We read poetry, we train intonations!

Methodology: I give you specially selected poems with interesting, very characteristic intonations (more precisely, with the possibility of interesting intonations). Your task number 1 is to look for your intonations to read them, find your own way of reading them, read them and record them on a recorder.

Task number 2: listen to these poems as professionals read them, and try to reproduce the poem with the intonations of professionals. Again — record on the recorder.

To make it more convenient to work, here I present the texts of poems for training intonations.

Igor Severyanin

Kenzeli

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In a noisy moire dress, in a noisy moire dress

Along the lunar alley you pass the sea …

Your dress is exquisite, your talma is azure,

And the sandy path from the foliage is patterned —

Like spider legs, like jaguar fur.

For a sophisticated woman, the night is always a newlywed …

The intoxication of love is destined for you by fate …

In a noisy moire dress, in a noisy moire dress —

You are so aesthetic, you are so graceful…

But who are the lovers? And will there be a match for you?

Wrap your legs with an expensive, jaguar blanket,

And sitting comfortably in a gasoline landaulet,

Trust your life to a boy in a rubber mackintosh,

And close his eyes with your jasmine dress —

Noisy moire dress, noisy moire dress!

It was by the sea

​​​​​​​It was by the sea, where the openwork foam,

Where the city crew is rare …

The queen played in the tower of Chopin’s castle,

And, listening to Chopin, he loved her page.

It was all very simple, it was all very nice:

The queen asked to cut the grenade,

And she gave half, and the page wasted,

And she loved the page, all in sonata motifs.

And then she gave herself, she gave herself dreamily,

Until sunrise, the lady slept like a slave …

It was by the sea, where a wave of turquoise,

Where openwork foam and sonata page.

Lilichka (Vladimir Mayakovsky)

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The tobacco smoke has gone out. The room is a chapter in Krunykh’s hell.

Remember — outside this window for the first time your hands, frenzied, stroked.

Today you are sitting here, your heart is in iron,

Another day — you will expel, you can be scolded.

In the muddy front hall, a trembling broken arm will not fit into a sleeve for a long time.

I’ll run out, I’ll throw the body into the street.

Wild, I will go mad, I will be cut with despair.

Don’t do this, dear, good, let’s say goodbye now.

All the same, my love — a heavy weight after all — hangs on you, no matter where you run.

Let the bitterness of offended complaints roar out in the last cry.

If the bull is killed with labor, he will leave, lie down in cold waters.

Apart from your love, I have no sea, and your love cannot beg for rest even by crying.

If a tired elephant wants to rest, the regal one will lie down in the charred sand.

In addition to your love, there is no sun for me, and I don’t know where you are and with whom.

If the poet was so exhausted,

He would exchange his beloved for money and fame,

and I am not happy with any ringing, except for the ringing of your beloved name.

And I won’t throw myself into the span, and I won’t drink poison, and I won’t be able to pull the trigger over my temple.

Above me, except for your gaze, the blade of not a single knife has power.

Tomorrow you will forget that you were crowned, that you burned your blooming soul with love,

and the carnival of vain days will ruffle the pages of my books …

Will dry leaves make my words stop, breathing greedily?

Give at least the last tenderness to cover your outgoing step.

Poems about the Soviet passport

I would wolf bureaucratism wolf.

There are no respect for mandates.

Any piece of paper roll to hell with mothers.

But this …

Along the long front of the compartment and cabins, the official moves suavely.

Passports are handed over, and I hand over my purple booklet.

For some passports — a smile at the mouth.

To others — the attitude is trifling.

With respect take, for example, a passport with a double English left.

Having pierced the eyes of a good uncle, without ceasing to bow,

They take, as if taking a tip, an American passport.

At Polish — they look like a goat on a poster.

In Polish — goggle their eyes in tight police elephantine —

Where, they say, and what is this geographic news?

And without turning the heads of the heads and not knowing any feelings,

They take, without blinking, the passports of Danes and various other Swedes.

And suddenly, as if by a burn, the gentleman’s mouth twisted.

This mister official takes my red-skinned passport.

Takes — like a bomb, takes — like a hedgehog, like a double-edged razor,

He takes it like a rattlesnake at 20 stings a two-meter tall snake.

The porter’s eye blinked meaningfully, even though things will be blown away for free.

The gendarme looks inquiringly at the detective, the detective at the gendarme.

With what pleasure would I have been whipped and crucified by the gendarmerie caste for

That in my hands I have a hammered, sickle Soviet passport.

I would have eaten red tape in a wolf.

There are no respect for mandates.

Any piece of paper roll to hell with mothers.

But this …

I take out from wide trousers a duplicate of a priceless cargo.

Read, envy, I am a citizen of the Soviet Union.

Apollon Maikov

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I would kiss you

Yes, I’m afraid to see the moon

Clear stars will see

A star will fall from the sky

And tell the blue sea

The blue sea will say to the oars,

Oars — Yani the fisherman,

And Yani has love Mara

And when Mara finds out —

Everyone will know in the neighborhood

How do I like you on a moonlit night

Let me into the fragrant garden,

How caressed, kissed,

Like a silver apple tree

She showered us with flowers…

Arseniy Tarkovsky

First dates

Our dates every moment

We celebrated like Epiphany

Alone in the world. You were

Faster and lighter than a bird’s wing

Up the stairs like dizzy

Through the step ran and led

Through the wet lilac to your domain

On the other side of the mirror glass.

When the night came, I had mercy

Donated, altar gates

Opened, and glowed in the dark

And the nakedness slowly sank,

And, waking up: «Be blessed!» —

I spoke and knew that boldly

My blessing: you were sleeping

And touch the eyelids of the blue universe

The lilac reached out to you from the table,

And blue touched eyelids

They were calm, and the hand was warm.

And the rivers pulsated in the crystal,

Mountains smoked, seas glimmered,

And you held the sphere in the palm of your hand

Crystal, and you slept on the throne,

And — good God! — you were mine.

You have awakened and transformed

Everyday human dictionary,

And speech up to the throat with full-sounding power

Filled up, and the word YOU revealed

It meant its new meaning: KING.

Everything in the world has changed, even

Simple things — a basin, a jug, when

She stood between us, as if on guard,

Layered and hard water.

We were led to no one knows where.

They parted before us like mirages,

Miraculously built cities

The mint itself lay down under our feet,

And the birds were with us along the way,

And the fish went up the river

And the sky unfolded before my eyes …

When fate followed us,

Like a madman with a razor in his hand.

And I dreamed about it, and I dreamed about it …

And I dreamed it, and I dreamed it,

And this is what I’ll dream about someday

And everything will be repeated, and everything will be fulfilled,

And you will dream everything that I saw in a dream.

There, away from us, away from the world,

The wave follows the wave against the shore to beat,

And on the wave — a star, and a man, and a bird,

And reality, and dreams, and death — a wave after a wave.

Why count me? I was, and am, and will be.

Life is a miracle of miracles, and in the palm of a miracle

Alone, like an orphan, I lay myself down

Alone, among the mirrors in the fence of reflections

Seas and cities radiating into the haze …

And the mother in tears puts the child on her knees.

Our neighbor Ivan Petrovich

Know our neighbor

All the guys from the yard.

He told them even before lunch

Says it’s time to sleep.

He looks at everyone angrily

He does not like everything:

Why is the window open?

We are in Moscow, not in the Crimea!

Open the door for a minute

He says it’s a draft.

Our neighbor Ivan Petrovich

Sees everything is always wrong.

Today is such a good day

There are no clouds in the sky.

He grumbles: — Put on your galoshes,

There will be heavy rain!

I got better over the summer

I added five kilos.

I noticed it myself —

Running became hard.

— Oh, you, bear clumsy, —

Mom and dad told me

— You added a whole pood!

«No,» said Ivan Petrovich,

— Your child is too thin!

For a long time we kept telling mom:

Time to buy a bookcase!

On tables and under tables

A whole mountain of books.

By the wall with a sofa nearby

The new cabinet is now on.

We were sent to his house

And with difficulty dragged into the door.

So dad was delighted:

— The walls are strong at the closet,

It is trimmed in walnut!

But Ivan Petrovich came —

As always, I upset everyone.

He said that everything is wrong:

With varnish peeling off the cabinet

That he’s not good at all

What a price so penniless

What will he go for firewood

In a month or two!

We have a puppy in our apartment,

He sleeps near the chest.

No, perhaps, in the whole world

Good-natured puppy.

He does not drink from the saucer yet.

In the corridor everyone laughs:

I bring him a pacifier.

— Not! shouts Ivan Petrovich.

“That dog needs a chain!”

But once all the guys

We approached him in a crowd

Guys approached him

And they asked: — What is the matter with you?

Why do you see the clouds

Even on sunny days?

You wipe your glasses better

Maybe they are dirty?

Maybe someone out of spite

Gave the wrong glass?

— Get out! Ivan Petrovich said.

I will teach you now!

I, — said Ivan Petrovich,

I see what I want.

The children went far away:

— Oh, what an eccentric neighbor!

It’s very bad to live in the world,

If you see everything is wrong.

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Why is the cat called a cat? (Samuel Marshak)

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The old man and the old woman

There was a black-eared kitten

Black-eared and white-cheeked,

White-bellied and black-sided.

The old man and the old woman began to think:

— Our black-eared is growing up,

We fed him and made him drunk,

They just forgot to give him a name.

Let’s call the black-eared «Cloud».

May he be big and mighty —

Higher than a tree, more than a house

Let him purr louder than thunder!

“No,” the old woman said, thinking, “

A cloud is lighter than goose down.

The wind blows huge clouds,

Collects them in gray heaps.

The wind whistles loudly and loudly.

Shouldn’t we call the kitten «Wind»?

— No, old woman, — The old man answers, —

The wind only shakes the trees

And the wall stays still

Shouldn’t the kitten be called «Wall»?

The old woman answers the old man:

You have lost your hearing in old age!

Here, listen with me:

Do you hear the mouse rustling behind the wall?

A thief mouse sharpens a tree.

Shall we call the cat «Mouse»?

— No, old woman, — The old man answers, —

The cat eats the mouse with the skin.

So the cat is a little stronger!

Shall we call a cat a cat?

Piglet and foal (Mikhail Yasnov)

Piglet — hay — poro,

Foal — benock — zhere

Once upon a time we walked along the road

Nowhere nowhere.

Piglet — hay — jelly,

Foal — benok — poro

Slipped and fell

And they went downhill.

Piglet — wife — poro,

Zheresenok — hay — zhere

So entangled in a snowdrift

That they couldn’t get up.

The Mouse said to the Cat:

— I saw a miracle yesterday —

A pig neighed in a snowdrift,

What a healthy stallion!

The cat answered the mouse:

— It’s all empty gossip —

I heard: colt

Grunted until night in the snow!

— Nonsense! cried the Mouse.

— Nonsense! cried the Cat.

— Jokes! — Crap! — Nonsense!

— Ridiculous! And sit in the corners.

Piglet — hay — poro,

Foal — benock — zhere

Came out of the snow in the morning

And they said in unison: “Fu-u-u!”

And they moved on slowly.

Piglet caught a cold

And from every well

Drank raw milk.

Black man (Sergey Yesenin)

My friend, my friend, I am very, very sick.

I do not know where this pain came from.

Whether the wind whistles over an empty and deserted field,

Or, like a grove in September, Alcohol showers brains.

My head flaps its ears like a bird’s wings.

Her legs on her neck Looming more unbearable.

Black man, Black, black, Black man Sits on my bed,

Black man Keeps me up all night.

A black man runs his finger over a vile book

And, nasally over me, As over the deceased monk,

Reads to me the life of some scoundrel and bastard,

Catching up on the soul of longing and fear.

Black man, Black, black… «Listen, listen,» he mumbles to me,

There are many wonderful thoughts and plans in the book.

This person lived in the country

The most disgusting thugs and charlatans.

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​In December in that country

The snow is damn clean,

And blizzards start Merry spinning wheels.

There was a man that adventurer

But the highest And the best brand.

He was graceful, moreover, a poet,

Though with a small,

But with a gripping force,

And some woman,

Soroka with more than a year,

He called her a bad girl

And your sweetheart.»

«Happiness,» he said.

There is dexterity of mind and hands.

All awkward souls

The unfortunate are always known.

It’s nothing, what a lot of torment

Bring the broken

And deceitful gestures.

In thunderstorms, in storms, In the coldness of life,

With heavy losses and when you are sad,

Seemingly smiling and simple —

The highest art in the world.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

… The moon has died, The dawn is turning blue in the window.

Oh you night! What have you done, night?

I’m standing in a top hat. No one is with me.

I am alone … And — a broken mirror …

The day will come (Ivan Bunin)

The day will come — I will disappear

And this room is empty

Everything will be the same: table, bench

Yes, an image, ancient and simple.

And it will fly in the same way

Colored butterfly in silk

Flutter, rustle and flutter

Along the blue ceiling.

And so will the bottom of the sky

Look out the open window

and the sea is flat blue

to lure into your deserted space.

Blue colour

Sky blue color

I fell in love from an early age.

As a child he meant to me

The blue of other beginnings.

And now that has reached

I am the pinnacle of my days

Sacrifice the rest of the flowers

I won’t give up the blue.

He is beautiful without embellishment.

This is the color of your favorite eyes.

This is your bottomless look,

Drenched in blue.

This is the color of my dreams.

It is a paint of height.

Into this blue solution

The earthly space is immersed.

It’s an easy transition

Into the unknown from worries

And from crying relatives

At my funeral.

It’s blue thin

Frost over my stove.

It’s a gray winter smoke

The mist over my name.

Wayfarer (Bella Akhmadulina)

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​A beautiful slow road

I’m going to Alekino (it calls itself: Alekino),

and my spirit, measured and healthy,

me again, as if I do not know.

And maybe not contemporary

me the one, on the slope, through the burdock

in Alekino for milk, a wandering traveler.

Yes there,

then, now he goes,

inscribed in the meadow and the sky

for someone’s thought and sadness?

I — only now, in this moment, and he —

always: space frequenter,

thin sandal soles

makes the passage of time

along eternity and slope.

Taking fire on the forehead

heavenly, he is from me

further and further away and will soon disappear.

I look after my soul

as in the twilight on the decline of light,

absent and wandering somewhere

whether still, or already.

And, protruding from the arteries,

cumbersome pulses and bones

hanging like a flock of news

at night not received by the antenna.

Shattered my mind

and fog it up again

drowsy speech, aunt Manya

hands me a glass

steam and primeval moisture.

Sitting. It’s getting dark. Rain.

I’m alive again and again indebted

in the distance of whitening paper.

The old woman is glad that the sons-in-law

removed hay. Silence. Carelessness.

Flowing into infinity

the murmur of life — being.

And again the obsessed traveler

enters the low dawn,

and for a long time I look

on his run is incomprehensible.

Irreparable cheese and live,

he is strictly marching somewhere,

as if for the beauty of the sunset

he is responsible.

Spring (N.I. Kozlov)

You have to work, but you don’t want to.

Spring shied away, appearing!

Dogs urinate on fences

In love to each other, explaining.

The law of spring is universal!

Overcoming earthly forces

I will fly under the sky

Swim in a puddle of warm blue!

And so that you don’t cry down there,

From appetizing clouds-barrels

I will break off the most delicious

And I’ll give you a piece…

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