where alcoholics disappear without a trace,
Perhaps happiness will be found.
The second is completely random. Although, perhaps, this is also a "non-random accident." At the beginning of December I found myself in Venice, and, as always, when this happens to me, the first thing I did was go to the second-hand bookshop Acqua Alta to rummage through its countless shelves. From one of which jumped into my hands a 1995 volume of a completely unknown poet named Nico Orengo (Nico Orengo) called Narcisi d'Amore, that is, literally, "Daffodils of Love." And opened up on the section Collier per Margherita E. - "Necklace for Margarita E." It turned out to be really made up of small beads - poems in 6-10 lines. And what is most surprising - rhyming lines. That for modern European, in particular Italian poetry - an unheard-of impudence, almost a slap in the face of public taste. Assuring that a "real poet" should write in endless and dimensionless free verse.
It was later that I read that Nicola Orengo(by the way - a real Genoese aristocrat who had the right to the title of marquis) not only for twenty years of his 65 years (died in 2009) was the editor of the weekly book supplement to the Turin newspaper La Stampa, but also a famous children's poet. Where, obviously, is the love for rhyme and short form. But there, in a bookshop located in the portico of a Venetian house, I did not yet know this, but simply opened it at random and read:
margherita non fuma,
ritaglia pezzi di luna.
Niko Orengo
Davanti allo specchio
Se li cola sull'orecchio.
Poi esce per strada
e si lascia che vada.
Literally translated, this means something like this:
Margaret doesn't smoke
cuts out moon pieces.
In front of the mirror
puts them in his ear.
Then he goes outside
and just walks away.
I undertake to present the necklace of the Marquis of Orengo in all its splendor by the next day of poetry.
It is difficult now to choose a poet. The one and only and beloved "ruler of thoughts". Time something like not quite poetic. And the poems don't always live up to expectations. Therefore, I prefer to read the classics. And of his contemporaries, who is always interesting is Igor Volgin - a philologist, poet, historian. Sometimes sadly sentimental, but always accurate in words. His poems absorbed the best traditions of the classics. That is close. Natalya Sokolova, journalist, author of the GL portal.
IGOR VOLGIN
Feasted without restraint with friends.
He was sipping wine from a dark jug...
I was young, I forgot everything in the world
beyond the mountains - and dizzy
such a blue, such a height,
such a hopeless freedom
as if already allowed
the mystery of life is here, by the sky,
where the sweet smoke from the braziers
and the mountain girl-girl grated cheese for us ...
…was young. Was careless. Was loved.
But - tears intercepted the throat.
Feast from morning to morning
already bitter with a weak poison,
while in the hope of glory and goodness
still good I mixed with glory.
How could I know in advance -
like two and two - that my turn will come:
insight will come, the woman will leave,
the wine will dry up, the thunder of heaven will strike!
Is it not the future with the past - bash on bash -
met then, that morning, that June,
when lavash was so white and soft,
the fruit is so juicy, the sulguni is so sunny ...
Alexey Kashcheev. Born in Moscow in 1986. In 2009 he graduated with honors from the medical faculty of the Russian State medical university. Poet, candidate of medical sciences, neurosurgeon. Lyudmila Prokhorova, editor, finalist of the Lyceum award.
ALEXEY KASHCHEEV
“While I was carrying my heavy cross…”
Anna Tsvetkova
Alexey Kashcheev
while I carried my heavy cross
swallowed tranquilizers and changed partners
rode around the world in search of unknown miracles
dreamed of drowning falling off the mountain to stumble on a knife
so while I spent myself on this
saw in nightmares the dead and wild animals
one Jewish immigrant from the Department of Biochemistry
University of Massachusetts
synthesized in vitro mentally healthy people
these *****s were stress resistant
they were missing genes
causing heartache
they attended the procession, Friday prayer and mass
and metabolized alcohol without problems
they had the ability to start up
and taking bribes
they were easily given loans at six percent per annum
scientists carefully studied their sexual habits
and found the complete absence of such
gradually the situation got out of control
some individuals escaped escaping from the shackles
began to reproduce asexually in the wild
quickly created a political party ******
their representatives brought crazy
to full prostration
showing them the inexpediency of various *****
by reposting pictures and careful misinformation
they managed to convince that only they exist in the world
while I dreamed that someone was waiting and looking for me
while I ignored reality and drank
these fuckers ate only healthy food
and went to the gym every other day
and now when I look both ways
when I realized where the problem is and where *****
it turned out that these ****** not only that - a lot
they are way better than me
A poem from the book of Alexei Kashcheev "Eighteen plus"
Normal people at Bunin's read "Dark Alleys", all sorts of "Antonov's Apples", some - "The Life of Arseniev", and maybe they don't get to poetry at all. And I got here - by accident. Many years ago, in a blue four-volume book, I discovered these Goldfinches. A masterpiece of sound transparency. Learned by heart. I recite to myself when the music gets boring. Alexander Belyaev, journalist, literary and music critic, author of the GL portal.
IVAN BUNIN
Goldfinches, their ringing, glassy, inanimate,
And the maple over the fallen foliage,
On the void azure and pure,
Already all naked, light and branched ...
Oh, torment of torment! What do I need, what does he need?
Goldfinches, foliage? And do I understand
Ivan Bunin
Why should I joy this torment,
Here is this sky, and this ringing,
And the dark meaning that he is full of
Fit in harmonies and sounds?
I must take - and, having solved, give,
Someone needs to sympathize with me
What warms the sun with low light
Me in the garden, spacious and undressed,
What illuminates the yellow foliage
Branchy maple that I barely,
Wandering in delight through the empty garden,
I let others understand my longing ...
- I take a large jagged sheet with a tight
Purple stalk - let it be in my notebook
At least the memory will remain with him
About this bright helicopter
With grass crunchy white silver
About the emptiness shining over the maple
Lifeless azure tent,
And about goldfinches with a crystal-dead ringing!
3.X.17
From me - "Conversation" by Olesya Nikolaeva and "Letters to a Roman friend" by Brodsky.
Olesya Nikolaeva writes amazingly, in her poems I see at once the depth of Tsvetaeva, the simplicity of Asadov, and the directness of Rubalskaya. I came across her site quite by accident and got stuck. "Conversation" is downright cutting down the beautiful language of her poetry. (In brackets, I note that I don’t like everything, but this poem is a direct hit on me.)
“Letters to a Roman friend” I heard at the Red Square festival performed by actor Anatoly Bely as if for the first time, so they struck me. Ekaterina Zaitseva, editor social networks and author GL.
OLESIA NIKOLAEV
Talk
Well, it's not like that: you look into the void,
and I choose the word slyly.
And the conversation seems to be on the wrong
buttoned up, taken off someone else's shoulder.
Olesya Nikolaeva
Well, it happens: somewhere elderberry
rushing into the garden and splashes alo with juice,
and the uncle in Kiev swears half drunk
bring down the arrogance of the Muscovite for the joke about the fat.
We have such a mess, such a discord:
as soon as Eros slips in, they will plug him into his belt
womanly chattering nadsad
and a manly tedious policy.
Now, if it had struck, shied through the window
retribution - and well, destroy the district:
all that is small here, lifeless, painful, -
we would gasp together and rush to each other.
JOSEPH BRODSKY
Letters to a Roman friend
It's windy and the waves are overflowing.
Autumn is coming, everything will change in the district.
The change of these colors is more touching, Postumus,
than a dress change at a girlfriend.
Virgo amuses to a certain limit -
you can't go further than the elbow or the knee.
How much more joyful is beauty outside the body:
no hugs are possible, no betrayal!
Joseph Brodsky
I am sending you, Postumus, these books.
What's in the capital? Lay softly? Is it hard to sleep?
How is Caesar? What is he doing? All intrigue?
All intrigue, probably yes gluttony.
I am sitting in my garden, the lamp is on.
No girlfriend, no servants, no acquaintances.
Instead of the weak of this world and the strong -
only the consonant hum of insects.
Here lies a merchant from Asia. explanatory
he was a merchant - businesslike, but invisible.
Died quickly - fever. By trading
he came here for business, not for this.
Next to him is a legionnaire, under rough quartz.
He glorified the empire in battles.
How many times could they kill! and died an old man.
Even here, Postumus, there are no rules.
Indeed, Postumus, a chicken is not a bird,
but with chicken brains enough grief.
If it happened to be born in the Empire,
it is better to live in a remote province by the sea.
And far from Caesar, and from the blizzard.
No need to fawn, cowardly, rush.
Are you saying that all governors are thieves?
But a thief is dearer to me than a bloodsucker.
Wait out this downpour with you, hetera,
I agree, but let's not trade:
take sestertius from the covering body -
It's like demanding shingles from the roof.
I'm running, you say? But where is the puddle?
To leave a puddle I - did not happen.
Here you will find yourself some kind of husband,
it will flow onto the cover.
We've been here for more than half.
As the old slave told me in front of the tavern:
“When we look back, we see only ruins.”
The view, of course, is very barbaric, but true.
Was in the mountains. Now I'm busy with a large bouquet.
I will find a large jug, I will pour water for them ...
How is it in Libya, my Postumus - or where is it?
Are we still fighting?
Do you remember, Postumus, the governor's sister?
Skinny, but with full legs.
You slept with her yet... Recently she became a priestess.
Priestess, Postumus, and communicates with the gods.
Come, let's drink wine, eat bread.
Or plums. Tell me news.
I will make a bed for you in the garden under a clear sky
and I will tell you what the constellations are called.
Soon, Postumus, your friend, who loves composition,
his long-standing subtraction debt will pay.
Take away from under the pillow of savings,
there is not much, but enough for the funeral.
Ride your black mare
into the house of the getters under our city wall.
Give them the price you loved
to pay for the same price.
Green laurel, reaching to shiver.
The door is open, the dusty window,
an abandoned chair, an abandoned bed.
Fabric that soaked up the midday sun.
Pont rustles behind the black hedge of pines.
Someone's ship is struggling with the wind at the cape.
On a dry bench - the Elder Pliny.
A thrush chirps in cypress hair.
First of all, I remembered the recently published new book by Yuri Kublanovskiy "The Long Crossing". This is not just poetry, but a book of poems, referring to Boratynsky and Mandelstam in its harmony of form. A book for long, slow, return reading. Historiosophy and the memory of childhood, light and tenderness, sorrow and ease of poetic breathing - everything is here ...
And then - Andrey Anpilov, whose lines always cause me aching joy. Behind him is "Soldier's Hat", the first publication of the 95-year-old front-line soldier Vasily Dmitrievich Ageev (I received his letter from St. Petersburg from the author a week ago). The work is strange, borderline in relation to poetry and prose, but convincing in its harsh and artless truth.
The verses of the remarkable Minsk poet Igor Polevikov are just as true. His poetry is laconic, chaste, restrained almost to the point of silence. It is always not painting, but graphics. These are the tears of a man who cries not before people, but before God.
In Andrey Smolin's poems (which are also published for the first time) - the air of the northern spring from the open window, a rush to the light and a happy ability to capture a moment ...
Dmitry Shevarov, writer, journalist, literary critic.
YURI KUBLANOVSKY (Moscow)
Autumn stood out then golden -
no rain, no gloom.
Near Izborsk, a blind clairvoyant,
as he entered her room, she immediately recognized:
- Yuri.
Yuri Kublanovskiy
All shone with the meekness of a dove,
as if she took me for a brother.
And in the washed windows above the basin
the fading spectrum of the sunset glowed.
This is incomparable on a narrow bed
the beauty of the Russian prayer life.
Since then, fate has licked half a century.
I skipped my life, forgot to fast,
went wild in his burrow,
looking less and less human
thinking that he will be forgiven.
Now I often lie down, sick.
On the other side of the leaf fall,
if we see each other, Pelageya,
Do you recognize me again as a brother?
ANDREY ANPILOV (Moscow)
Andrey Anpilov
poet, bard, artist
Spring is even lighter than fluff,
The earth is imperceptible delight,
But the heart of a snowflake feels
How a leaf boils in it
Birch, sticky, spring,
Shy and pounding on the door
And the time of remorse lasts
It won't be long, trust me...
VASILY AGEEV (St. Petersburg)
Born in 1923. Front-line soldier. After the war - a designer at the Kirov plant.
Soldier's hat
Our branch
Huddled in a hut -
We built it from fir branches.
Inside the fire warmed us,
Frosty was February 42nd.
The fire burned day and night
More than once the fire approached the soldiers.
So he decided to visit me:
Vasily Ageev
When everyone was sleeping at night
My sweatshirt and hat were smoking.
The attendant helped put out the fire.
The soldier's hat is missing.
How to be, where to get a hat?
For my request
I was refused in the company.
The guys suggested
Remove the hat from the dead soldier.
I had to accept their offer.
On the cutting edge for this
I needed to get through.
I decided to find my way through the forest.
I reached the edge of the forest.
In the clearing - dead soldiers.
I chose a hat from a soldier
Which lay by the bush.
He began to approach this soldier.
suddenly beside me
Two bullets whistled
I fell down and didn't move.
Looks like he hit the sniper's front sight.
He lay there without moving for about ten minutes.
Reception is known, thank God.
The sniper made sure I was dead
And he shifted his gaze, probably to another.
I carefully took off my hat from the dead soldier,
Crawling began to make his way to the forest,
Crawled behind a tree and remembered God.
IGOR POLEVIKOV (Minsk)
poet, literary editor
Igor Polevikov
So it's lonely on a holiday,
when our victorious salute thunders.
And the girl who smiled inadvertently
brings joy and comfort to the soul.
Balloons fly, banners in the sky,
around shiny bottles and knives.
Listen, the chimes are beating again in Moscow,
and everything is drowning in stupid, mediocre lies.
Why watch this show?
Why, brothers, to participate in everything?
There is the song of the river, there is a quiet phenomenon,
there is a life you can't put off until later.
ANDREY SMOLIN (Vologda)
literary critic, poet
Last night was a revolution in nature
(after all, we are predisposed to heat for a long time),
today a strange sudden commotion among the people,
waking sadly looking out the window!
Everything is white-white again on the roofs and boulevards -
lay down fresh snow, almost like on Pokrov ...
On the gray sidewalks tonight
janitors sweep away traces of night gifts.
We stand, thinking - the previous choice happened:
April snow today - for joy or for sadness?
And as Vizbor once sang about the first snow:
where would you lay a bright path with friends?
Is winter back? How else to say?
For joy, as in October, do not cry!
Do not believe the fresh whiteness on the roofs -
Rooks have already laid down houses on poplars ...
I am a historian and am engaged in the 18th century, so Ivan Yelagin is a completely modern poet for me. In addition, we were contemporaries for half a year ... I was born in August 1986, and he died in February 1987. , postgraduate student of the Faculty of History of Moscow State University, author of the portal GL.
IVAN ELAGIN
Violinist
Sounds of the thinnest groove
Slipped off my shoulder
As if he was pulling strings
From a sunbeam.
Ivan Yelagin
Lying on the violin cheek still
The hand was still trembling
And the sound floated drowning
For the straw of the bow.
And the note is almost cobweb
He narrowed so carefully
That the violin seemed like a mine,
Which he unloaded.
***
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Or put up a sign
What wonderful moments
Stop here.
Sunsets are here
Between two big birches
To stand pink
And no one took them away.
At sunset, like a stage,
Here is a bench
Where remained unchanged
For centuries, you and me.
On the edge of a glass wave
There was a huge ship.
To no oceans
He won't get away from us.
And a wave with a crystal beak
Forever bent here
And like a glassblower
The whole evening is made.
Here worries and wandering burden
No one is bothered.
Time is cut out here
Just like appendicitis.
I do not get acquainted with young poems so often, but if I do, it usually happens directly from the words of the author. For example, I became friends with Roma’s poems at the Literary Institute - usually in such cases you look at the author with an awkward smile and say that you don’t understand poetry and that it’s not your thing at all, but at that time they really became friends. Now I sometimes look into Roman's VKontakte group - poems appear there depressingly rarely, but they do appear. Andrey Myagkov, literary critic, author of the GL portal.
ROMAN YAPISHIN
Letters to a Moscow friend
Roman Yapishin
And the Arbat is your hunchback,
And the unbearable night is getting closer.
Don't teach mosquitoes
How not to become a fool from a fly.
Everything is buzzing around.
You can't help them.
Will burn in the wind
And the night will scatter like a moth.
Parting the dirt
In front of a sober gray-haired man.
(Why isn't he drunk?
Why is purple gloomy?)
Because, laughing,
Flew over it barefoot
Eight Philistines.
But it is impossible to say unequivocally.
You didn't recognize him
He trotted over the moon itself,
clockwork pedestrian,
Forever off the road.
You to him: “elder?!”
He answered: “didn’t you beguile, my son?”
What kind of freak are you
What are the good gods rude to you?
You were blind all day
And now you want to drink, but with whom?
Killed friends
That winter, the evil Canaanites.
Ride on a donkey
To the Committee on General Anguish
(Easier - ZhEK).
Give them a price, not in the dark
You continue among the stupid walls
Wasted battery heat.
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March 21 is traditionally celebrated as World Poetry Day, the day of one of the most beautiful forms of art.
Poetry is perhaps the most beautiful of all that has been created by man in his entire long history. Thousands of years ago, it turned out that the poetic form is ideal for expressing the deepest feelings, conveying the perception of the world using rhyme, tormented by doubts, suffering, remembering and dreaming along with millions of readers from different eras, while always being alone with yourself. Only poetry can give such an opportunity.
history of the holiday
This holiday appeared at the initiative of the poetess Tesa Webb from America back in the 30s. XX century, but then it was celebrated unofficially. Then the day was timed to coincide with the date of birth of one of the greatest poets and philosophers of antiquity - Virgil. Accordingly, at first World Poetry Day was celebrated on October 15th.
At the 30th session of UNESCO in 1999, the holiday was officially recognized to support the poetic movement and inspire new generations of poets and writers. In 2000, the celebration of this wonderful day was celebrated for the first time in the French capital (it is in Paris that the headquarters of UNESCO is located).
In each state, various events are held dedicated to a significant date. These can be author's readings, festive concerts with the participation of poets, conferences and round tables where the creative heritage of famous creators is discussed.
The results of modern poetic creativity are presented to the public from the stage, competitions are held for young authors. This format of events gives aspiring bright poets a chance to express themselves, helps them to continue to develop and grow, to find their readers.
The oldest poems, according to historians, were written as early as the 23rd century BC. They were created by Princess En-hedu-ana and the find is confirmed by artifacts. The princess is the earliest author known by name, as well as the first female poet. She was the daughter of the founder of the Akkadian kingdom, King Sargon, and is known from Sumerian hymns.
It is known that the first rhyming dictionaries appeared in the Middle Ages. It is interesting that, for example, the entire Koran is built on rhymes. And the first who compared the cheeks of a young girl with a rose was a poet, as Salvador Dali once said.
In 1999, at the 30th session of the UNESCO General Conference, it was decided to celebrate World Poetry Day on March 21st. The first holiday - World Poetry Day - was celebrated in Paris, where the headquarters of UNESCO is located.
“Poetry,” the UNESCO decision says, “can be the answer to the most acute and deepest spiritual questions. modern man- but for this it is necessary to attract to it the widest possible public attention. In addition, World Poetry Day should give an opportunity to express themselves more widely to small publishing houses, whose efforts mainly reach the readers of the work of contemporary poets, to literary clubs reviving the age-old tradition of a living sounding poetic word.
It has become a good tradition to hold various events, celebrations and new competitions on this day, to present rising poetic talents and their creative works of authorship, to organize evenings of friends of art. The poem makes our culture immeasurably richer and more representative. The brightest works, treasures of the heart, rightfully open up the opportunity to fully experience the uniqueness of the invisible flight of the human soul, to touch greatest story each of us, because each look is beautiful and unique in its own way. It allows you to give not only beautiful poetic forms of words, rhymes, but also a significant part of life that contributes to our own development.
If you are not indifferent to poetry - accept our congratulations on this day! If you are a poet, then this date is your worldwide professional holiday. Happy holiday to you and us, we wish you all poetry!
Interesting facts for World Poetry Day
If you're writing a poem because you just want to capture the feeling you've had, you don't need these tips. Just write what you think is necessary.. Details in the material "How to write a poem: 10 practical tips", which can be used as a theme or scenario for an event or evening.
In the memory of any person there are favorite lines of poetry that he uses when congratulating loved ones or singing his favorite songs. However, few people thought that we owe this to the great poets. Poetry Day 2018 can be a day of gratitude for those who can create amazing rhyming lines.
Indeed, poetry is huge force with which you can express your feelings, experiences and admiration. The semantic sequence of words evokes various emotions and impressions and can touch the soul.
Life cannot be complete without such poets as:
- Shakespeare;
- Lermontov;
- Pushkin and others.
There are different opinions on this issue. Some believe in ancient myths and believe that the first poets appeared during the time of the Celts. It was then that there were two majestic peoples: the baths and the aces, who constantly fought among themselves. At some point, they got tired of doing this, and they created an incredibly wise creature, whose name was Kvasir. The material for the creation of the dwarf was the saliva of the rulers of the warring parties. However, there were enemies who did not like this state of affairs, and they killed the sage by mixing his blood with honey. They placed this mixture in a special vessel. After that, everyone who tasted this composition could compose poetry.
There are scientists who claim that the first poetic words were written by the priestess En-hedu-anna. She was the daughter of Sargon, the ruler who conquered the country of Ur, located on the territory of present-day Iran. The girl glorified the goddess with her poems morning star- Inanna.
Historians studying the development of poetry divide the entire period into four stages:
| Iron | There was no written language during this period. At that time, poets glorified the great battles and their heroes. In poetic terms, these were rather primitive poetic forms. |
| Gold | At this stage, complex speech turns. The poems were mainly devoted to national values and ancestors previously living on earth. |
| Silver | At this time there was original and imitative poetry. An example of the first type is the poetry of Virgil. The second variety was the reworked works of the golden period, which had already been forgotten. Such poets include Juvenal, Horace, Aristophanes, Menander, and others. |
| Copper | This period falls at the time of the decline of the Roman Empire. Poetry ceases to be refined and refined. After the invasion of the barbarians, it began to remain in a state of stagnation. |
According to specialist Thomas Love Peacock, the further development of poetry represents different variants of previous periods.
history of the holiday
For the first time such a holiday was established in the United States. American Poetry Day was initiated by Tessa Sweezy Webb. First, they began to celebrate it in the state of Ohio, the birthplace of the writer. Then it was recognized in other regions of America. By 1951, this list already consisted of 38 states. The birthday of the ancient Greek poet Virgil, October 15, was chosen as the day of the celebration. Thus, a national day of poetry was created.
The idea of a world poetry day was born in 1999 in France. This initiative was supported by the thirtieth assembly of UNESCO, after which the holiday acquired a worldwide character.
The purpose of its establishment is to familiarize the younger generation with the literary values of the past. Unlike our ancestors, today's youth appreciates only what brings real profit. Poetry does not belong to such areas of culture. The UN division decided to correct this situation. Young people should know not only history, but also the literary heritage of previous generations.
This statement fully applies to our country. Young people in Russia began to forget the idols of the past, and yet they are the pride of the nation. To love your Motherland and not to know its history and the great people of the state are unacceptable things. Every young person should know the color of his nation and be proud that great poets and writers, who are known to the whole world, were born on our land. For the first time, Poetry Day in our country was celebrated on the walls of the Taganka Theater.
What number is marked
In 2018, Poetry Day will be celebrated for the nineteenth time. This date is the same every year - March 21. Everyone who is connected with this direction of culture will take part in the celebration. They will also congratulate journalists, critics, translators, editors, teachers and students of philological universities, etc.
Celebration traditions
On this day, all kinds of events related to poetry are held all over the world. Poets of the past are honored, living masters are awarded literary prizes. Both famous poets and young masters of the pen perform at numerous concerts with their works. Problems and issues of literary creativity are discussed at various conferences and seminars. Well-known publications are preparing the release of various almanacs, magazines, books, etc. for this date. Venerable masters pass on experience to young poets.
Television and radio do not stand aside from such celebrations. Television broadcasts are provided not only to the most famous poets, but also to the younger generation. The brightest and most talented writers are provided with the most famous theater venues. Numerous competitions are also held, thanks to which young talents are found.
The new poetic culture is also widely represented on the radio. Beginning poets, who in the future will become the pride of our country, perform on the air of leading radio stations.
The leaders of the country support creative youth. They are provided with various grants that contribute to a wider disclosure of the talents of young people. Congratulations are also addressed to various literary associations.
Celebrations in literary universities are interesting and exciting. There are reports about the poets of the past. Famous poets of our time give creative reports. At various evenings everyone can show their skills. For some aspiring poets, this is a chance to showcase their talent. After such performances, agreements on the release of literary collections are very often concluded.
This day is celebrated by everyone who has the ability to capture their dreams of the future and memories of the past, their worldview from the present, their feelings in verse, who consider themselves involved in the greatest art created by man - poetry.
The celebration is also necessary in order to draw attention to small publishing houses, literary clubs that revive the traditions of the sound of poetic words and try to reveal the talents of modern poets to readers.
Story
It will be interesting for many to get acquainted with the history of the appearance of this holiday:
- Unofficially, World Poetry Day began to be celebrated in the 30s of the last century. And it was proposed by an American poetess. Her name is Tesa Webb. The date was timed to coincide with the birthday of the famous poet and philosopher Virgil and fell on October 15th.
- In order to give new strength to the poetic movement and inspire young writers, according to the decision of UNESCO (at its 30th session), the holiday was given official status. This happened in 1999. And the following year it was held for the first time on March 21 in Paris, where the headquarters of this organization was located.
The soil for creating poetry is a special state of mind. These are periods of love or great trials, world upheavals or wars. Poets have always felt the complex issues of modernity especially acutely and conveyed to the reader through their experiences and emotions. The lines flowing from the very heart conquered many souls and united people. The music of the soul has not become obsolete in any era. Homer, Sophocles, Pushkin, Lermontov, Shakespeare, Anna Akhmatova, Rozhdestvensky, Okudzhava, Yevtushenko do not leave any of us indifferent even now. Interest in their work does not weaken.
Poetry is a symphony of light, which is especially important to convey to the youth of today's society.
Traditions
Various events are held in all countries of the world on this day. Collectives perform poetry concerts. Author's readings, seminars and conferences are held in institutions of culture and art, which are dedicated to the work of recognized poets.
On many stages, new modern poetic literature is presented, competitions for young poets are organized. This allows you to find young, bright and talented people, give them a chance to express themselves, help them in further development abilities and promotion of poetic developments.
In our country, this holiday is actively supported by the Taganka Theater and State Center contemporary art, which hold poetic evenings, competitions of poetic intellectuals on poetic topics. On this day, national literary prizes and poetry awards are presented in many countries.
