A selection of poems about the Great Patriotic War. Our memory is our conscience... Poems about the Great Patriotic War Ballads about the war written by children

Poetry 06/21/2018

Dear readers, today I would like to talk to you about a difficult but very necessary topic. A day is approaching that we must always remember, a day that forever changed the history of our country and millions of its inhabitants - June 22, when the Great Patriotic War began.

War is a concept unnatural to the human mind. How much horror this short word carries, how much blood and pain is contained in it... Life is the most sacred thing a person has and how scary it is that it is people who unleash what takes it away...

In wartime, all senses are heightened to the limit, so it is not surprising that there are a great many literary works about this period. All human thoughts and experiences are reflected especially vividly and poignantly in poems about the Great Patriotic War.

How scary it is when this terrible word “war” bursts into an ordinary peaceful summer morning... Fear, confusion, misunderstanding... And at the same time, what admiration is caused by the instant determination of peaceful people just yesterday to stand up for the defense of their Motherland. How vividly this time is described in poems about the beginning of the war on June 22, 1941.

22nd of June

Don't dance today, don't sing.
In the late afternoon pensive hour
Stand silently by the windows,
Remember those who died for us.

There, in the crowd, among loved ones, lovers,
Among cheerful and strong guys,
Someone's shadows in green caps
They silently rush to the outskirts.

They cannot linger, stay -
This day takes them forever,
On the tracks of marshalling yards
The trains are blowing their whistle for separation.

Calling them and calling them is in vain,
They won't say a word in response,
But with a sad and clear smile
Look closely after them.
Vadim Shefner

The longest day of the year
With its cloudless weather
He gave us a common misfortune
For everyone, for all four years.
She made such a mark
And laid so many on the ground,
That twenty years and thirty years
The living cannot believe that they are alive.
And to the dead, having straightened the ticket,
Everyone is coming, someone close to you,
And time adds to the lists
Someone else who is not there...
And he puts up, puts up obelisks.
Konstantin Simonov

June. Russia. Sunday.
Dawn in the arms of silence.
A fragile moment remains
Before the first shots of the war.
In a second the world will explode
Death will lead the parade alley,
And the sun will go out forever
For millions on earth.
A mad storm of fire and steel
It won't turn back on its own.
Two “supergods”: Hitler - Stalin,
And between them there is a terrible hell.
June. Russia. Sunday.
The country is on the brink: to be or not to be...
And this is an eerie moment
We will never forget...
Dmitry Popov

The morning rejoices... And it is clear,
The solar distances are transparent.
Today is the first day of the war...
Although we didn’t know about it yet.
But soon the world of magical dreams
Will go into the fog of memories.
The secret shelter has already been raised
Over the abyss of grief and suffering.
And we walked through the whirlwind of death,
Through fire, ruin and troubles...
And many, many long days
We were separated from victory.
Evgeniy Grudanov

There was not a family in the vastness of our country that would not have been touched by the war in one way or another. Husbands, fathers, sons and daughters went to the front. No less harsh was the life of those who remained in the rear. Hunger, deprivation and constant anxiety for those who are there, who are in battle... The poems about the Great Patriotic War seem to contain all the tears and prayers of mothers and wives who were waiting for their men and children from the front.

The eyes of soldiers' mothers
Filled to the bottom with sadness
How many endless days
While they were apart, they met...

We're used to being silent,
Pray while holding back tears...
Let your chest beat for many years
Hearts. Let the frosts pass

Let the old man not touch your hands,
Hair is a blizzard, faces are wrinkles,
May all the adversities and years
They float past without touching...

It is unthinkable for them to become weaker,
Succumb even for a moment to lack of will...
The eyes of soldiers' mothers
Filled to the bottom with love.
Black Swan

There is no escape from the memory,
Do not know peace, silence.
Remains an eternal pain in the heart
The son who did not return from the war.
Robert Rozhdestvensky

Post-war child
I knew little about the war.
Lines of five funerals
Grandma read in front of me.
I took it out of the chest
She takes care of the package,
There was no silence in her heart
Not for a minute war.
Grandma screamed at night -
What could I, a young man, understand?
Grandma's heart contained
Five never-silent hearts.
Grigory Zaitsev

The mother has aged thirty years,
But there is no news from my son.
But she still keeps waiting
Because she believes, because she is a mother.
And what she hopes for:
Many years since the war ended.
Many years since everyone came back,
Except for the dead that lie in the ground.
How many of them are there in that distant village?
No mustache boys came...
Andrey Dementyev

The wife will bury her husband -
The aspen will drop its leaves.
The widow will cry bitterly:
We need to raise orphans.
And the mother will bury her son -
She will remain the mother of her son.
Nicknames for this sorrow
I couldn't find the people.
Leonard Lavlinsky

One on one with tears,
With unharvested grain in the field
You met this war.
And all without end and without counting -
Sorrows, labors and worries
We fell for you for one.
You walked, hiding your grief,
The harsh way of labor.
The entire front, from sea to sea,
You fed me with your bread.
In cold winters, in snowstorms,
At the one at the distant line
The soldiers were warmed by their greatcoats,
What you sewed with care.
I drove the chopper, I dug, -
And in letters to the front she assured,
It's like you're living a great life.
Mikhail Isakovsky

How many hardships and hardships befell our defenders, how many times they had to look death in the face. And someone was waiting for everyone at home and really believed in their return.

The poems about the war by such famous poets as Alexander Tvardovsky, Konstantin Simonov, Bulat Okudzhava, Musa Jalil and many others so keenly describe what our soldiers felt during that difficult time for the entire country. And these are not empty words. After all, they are all former front-line soldiers themselves, which means they are familiar with the whole soldier’s life firsthand. And they, like no one else, knew how war hurts human souls and were able to convey this to us in their poems.

In a field full of streams,
And on the other side
To the same family, unforgotten
The earth smells like spring.

Hollow water and unexpectedly -
The simplest, field
That nameless grass,
As we have near Moscow.

And, trusting the acceptance,
You might think not
Not these Germans in the world,
No distances, no years.

One might say: is it really
It's true that somewhere in the distance
The wives have grown old without us,
Have the children grown up without us?..
Alexander Tvardovsky

In five minutes the snow has already melted
The overcoat was all powdery.
He lies on the ground, tired
I raised my hand with a movement.
He is dead. Nobody knows him.
But we're still halfway there
And the glory of the dead inspires,
Those who decided to go forward.
We have a harsh freedom:
Dooming the mother to tears,
Immortality of one's people
Buy with your death.

Wait for me and I will come back. Just wait a lot
Wait for the yellow rains to make you sad,
Wait for the snow to blow, wait for the heat,
Wait when others are not expected, forgetting yesterday.
Wait until no letters come from distant places,
Wait until everyone who is waiting together gets tired of it.

Wait for me and I'll be back, don't wish well
To everyone who knows by heart that it’s time to forget.
Let the son and mother believe that I am not there,
Let friends get tired of waiting, sit by the fire,
They will drink bitter wine to commemorate their souls...
Wait. And don’t rush to drink with them at the same time.

Wait for me, and I will return, in spite of all deaths.
Let those who weren’t expecting me say: “Lucky.”
Don’t understand, those who didn’t wait for them, like in the middle of fire
By your waiting you saved me.
How I survived, only you and I will know, -
You just knew how to wait like no one else.
Konstantin Simonov

A rider was riding on a horse. The artillery was screaming.
The tank fired. The soul was burning.
Gallows on the threshing floor...
Illustration for war.
Of course I won't die:
You will bandage my wounds, you will say a kind word.
Everything will drag on by morning...
Illustration for good.
The world is mixed with blood.
This is our last shore.
Maybe someone won’t believe it - don’t break the thread...
Illustration for love.
Bulat Okudzhava

Goodbye, my smart girl,
Be sad about me.
I'll cross the street -
I'll end up at war.

If you get the bullet,
Then there’s no time for meetings.
Well, the song will remain -
Try to save...
Musa Jalil

War does not have a woman's face...

Woman and war... These words cannot and should not stand side by side. After all, the great purpose of a woman is to give life, but war takes it away. And, nevertheless, the contribution of our women to the Great Victory is enormous. Let's read poems about the war by poetess Yulia Drunina.

You must!

Turning pale,
Gritting my teeth until they crunch,
From the native trench
One
You gotta break away
And the parapet
Jump under fire
Must.
You must.
Even if you're unlikely to return,
At least “Don’t you dare!”
The battalion commander repeats.
Even tanks
(They're made of steel!)
Three steps from the trench
They are burning.
You must.
After all, you can't pretend
In front of,
What don't you hear in the night?
How almost hopeless
"Sister!"
Someone is there
Under fire, screaming...

I've seen hand-to-hand combat so many times,
Once in reality. And a thousand - in a dream.
Who says that war is not scary?
He knows nothing about the war.

Uncompressed rye swings.
The soldiers are walking along it.
We too, girls, are walking,
Look like guys.

No, it’s not houses that are burning -
My youth is on fire...
Girls go to war
Look like guys.

Kissed.
Cried
And they sang.
They fought with hostility.
And right on the run
Girl in a mended overcoat
She scattered her hands in the snow.

Mother!
Mother!
I reached my goal...
But in the steppe, on the Volga bank,
Girl in a mended overcoat
She scattered her hands in the snow.

How powerfully all his power of words is revealed in the poems about the war by Vladimir Vysotsky. In simple but chilling words, he was able to describe the horror and pain that this terrible war brought to people.

They clung to the heights as if they were their own.
Mortar fire, heavy...
And we all climbed in a crowd on her,
Like a station buffet.

And the cries of “hurray” froze in my mouth,
When we swallowed bullets.
We occupied that height seven times -
We left her seven times.

And again, everyone doesn’t want to attack,
The earth is like burnt porridge...
For the eighth time we will take it for good -
We'll take what's ours, what's ours!

Is it possible to bypass it?
And why are we attached to her?!
But, apparently, for sure - all fates are paths
On this high-rise they crossed.

Mass graves

There are no crosses on mass graves,
And widows do not cry for them,
Someone brings bouquets of flowers to them,
And the Eternal Flame is lit.
Here the earth used to rear up,
And now - granite slabs.
There is not a single personal destiny here -
All destinies are merged into one.
And in the Eternal Flame you can see a tank bursting into flames,
Burning Russian huts
Burning Smolensk and the burning Reichstag,
The burning heart of a soldier.
There are no tear-stained widows at mass graves -
Stronger people come here.
There are no crosses on mass graves,
But does that make it any easier?..

A great many poems about the war, touching to tears, have been written. They describe the long, difficult path that all our people had to go through on the path to victory. Here are just a few of them.

The boys left with greatcoats on their shoulders,
The boys left - they bravely sang songs,
The boys retreated through the dusty steppes,
The boys died, where - they themselves did not know...
The boys ended up in terrible barracks,
Fierce dogs were chasing the boys.
They killed boys for running away on the spot,
The boys did not sell their conscience and honor...
The boys did not want to give in to fear,
The boys rose to attack at the sound of the whistle.
In the black smoke of battles, on sloping armor
The boys were leaving, clutching their machine guns.
The boys - brave soldiers - have seen
Volga - in forty-first,
Spree - in '45,
The boys showed for four years,
Who are the boys of our people?
Igor Karpov

Thunder struck ten steps away
And filled the glass of silence to the brim
Only medals ring on the chest, and starlings
A flock of soulless starlings teaches the requiem

Thunder struck and its peals knocked on the window
Far
A pair of girl's eyes turned to glass
Unknown author

Women of War

You sit -
Green jackets,
Faces framed with gray hair, -
Women,
Scorched by battles,
Having had their fill of wars.

Peaceful things are more familiar to you,
But trouble came
And you
The capital's skies protected
The everlasting stars of Moscow.

In the midst of the heat,
In the rain
And snowiness
We marched in formation
With everyone
On a par.
How not to lose your tenderness
Are you in the most violent war?

Oh, the words of confession are hoarse,
Drowning in thunder and blood...
The dead won't tell you about love,
The homeland will tell you about love.
Lev Sorokin

Lamentation

Leningrad trouble
I won’t shake my hands
I won’t wash it away with tears,
I won't bury it in the ground.
I am not a word, not a reproach,
Not with a glance, not with a hint,
I am not a hired song,
I am not immodest boasting,
And with a bow to the ground
In a green field
Let me remember...
Anna Akhmatova

On the eve of the glorious holiday of May 9, schools, colleges and lyceums hold matinees, concerts, and open lessons dedicated to the Victory Day of the USSR over Nazi Germany. Adults will always remember the great feat of soldiers and commanders, and the younger generation is yet to become familiar with profound historical facts. Beautiful poems about the war for children will help them study the legendary past of their homeland, learn to honor the merits of veterans, and rethink life values.

Photograph on the wall -
There are memories of the war in the house.
Dimkin's grandfather
On this photo:
With a machine gun near the pillbox,
Hand bandaged
Smiles slightly...
Here for just ten years
Older than Dimka
Dimkin's grandfather.

The spruce froze on guard,
The blue of the peaceful sky is clear.
Years go by. In an alarming hum
The war is far away.

But here, at the edges of the obelisk,
Bowing my head in silence,
We hear the roar of tanks close
And a soul-tearing explosion of bombs.

We see them - Russian soldiers,
That in that distant terrible hour
They paid with their lives
For bright happiness for us...

Day of Remembrance -
Victory holiday,
Carrying wreaths
Living ligature,
Warmth of bouquets
Different colors,
So as not to get lost
Connection with the past.
And the mournful slabs are warmed
Flowers with the breath of the field.
Take it, fighter,
It's all like a gift
After all, this is necessary
Us,
Alive.

Children's poems about the Great Patriotic War 1941-1945

Poems about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945. It is not for nothing that Russian literature is included in the school curriculum for children. After all, it is precisely this kind of poetry that instills in a child a sense of patriotism, respect for the fallen and surviving defenders, and love for his long-suffering and heroically conquered Motherland. Read a few war poems to your children on the eve of Victory Day, learn an excerpt from the poetry of the classics, look at illustrations of poems by eyewitnesses and eyewitnesses.

Guys, I'm at war
I went into battle and was on fire.
Morz in the trenches near Moscow,
But, as you can see, he’s alive.
Guys, I had no right
I'll freeze in the snow
Drowning at the crossings
Give your home to the enemy.
I should have come to my mother,
Grow bread, mow grass.
On Victory Day with you
See the blue sky.
Remember everyone who is in a bitter hour
He himself died, but saved the earth...
I'm giving a speech today
Here's what it's about, guys:
We must protect our homeland
Holy as a soldier!

Grandmother put on the medals
And now she’s so beautiful!
She celebrates Victory Day
Remembering the great war.
Grandma's face is sad.
There is a soldier's triangle on the table.
Grandfather's letter from the front
Even now it is very painful for her to read.
We look at grandfather's portrait
And we shake hands with my brother:
- Well, what kind of grandfather is this?
He's still just a boy!

There are obelisks in Russia,
They have the names of soldiers...
My boys the same age
They lie under the obelisks.
And to them, silent in sadness,
Flowers come from the field
The girls who were waiting for them so much
Now they are completely gray.

Poems for teenagers about the war “to tears”

For a poet, war is too strong an impression: it does not allow one to “keep silent” and causes a flurry of rhymed lines riddled with pain. War poetry includes brave hymns, sad requiems, fatal narratives, and all sorts of reflections. Hundreds of stanzas vividly describe the brave battles, retreats and victories that befell the Soviet people. Poems for teenagers about war bare the soul of the poet and the reader to tears, evoke the most controversial feelings, and inspire deeds and heroism.

One day the children went to bed -
The windows are all darkened.
And we woke up at dawn -
There is light in the windows - and there is no war!

You don't have to say goodbye anymore
And don’t accompany him to the front -
They will return from the front,
We will wait for heroes.

The trenches will be overgrown with grass
At the sites of past battles.
Getting better every year
Hundreds of cities will stand still.

And in good moments
You will remember and I will remember,
Like from fierce enemy hordes
We cleared the edges.

Let's remember everything: how we were friends,
How we put out fires
Like our porch
They drank fresh milk
Gray with dust,
A tired fighter.

Let's not forget those heroes
What lies in the damp ground,
Giving my life on the battlefield
For the people, for you and me...

Glory to our generals,
Glory to our admirals
And to ordinary soldiers -
On foot, swimming, horseback,
Tired, seasoned!
Glory to the fallen and the living -
Thank you to them from the bottom of my heart!

My daughter once turned to me:
- Dad, tell me, who was in the war?
— Grandfather Lenya is a military pilot —
There was a combat aircraft flying in the sky.
Grandfather Zhenya was a paratrooper.
He didn't like to remember the war
And he answered my questions:
— The battles were very difficult.
Grandma Sonya worked as a doctor,
She saved the lives of soldiers under fire.
Great-grandfather Alyosha in cold winter
He fought with enemies near Moscow itself.
Great-grandfather Arkady died in the war.
Everyone served their homeland well.
Many people did not return from the war.
It's easier to answer who wasn't there.

It seemed cold to the flowers
and they faded slightly from the dew.
The dawn that walked through the grass and bushes,
searched through German binoculars.
A flower, covered in dewdrops, clung to the flower,
and the border guard extended his hands to them.
And the Germans, having finished drinking coffee, at that moment
they climbed into the tanks and closed the hatches.
Everything breathed such silence,
it seemed that the whole earth was still asleep.
Who knew that between peace and war
Only about five minutes left!
I wouldn't sing about anything else,
and would glorify my journey all my life,
if only a modest army trumpeter
I sounded the alarm for these five minutes.

Sad poems “to tears” about the Great Patriotic War

Sad to tears poems about the Great Patriotic War are not simple - they are special. In all of Russia you cannot find a family without a distant front-line history: happy or tragic. Poetry written in 1941-1945. and after the fatal victory, they taught and are learning by heart. Teenagers study war poems at school, adults - at the university and in their home circle of relatives. Through the lines of front-line sketches and requiems, scenes of attacks and retreats, exploits of heroes, and a mortal battle for their Motherland are visible.

THANK YOU HEROES,
THANK YOU SOLDIERS,
That they gave the WORLD,
Then - in forty-five!!!

You are blood and sweat
We got VICTORY.
You were young
Now they are grandfathers.

WE WILL THIS VICTORY -
We will never forget!!!
May the sun be PEACEFUL
Shines for all people!!!

May happiness and joy
They live on the planet!!!
After all, the world is very necessary -
Both adults and children!!!

In a harsh year, we ourselves have become stricter,
Like a dark forest, silent from the rain,
And, oddly enough, it seems younger
Having lost everything and found it again.
Among the grey-eyed, strong-shouldered, dexterous,
With a soul like the Volga at high water,
We became friends with the talk of the rifle,
Remembering the order of our dear Motherland.
The girls didn’t see us off with a song,
And with a long look, dry from melancholy,
Our wives held us tightly to their hearts,
And we promised them: we will defend it!
Yes, we will defend our birthplaces,
Gardens and songs of the grandfather's country,
So that this snow, which has absorbed blood and tears,
Burnt out in the rays of an unprecedented spring.
No matter how much rest the soul desires,
No matter how thirsty the hearts may be,
Our harsh, masculine business
We will see it through - and with honor - to the end!

Black clouds are creeping in
Lightning flashes in the sky.
In a cloud of flying dust
The trumpets are sounding alarm.
Fight a gang of fascists
The Fatherland calls for the brave.
The bullet is afraid of the brave,
The bayonet does not take the brave.
Planes rushed skyward,
The tank formation moved.
Infantry companies sing
They went out into battle for their homeland.
Song - winged bird -
The brave ones are invited to go on a hike.
The bullet is afraid of the brave,
The bayonet does not take the brave.
We will cover you with immortal glory
The battles have their own names.
Only for brave heroes
The joy of victory is given.
The brave strives for victory,
Brave is the way forward.
The bullet is afraid of the brave,
The bayonet does not take the brave.

Poems about the war “to tears” for a reading competition at school

On Victory Day, educational institutions across the country hold competitions for reciters of war poems that are sad to the point of tears. Most young talented performers prefer to learn works by Russian classics about the difficult, sometimes tragic fate of soldiers and commanders, their families and the entire Motherland. But poems about the Great Patriotic War by modern authors are also popular in reading competitions in schools and lyceums. Both poetry is filled with living meaning, genuine pain of loss and triumph from a great victory.

Life itself taught me.
She told me,-
When the armor was on fire
And I was on fire, -
Hold on, she told me
And believe in your star
I'm the only one on earth,
And I won't let you down.
Hold on, she said, for me.
And, having thrown back the hatch, he
I escaped from the darkness of the fire -
And again he crawled to his friends.

There are no crosses on mass graves,
And widows do not cry for them,
Someone brings bouquets of flowers to them,
And the Eternal Flame is lit.

Here the earth used to rear up,
And now - granite slabs.
There is not a single personal destiny here -
All destinies are merged into one.

And in the Eternal Flame you can see a tank bursting into flames,
Burning Russian huts
Burning Smolensk and the burning Reichstag,
The burning heart of a soldier.

There are no tear-stained widows at mass graves -
Stronger people come here.
There are no crosses on mass graves,
But does that make it any easier?

On a stretcher, near the barn,
On the edge of a recaptured village,
The nurse whispers, dying:
- Guys, I haven’t lived yet...

And the fighters crowd around her
And they can’t look her in the eye:
Eighteen is eighteen
But death is inexorable to everyone...

After many years in the eyes of my beloved,
What's looking into his eyes,
The glow of the glow, the sway of smoke
Suddenly a war veteran sees.

He will shudder and go to the window,
Trying to light a cigarette while walking.
Wait for him, wife, a little -
He is now in his forty-first year.

Where, near the black barn,
On the edge of a recaptured village,
The girl babbles, dying:
- Guys, I haven’t lived yet...

Poems on a military theme for a reading competition, sad to tears

Readers choose their own sad poems on a military theme for the competition. Perhaps you already have your favorite works, but we decided to present you with these. They are dedicated to those who saved our future, did not spare their lives in a duel with the enemy, and gave the next generations hope for a peaceful sky above their heads.

Rifle companies are fighting,
Tired, in gray overcoats.
Legendary infantry fighters
Expendable... like targets.

They are fried by mortar fire,
A shovel keeps you warm in cold weather...
Doesn't remember the company commander's last name
A soldier killed nearby.

Hungry... Without sleep... Exhausted,
Covered with frozen snow
Orlov, and perhaps Vasiliev,
He was killed by a German shrapnel...
The gates are wide open,
Not knowing the coming hardships,
Reinforcements are flowing into the companies
In hastily patched overcoats.

How few of them are left on earth
My legs can't walk and my wounds bother me,
And at night they smoke, so that in a nightmare,
Again they were not shot at on the battlefield.

Don't let your grandchildren suffer from war
And the dirt will not touch her descendants,
Let the former company sergeant smoke
And listens to his great-granddaughter laugh.

Where the grass is damp with dew and blood,
Where the pupils of machine guns look fiercely,
In full growth, above the front line trench,
The victorious soldier rose.

The heart beat against the ribs intermittently, often.
Silence... Silence... Not in a dream - in reality.
And the infantryman said: “We’ve given up!” Basta!-
And he noticed a snowdrop in the ditch.

And in the soul, yearning for light and affection,
The singing stream of the former joy came to life.
And the soldier bent down to his bullet-ridden helmet
Carefully adjusted the flower.

Came to life again in memory were alive -
Moscow region in the snow and fire, Stalingrad.
For the first time in four unimaginable years,
The soldier cried like a child.

So the infantryman stood, laughing and sobbing,
Trampling a thorny fence with a boot.
A young dawn burned behind my shoulders,
Foretelling a sunny day.

Short poems for adults about war

Even in the absence of significant scientific and historical narratives about the Great Patriotic War, its literary comprehension was important for Soviet people. The theme of military battles sometimes allowed front-line poets and witness writers to covertly lay out the “everyday” truth about Soviet foundations. At that time, the brilliant rhymers were more relaxed and freer in comparison with their literary predecessors. Their symbolic, sad and sorrowful short poems for adults about the war have survived to this day. Check out the best examples in our selection.

I know it's not my fault
The fact that others did not come from the war,
The fact that they - some older, some younger -
We stayed there, and it’s not about the same thing,
That I could, but failed to save them, -
This is not about that, but still, still, still...

And the one who today says goodbye to her beloved, -

Let her transform her pain into strength.

We swear to the children, we swear to the graves,

That no one will force us to submit!

It’s important to say goodbye to the girls,

They kissed their mother as they walked,

Dressed up in everything new,

How they went to play soldiers.

Neither bad, nor good, nor average...

They are all in their places,

Where there are neither first nor last...

They all slept there.

Poems about the Patriotic War of 1941-1945 - short and sad

At one time, many short poems for adults about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-19467 were surrounded by the discontent of officials and gross aggression from the censorship. Others, on the contrary, became military songs of national importance (for example, Laskin or Lebedev-Kumach). But both the first and second deserve attention from readers. Today, military poems form the backbone of a huge branch - military literature.

Behind the Narva gates were

There was only death ahead...

So the Soviet infantry marched

Straight into the yellow vents of "Bert".

This is what books will be written about you:

“Your life is for your friends,”

Unpretentious boys -

Vanka, Vaska, Alyoshka, Grishka, -

Grandchildren, brothers, sons!

Everything will change around.
The capital will be rebuilt.
Children awakened by fright
Will never be forgiven.

Fear will not be forgotten,
Furrowed faces.
The enemy will have to do it a hundredfold
You will have to pay for this.

I will remember his shelling.
Time will count in full
When he did what he wanted
Like Herod in Bethlehem.

A new, better century will come.
Eyewitnesses will disappear.
The torment of little cripples
They won't be able to forget.

There was a battery behind this hill,

We can't hear anything, but the thunder remains here.

Under this snow, corpses still lie around,

And the waves of hands remained in the frosty air.

The signs of death do not allow us to take a single step.

Today again, again the slain are rising.

Now they will hear the bullfinches singing.

Long poems about the war by Russian classics

In this section we have collected for you long poems about the war by Russian classics. This is not just tragic poetry, it is the living voice of real eyewitnesses. And today, while loud discussions about the days of the Great Patriotic War have not yet subsided, it is the war poems of Soviet poets that are the most impartial evidence of facts from our deep history. Long and sad poems by classics about the war of 1941-1945 lift the curtain on the reader over the terrible events, physical and mental torment of Soviet heroes.

Mother! I am writing these lines to you,
I send you my filial greetings,
I remember you, so dear,
So good - there are no words!

You read the letter, and you see a boy,
A little lazy and always on time
Running in the morning with a briefcase under his arm,
Whistling carefree, to the first lesson.

You were sad, if I was a physicist, it happened
The diary was “decorated” with a harsh deuce,
I was proud when I was under the arches of the hall
I eagerly read my poems to the children.

We were careless, we were stupid,
We didn't really value everything we had,
But they understood, maybe only here, during the war:
Friends, books, Moscow disputes -
Everything is a fairy tale, everything is hazy, like snowy mountains...
So be it, we’ll come back and appreciate it doubly!

Now there's a break. Gathering at the edge of the forest,
The guns froze like a herd of elephants,
And somewhere peacefully in the thick of the forests,
As in childhood, I hear the voice of the cuckoo...

For life, for you, for your native land
I'm walking towards the leaden wind.
And even if there are kilometers between us now -
You are here, you are with me, my dear!

In a cold night, under an unkind sky,
Bow down and sing a quiet song to me
And together with me to distant victories
You walk the soldier's road invisibly.

And no matter what the war threatens me on the way,
You know, I won’t give up as long as I’m breathing!
I know you blessed me
And in the morning, without flinching, I go into battle!

Wait for me and I will come back.
Just wait a lot
Wait when they make you sad
Yellow rains,
Wait for the snow to blow
Wait for it to be hot
Wait when others are not waiting,
Forgetting yesterday.
Wait when from distant places
No letters will arrive
Wait until you get bored
To everyone who is waiting together.

Wait for me and I will come back,
Don't wish well
To everyone who knows by heart,
It's time to forget.
Let the son and mother believe
In the fact that I am not there
Let friends get tired of waiting
They'll sit by the fire
Drink bitter wine
In honor of the soul...
Wait. And at the same time with them
Don't rush to drink.

Wait for me and I will come back,
All deaths are out of spite.
Whoever didn't wait for me, let him
He will say: “Lucky.”
They don’t understand, those who didn’t expect them,
Like in the middle of fire
By your expectation
You saved me.
We'll know how I survived
Just you and me, -
You just knew how to wait
Like no one else.

The fire is beating in the small stove,
There is resin on the logs, like a tear,
And the accordion sings to me in the dugout
About your smile and eyes.

The bushes whispered to me about you
In snow-white fields near Moscow.
I want you to hear
How my living voice yearns.

You are far, far away now.
Between us there is snow and snow.
It's not easy for me to reach you,
And there are four steps to death.

Sing, harmonica, in spite of the blizzard,
Call lost happiness.
I feel warm in a cold dugout
From your unquenchable love.

Long poems by contemporaries about the war

Dozens of Russian poets (including Anna Akhmatova, Alexander Tvardovsky, Boris Pasternak, Bulat Okudzhava, Vyacheslav Popov) left an eternal mark on the deep and tearful war poetry. Their long and sad poems about the difficult days of the Great Patriotic War are painfully familiar not only to veterans and “children of war,” but also to many schoolchildren, students and conscientious adults who are not indifferent to the heroic past of their Motherland.

The longest day of the year

With its cloudless weather

He gave us a common misfortune -

For everyone. For all four years.

She made such a mark,

And laid so many on the ground,

That twenty years, and thirty years

The living cannot believe that they are alive.

And to the dead, straightening the ticket,

Everyone is coming from someone close to you.

And time adds to the lists

Some others, some not.

And he puts up, puts up obelisks.

So what if I was there? I was a long time ago, I forgot everything.
I don't remember the days, I don't remember the dates. And those forced rivers.
I am an unidentified soldier. I am a private, I am a name.
I missed the target with a well-aimed bullet. I'm bloody ice in January.
I am firmly sealed into this ice. I am in it like a fly in amber.

So what if I was there? I forgot everything. I've forgotten everything.
I don’t remember dates, I don’t remember days, I can’t remember names.
I am the tramp of driven horses. I shout hoarsely as I run.
I am a moment of an unlived day, I am a battle on the far side.
I am the flame of eternal fire, and the flame of the cartridge case in the dugout.

So what if I was there? In that terrible thing to be or not to be.
I almost forgot all this, I want to forget all this.
I am not participating in the war, the war is participating in me.
And the flame of eternal fire burns on my cheekbones.

I can no longer be excluded from these years, from that war.
I can no longer be cured from those snows, from that winter.
And from that winter, and from that land, I can no longer be separated.
Until those snows where you can no longer discern my traces.

No orchestra sounds, no tears, no speeches.
The surroundings are silent. They bury the boys.
There are dozens of men in the soldier's grave:
Deprived of strength, they lie as one.

Wearily shovels flash in the distance,
It's as if the soldiers are sparing the land.
And suddenly: “Wait!” - the driver's cry...
They look at the dead - they froze for a moment.

Along the side of the chaise, among those who fell yesterday,
A nurse lies with her braids spread out.
They look guilty, not knowing what to do:
To the grave of the soldiers or to hammer next to them?

There is confusion on their faces: their work is not easy!
What decision will the soldiers come to?
Rolled cigarettes smoke, the dawn grows dark,
And the pine trees in the area are silent for a reason...

January cold: the earth is like granite.
It's a ridiculous service to bury a soldier!
Passing the funnels, the carts creak,
And to the side they are already knocking with pickaxes.

Beautiful and sad to tears poems about the war for children and adults are collected in our collection. Choose the ones that are most suitable for home reading or a reading competition at school. Long poems by contemporaries and eyewitnesses about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945 will not leave anyone indifferent.

We present to your attention a selection of good poems about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945.
All poems about the war are unique, patriotic - written. Many of these poems will move you to tears and will be warmly received by veterans and combatants. You can read them to your friends and family on May 9th.

On Victory Day - May 9!

A nice spring day with a military march!
I'm watching the parade in honor of Victory Day.
Veterans are getting older today
and everyone is glad to return to their youth.

As if on a string, the soldiers beat their steps,
maintaining alignment and formation.
They are naturally rich in courage.
Do not harm us, enemy, do not bother us!

The parade thunders through the hero cities
to the glory of warriors and partisans.
Rejoice, Fatherland, building the future
for new generations of Russians!

The victory was given in full by the great God.
But the victims haunt me.
We must be tougher and stricter with our enemies,
to avoid such losses for the country.

More honor to the hero warriors!
More benefits for the dear army!
Let the enemy know that by disturbing the Russians,
seriously risks his head.

Soldiers walk with aiguillettes.
Excellent bearing and structure.
Rich in generosity from birth
and are ready to give their life in a dashing moment.

Play, orchestra, military march after march!
Cannons thunder in the cities, parade!
I'm like a soldier who has become years older,
I'm glad to see the banners of Russian glory.

Victory Day

The sun woke up, letting in the day,
Languishing from the May warmth.
A blue abyss has opened,
Painting the domes with gold.

Great holiday - Victory Day
Both sorrow and joy are hidden in him.
Heroes! Great-grandparents
We were baptized by fire.

Orders, medals sparkle,
Flags flutter in the wind.
The whole world was waiting for that victory,
Smashing the fascist horde.

Now we remember this date -
National Victory Day.
It contains glory to every soldier.
There is peace and joy in it for the entire planet.

We remember! We have not forgotten!
The glory of the Soviet banners.
Those under whom the grandfathers walked
In wartime attacks.

To the Soldiers of Victory!

In bloody, endless battles,
Both day and night under fire,
And sometimes leaving for eternity,
You defended your father's house.

You defended holy Rus',
Under the blue sky there are domes.
And the Russian faith, simple,
That good is stronger than evil.

And wherever I am today,
I look up sadly.
I look into the cloudless sky
And it’s like I see those guys.

And on the day of our great glory,
We will carry - like an image -
Portraits of those soldiers of the state,
Over whom did the thunderstorm pass then?

THANK YOU VETERANS

Here bullets sang and shells whistled,
The soldiers obscured the country with their chests...
A scythe wanders in the field nearby,
Checking the graves time after time...

Machine drum roll
It sounded like a deadly echo here,
I kept looking around for the guilty,
And I found fearlessly desperate...

Both people and tanks mixed in the dance,
This is the last dance for many,
And the price of a scorched tango
Every heir must remember...

The light clink of soldiers' dog tags
Soon it will be replaced by the ringing of medals...
Veterans, bow to you to the floor,
Because they fought for us...

Great Patriotic War 1941-1945

Fathers and grandfathers fought for Victory.
There were successes, but more - troubles!
Bitter heard my father's stories
I'm talking about war. - Not empty phrases.

How many soldiers died for the land?
I heed the bright memory of sorrow.
How many women, men and children?!
Isn't it all about the numbers?

How much merciless and terrible pain
It fell to people in captivity.
How many people did the Nazis kill?
They burned them in ovens and buried them in the ground!

The bitter memory of this remains.
But the fascists will also lie in their graves.
The new fascism was completely exhausted in tears:
He judges the past differently.

THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR

I will touch the history of things on the war.
Oh, how majestic is endless Rus'.
From east to west in the dawns she...
Suddenly the peaceful dawn is interrupted by war.

Victory was forged in blizzard and snow.
In the heat and muddy roads they beat the enemy.
Paid in full by a soldier's life,
The war is washed with tears and blood.

Military salutes thundered over the Reichstag.
The Kremlin chimes will sing about Victory.
In the hearts, in the obelisks of Russia there are sons,
Like a memory, like an echo of a bloody war.

Four years passed after Victory Day.
One war for all, all the people.
From the walls of Moscow, the ruins of Stalingrad
We walked to Berlin through the gates of hell.

1945th victorious

There was a victorious fireworks display in the country.
Not all,
not everyone in 1945 admired him.
In the victorious pain-spaces
that country -
the graves of those
which are there in memory
remained....
And how many orphans of that war
wandered around that country hungry?
In their memory
fathers year after year
metal in their hearts,
in the sadness and pain of mothers
melted...

JUNE 22, 1941

Early in the morning when people are sleeping
When you have beautiful dreams.
Bombs are flying towards your heads,
This means the beginning of the war.

The Nazis came like jackals,
Nobody invited them to visit them.
How much grief they brought
But the fascist did not understand this.

Their armadas are bombing their cities,
Communists and Jews are expendable.
They want to establish their own order,
Bring the people to their knees.

They rob valuables and take them to the Reich,
The bastards don’t disdain anything.
They walk boldly across our land,
The fascists have become completely insolent.

Everyone died in the Brest Fortress,
But they didn’t give the Nazis a blitzkrieg
It was, yes, the regiments were retreating,
But they were already clenching their fists.

A fascist was stopped near Moscow,
In Stalingrad, a “cauldron” was built,
And near Kursk, Manstein is a revanchist,
He brought his tanks to the fire.

They drove the enemy from their land,
The Europeans were saved as much as they were lost.
And in Berlin, breaking their horns,
Our soldier hoisted the red banner!

The people will not forget this day,
Candles of memory will burn.
If someone starts a hike,
They wouldn't have to regret it either.

Poems about the Great Patriotic War

Ballad of anti-aircraft gunners

How to see behind the days
Is the trail unclear?
I want to bring you closer to my heart
this trail...
On battery
were entirely -
girls.
And the eldest was
eighteen years.
Dashing bangs
over the cunning squint,
bravura contempt for war...
That morning
the tanks are out
straight to Khimki.
The same ones.
With crosses on the armor.

And the eldest
really getting old
as if shielding himself from a nightmare with his hand,
commanded subtly:
- Battery!
(Oh mommy!..
Oh dear!..)
Fire! –
AND -
volley!
And here they are
they started voting
girls.
They wailed to their heart's content.
Ostensibly
all the woman's pain
Russia
in these girls
suddenly responded.
The sky was spinning -
snowy,
pockmarked.
There was a wind
scalding hot.
Epic cry
hung over the battlefield,
he was heard louder than the explosions,
this cry!
To him -
lingering -
the earth listened
stopping at the death line.
- Oh, mommy!..
- Oh, I'm scared!..
- Oh, mom!.. –
And again:
- Battery! –
And already
in front of them
in the middle of the globe
to the left of the nameless hillock
were burning
unbelievably hot
four black
tank fires.
The echo echoed over the fields,
The battle was bleeding slowly...
The anti-aircraft gunners screamed
and they shot
smearing tears down my cheeks.
And they fell.
And they rose again.
For the first time defending in reality
and your honor
(literally!).
And the Motherland.
And mom.
And Moscow.
Spring springy branches.
Solemnity
wedding table.
Unheard:
“You are mine – forever!..”
Unsaid:
"Iwaited for you..."
And my husband's lips.
And his palms.
Funny mumbling
in a dream.
And then to scream
in the maternity ward
home:
“Oh, mommy!
Oh, mom, I’m scared!!”
And a swallow.
And rain over Arbat.
And the feeling
complete silence...
...It came to them later.
In forty-five.
Of course, to those
who came himself
since the war.

(R. Rozhdestvensky)

***

Remember! Through the centuries, through the years - remember!
About those who will never come again - remember!
Do not Cry! Hold back the moans in your throat, the bitter moans.
Be worthy of the memory of the fallen! Eternally worthy!
With bread and song, dream and poetry, spacious life,
Be worthy with every second, with every breath!

People! While hearts are knocking, remember!
At what price was happiness won - please remember!
When you send your song into flight, remember!
About those who will never sing again - remember!
Tell your children about them so they will remember them!
Tell your children's children about them so that they remember them too!

At all times of the immortal Earth remember!
When leading ships to the twinkling stars, remember the dead!
Welcome the vibrant spring, people of the Earth.
Kill the war, curse the war, people of the Earth!
Carry your dream through the years and fill it with life! .
But about those who will never come again, I conjure, remember!

(R. Rozhdestvensky)

"At forty-four"

Luckyto the frontboyComrade military doctor.My mother,mommy,don't pet medo not Cry!I'm wearing a military uniform -Don't pet me in front of others!I'm wearing a military uniformon meyour boots.Do not Cry!I'm already twelveI'm an adultalmost…Double,double,doublerail tracks.There are documents in my pocket -The military seal is strict.There are documents in my pocket,according to whichI am the son of the regiment.Illustrious,guards,tested in fire.I'm going to the front.I hope,that the Browning will be given to me.That I'm on attackI won't be afraidthat my time has come...Seeing meold womengroan heavily:“Son...Little soldier...That's rightthe days have come..."My mother,mommy!Explain everything to them quickly!Tell,what is this forare they roaring at me?For whatare they petting me?Why sonname?And they whisper something indistinctly,and they stick a dark roll...

Russia is mine,No need!Don't pet me!And don't cry!Don't pet me!I justfuture son of the regiment.And no heroismI didn't commitBye!And even you don't understandwhat's ahead of me...Double,double,doublerail tracks.The train moves smoothlyswaying absurdly, -longand very slowlike a queuefor bread…

(Robert Rozhdestvensky)

Excerpt from the poem “Two Hundred and Ten Steps”

There was a school.

Shape - for growth

Shooting in the morning.

The drill is in vain.

Semi-annual

accelerated release.

And on the buttonhole -

two cubes...

There was a train

in a long way

Russia,

went to war

through the flickering birches

“We will smash them!..”

“We will overcome them!..”

“We will prove to them!..” -

The locomotive was humming.

In the vestibule,

Toil on the thundering arrows,

all blown out

draft,

he grew up along the way -

This Boy -

thin neck,

ears up...

Only in dreams,

occupying the shelf

in a frenzy

tobacco smoke,

he forgot about everything

not for long.

And he smiled.

He dreamed

something open

and blue.

Sky,

or maybe

sea wave...

"Tanks!!."

And immediately heart-rending:

“For battle!..”

This is how they met:

and War...

The air was filled with thunder,

humming.

The world was broken

was distorted...

This

seemed like a mistake

vision

strange,

a monstrous mirage...

Only a vision

didn't work:

behind the tanks

at the bridge

dusty guys

in gray uniforms

walked

and they shot from the stomach!..

The sleepers stood up!

The embankment was rocking!

Besides the fire

You can't see a thing!

It's like it's a planet

was ending

there,

where were they attacking now?

enemies!

As if she was becoming

less and less!..

Shivering

from nearby grenade explosions, -

black,

confused,

numb -

in a hard cuvette

the lieutenant was lying.

Boy

lay in the middle of Russia,

all her arable lands,

roads

and aspen...

What are you doing, platoon commander?!

“We’ll prove it!..”

“We’ll master it!..”

Here he is -

fascist!

Prove it.

And mastered it.

Here he is -

fascist!

Frantic and powerful

howls

his famous

steel...I know,

that it is almost impossible!

I know it's scary!

And still

stand up!

Stand up

lieutenant!..

Do you hear,

ask for it

re-emerging

from oblivion,

your house

permeated with sunlight,

City.

Fatherland.

Your mother...

Asks

high star scattering,

mountains,

the bend of every river!..

Marshal

orders

and asks:

"Stand up, Lieutenant!

Try!

Can you..."

The villages are asking

smelling of burning.

Sun,

like a bell

there's a buzz in the sky!

Asks from the future

Gagarin!

You

you won't rise -

won't take off...

They ask

your unborn children.

History asks...

And then

got up

lieutenant.

And walked across the planet,

shouting out of order:

"Let's go!!."

Got up

and went towards the enemy,

like blindly.

(Immediately became wet

back.)

The lieutenant has stood up!..

And came across

on a bullet.

Big and hard

like a wall...

He shuddered

as if from the winter wind.

He fell slowly

like a chant.

He fell for a long time...

He fell

instantly.

He even shoot

did not have time!

And for him it came

solid

and endless silence...

How did this fight end?

Don't know.

I know,

how did it end

this war!..

He's waiting for me

beyond the inevitable.

I imagine him

night and day -

skinny boy

just accomplished

stand up

under fire

and step

under fire!..

(Robert Rozhdestvensky)

Mamaev kurgan

Hundreds of years
spread widely
across huge water
silent river...
Above all Everests -
Mamaev kurgan!
It’s a shame there’s no mention of this in textbooks.
not a line.
In vain it is not said in them,
that the Earth is warming
and the Earth brightens,
because on it,
about the Mamaev mounds
I tell you to remember,
light up
thousands of Eternal Lights...
I have to come back here.
For good and for bad.
I have to come here.
Crawl.
Fly in.
And, clutching my heart at that height,
gasping for breath
swallow rarefied air.
I have to come back here.
From small losses.
From well-groomed countries.
And fever dreams.
Bumping into people's long groans
and chain mail
ringing orders...
In vain it is not said in the books,
Mamaev kurgan,
what metal
in your stunned insides
more,
than in the famous Magnetic Mountain!
That was enough for his friends too.
And to enemies.
Instead of dew drops,
like blind stubble,
iron shows through
oozing blood...
And therefore
the most important part
in the gravity of the Earth -
your attraction!..
You
flowers sprouted.
You
sprouted with tears.
You stand,
enduring funeral torments.
Bluish lightning
slow thunderstorms,
like a memory bell,
are hitting you!
And then the birds rise from the ground
and sways nervously
steppe grass.
Come alive
completely worn out
words.
And on the slabs
wearily
crutches are knocking.

(R. Rozhdestvensky)

Ballad of Colors

He was red, like a stew made from saffron milk caps.
Red, like oranges in the snow.
Mother joked, mother was cheerful:
"I gave birth to a son from the sun..."
And her other one was black and black.
Black, like burnt tar.
She laughed at the questions and said:
"The night was too black..."
In the forty-first, forty memorable year
The loudspeakers shouted trouble.
Both sons, both two, the salt of the Earth,
They bowed to mom at the waist and left...
I had a chance to smell the young ones in battle
Red mad fire and black smoke,
The evil greenery of stagnant fields,
The gray color of front-line hospitals.
Both sons, both two, two wings,
They fought until Victory. Mother was waiting.
She did not anger, she did not curse fate.
The funeral went around her hut.
She was lucky, happiness suddenly struck her.
One lucky person in three villages around.
Lucky her, lucky her, lucky! –
Both sons returned to the village.
Both sons, both two, flesh and become...
There are countless golden orders.
The sons sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
The legs are intact, the arms are intact - what else?
They drink green wine, as usual...
Both of their hair colors changed.
The hair became deathly white...
Apparently there is a lot of white paint on the war.

(R. Rozhdestvensky)

And where
Suddenly strength comes
At the hour when
Is it black in the soul?..
If I
Was not the daughter of Russia,
I would have given up long ago
I gave up
In forty-one.
Do you remember?
defensive ditches,
Like exposed nerves
They started snaking around Moscow.
Funeral,
wounds,
Ashes...
Memory,
Soul to me
Don't start a war
Only time
I don't know any cleaner
And sharper
To the homeland of love.
Only love
Gave people strength
In the middle of a roaring fire.
If I
Didn't believe in Russia
Then she
She wouldn't have believed in me.

(Yu. Drunina)

CHRISTMAS TREE

There was still a calm on the second Belorussian,
The short last day of December was approaching sunset.
Hungry mice crunched on crackers in the dugout,
Those who came running to us from villages burned to the ground.

This was the third time I celebrated New Year's Eve at the front.
It seemed that there was no end in sight for this war.
I wanted to go home, I realized that I was dead tired.
(It’s the calm that’s to blame - there’s no time for sadness in the fire!)

The dugout looked like a grave in four steps.
The stove was dying. Frost has crept under the quilted jacket...
Then the guys from the company reconnaissance burst in laughing:
- Why are you alone? And why are you hanging your nose?

She went out with them into freedom, into the angry breeze from the dugout.
I looked at the sky - did the rocket burn out, the star?
Warming up the engines, German tanks roared,
Sometimes the mortars fired into God knows where.

And when I got used to the semi-darkness little by little,
Then I froze in disbelief: illuminated by fires
The beautiful Christmas tree stood proudly and modestly!
And where did it come from in the middle of an open field?

It was not the toys on her, but the rubbed cartridges that glittered,
Trophy chocolate hung between the cans of stew...
Touching the frozen paws of the spruce with a mitten,
Through tears, I looked at the guys who immediately became quiet.

My dear d'Artagnans from company reconnaissance!
I love you! And I will love you to death,
all life!
I buried my face in these branches that smelled of childhood...
Suddenly there was a collapse of an artillery attack and someone’s command: “Get down!”

Counterattack! A piece of shrapnel pierced the sanitary bag,
I bandage the guys in the furious black snow...

How many sparkling New Year trees there were later!
I forgot them, but I can’t forget this one...

(Yu. Drunina)

ZINKA
In memory of fellow soldier - Hero of the Soviet Union Zina Samsonova.

1.
We lay down by the broken fir tree,
We are waiting for it to start getting brighter.
It's warmer for two under an overcoat
On chilled, damp ground.
- You know, Yulka, I am against sadness,
But today it doesn't count.
Somewhere in the apple outback
Mom, my mother lives.
You have friends, darling,
I only have one.

Spring is bubbling beyond the threshold.
It seems old: every bush
A restless daughter is waiting.
You know, Yulka, I am against sadness,
But today it doesn't count...
We barely warmed up,
Suddenly an unexpected order: “Forward!”
Again next to me in a damp overcoat
The blonde soldier is coming.

2.
Every day it became more bitter,
They walked without rallies or banners.
Surrounded near Orsha
Our battered battalion.
Zinka led us on the attack,
We made our way through the black rye,
Along funnels and gullies,
Through mortal boundaries.
We didn't expect posthumous fame
We wanted to live with glory.
...Why in bloody bandages
The blonde soldier is lying down?
Her body with her overcoat
I covered it, clenching my teeth,
The Belarusian winds sang
About the Ryazan wilderness gardens.

3.
- You know, Zinka, I am against sadness,
But today it doesn't count.
Somewhere in the apple outback
Mom, your mother lives.
I have friends, my love,
She had you alone.
The house smells like bread and smoke,
Spring is bubbling beyond the threshold.
And an old lady in a flowery dress
She lit a candle at the icon.
I don't know how to write to her
So that she doesn't wait for you...

(Yu. Drunina)

Pilot's song

There are eight of them - there are two of us - the layout before the fight
Not ours, but we will play!
Seryozha, hold on! There is no light for us with you,
But the trump cards must be leveled.

I will not leave this square of heaven -
The numbers don't matter to me right now:
Today my friend protects my back
This means the chances are equal.

A Messer came up behind me, but then it began to smoke,
The propellers howled loudly, -
They don't even need crosses on their graves -
Crosses on the wings will do!

I am the “First”, I am the “First” - they are under you!
I went out to cross them!
Put out the flames, go into the clouds - I'll cover you!
There are no miracles in battle.

Sergey, you're on fire! Trust, man,
Now on to the reliability of the slings!
No, it’s too late - and the “Messer” came out to meet me, -
Goodbye, I'll take it head on!..

I know that others will settle scores with them, -
But, gliding through the clouds,
Our souls will take off like two airplanes -
After all, they can’t live without each other.

The Archangel will tell us: “It will be hard in heaven!”
But only the gate - click -
We will ask God: “Write me and my friend in.”
To some angelic regiment!

And I will ask God, the Spirit and the Son, -
To fulfill my will:
May my friend always protect my back,
Like in this last battle!

We will ask God for wings and arrows, -
After all, they need an ace angel, -
And if they have a lot of fighters -
Let them accept us as guardians!

Keeping is also an honorable thing, -
Carry luck on the wing
The same as Seryozha and I were during our lifetime,
Both in the air and on the ground.
(V. Vysotsky)

Song about the end of the war
They knock down tables from boards in the yard,
Until they cover it, they are knocking on dominoes.
The days in May are longer than the nights in December,
But time drags on - and everything is decided.
Now the pre-war lamps are burning at full intensity -
And from the windows Moscow looked down on the prisoners...
And somewhere a soldier was still struck in the heart by a shrapnel,
And somewhere the scouts need to get a “tongue”.
The banners are already being renewed. And they build them in columns.
And the cobblestones in the square are as clean as the parquet floor.
And yet, echelons are coming and going to the West.
And the women in the rear come over the funeral.
Haven't drunk enough spring water,
No wedding rings purchased for future use -
Everything was washed away by the stream of people's misfortune,
Which is finally coming to an end.
Crosses made from strips of paper were torn off the glass.
Here are the curtains - away! There is no need for darkening anymore.
And somewhere they distribute alcohol from a flask before a fight,
He drives out everything - cold, fear, and plague.
The soot from candles is already being cleaned from the icons.
Both the soul and the lips say prayers and poetry.
But with the red cross everyone comes and goes in trains,
Although the losses according to the reports are not so great.
Gardens are already blooming everywhere.
And the earth warmed up, and the water in the ditches.
And soon the reward for military labors -
A pillow of fresh grass in the heads.
Balloons no longer hover over the city.
The sirens fell silent, preparing to sound victory.
But the company commanders will still have time to go to battalion commanders,
Who can still easily be killed.
The trophy accordions have already begun to sound,
So vows are heard to live in harmony, love,
without debts,
And yet echelons go and go to the West,
And it seemed to us that there were no enemies left at all.
1977

( V. Vysotsky)

***

How sad it is for us to stand at the obelisks

And see grieving mothers there.

We bow our heads low -

Prostration for your sons.

Centuries-old pines rustle in the wind,

Flowers burn with an unfading fire.

To you, the mother of heroes of all Russia,

We give our love and tenderness!

Heirs of this great glory,

We honor it and carefully preserve it.

We were rightfully proud of our heroes

And we want to become like them.

Consider us your sons!

Consider us your daughters!

You lost your children in battles,

And we all became your children.

(L. Kondratenko)

"Front-line paths"

Sometimes our memory will not retain everything,

But even today the gray-haired soldiers see

Volga steppe, Black Sea granite.

The paths at the front will be remembered again,

You only touch the yellowed cards with your hand,

Snow near Moscow, rain near Rostov,

April fog behind a strange river...

What paths have we taken, guys?

What barriers we managed to break!

Faces are erased, dates are erased -

Never forget military roads!

Distant time seems close to us,

Yes, there are not very many friends among us -

Marking the paths, there are obelisks,

They tell a silent story about the battles.

Dates are erased, faces are erased,

But it will bloom victoriously and forever

On May 9th fireworks over the capital,

Tying the front lines in a knot.

We will go through the whole country from edge to edge,

Leaving, if necessary, the birth threshold,

So that the Holy Fatherland may work peacefully,

Not knowing troubles and military roads.

(V. Matveev)

***

Lightly touching the dry bread with your lips,
Inhaling the familiar smell until the black circles,
A girl stood in the park - with eyes halfway across the sky!
Quietly shivering from the cold, without tears and without words.

A puppy appeared unnoticed from the darkness
He stretched out his muzzle and, looking straight into her eyes,
No, he didn’t whine - it was as if he was praying to God,
Swallowing air, and glancing over the bread...

She looked down, pursed her lips like an old woman,
Clutching a precious piece in a chilly palm,
She rushed to the side and ran as best she could...
Leningrad was sleeping.
And someone else's hated puppy

I lay down on my stomach and crawled through the January snow,
It's a pity, whining, and hoping to catch up with the fugitive
She slipped on the ice and fell while running,
I tried to get up and stand several times...

But, exhausted, she sighed, curled up in a ball,
I remembered my grandmother, grandfather, sister and mother,
Holding tightly onto that very cherished piece,
No, I didn’t cry - I started reading Pushkin.

The music of the lines melted and melted in the air.
For some reason the evil moon flickered like a candle...
A small warm lump brought her back to life,
He snorted loudly and nuzzled his shoulder.

Salty pieces of ice rolled from under my eyelashes,
Thin hands found the stubborn man by touch,
They broke the bread and gave him half
They pressed it to my heart and saved me from death...

There was no miracle. The Neva was bubbling under the ice!
But no one was shocked by the strange duet:
The dead girl slept quietly near the station
With a dead puppy in his arms. Dawn was breaking...

THAT LONG-awaited MAY

Having heard the phrase about the military,
And suddenly turning to me,
Sometimes they ask right away:
- What war is this about?

About that war - the most terrible one,
About that endless war
Where death followed glory,
Where was it quite a year for ten years?

About that - domestic, terrible,
Where life was worth nothing...
Our men died
And sometimes it’s just like that.

Then, of course, there were wars,
But you can't compare them all to one,
So we will be worthy of memory,
Paid at such a price!

And if they say “Victory!”
Don't ever forget
About that war, about the blood, about my grandfather...
About the most long-awaited May!

Peter Davydov

Do you think the fallen are silent?
Of course, yes - you say. Wrong!
They scream while they're still knocking
The hearts of the living and the nerves touch.
They scream not somewhere, but at us.
They shout for us. Especially at night
When there is insomnia in the eyes
And the past crowds behind you.
They scream when there is peace, when
Field winds come to the city,
And the star speaks to the star,
And the monuments breathe as if they were alive.
They scream and wake us up, the living,
Invisible, sensitive hands.
They want a monument to them
There was an Earth with five continents.
Great! She flies in the darkness
Rocket speed to the globe is reduced.
All residential. And walks on the Earth
Barefoot Memory is a small woman.
She walks, crossing ditches,
No visa or registration required.
In the eyes is the loneliness of a widow,
That is the depth of a mother's sadness.
Her steps are silent and light,
Like the breezes on the half-asleep grasses.
Scarves are changed on the head -
Banners of countries shocked by war.
Either the French flag, or the British flag,
Now the Polish flag, now the Czech, now the Norwegian...

But it doesn’t go out on the shoulders for the longest time
The crimson flag of my Soviet country.
He is the flag of victory. With its glow
He illuminated both the sorrow and joy of the meeting.
And maybe now I covered it
My fellow countrywoman has thin shoulders.

And here he comes, without concealing his sadness,
My anxiety, my pain and muse.
Or maybe this is a Gdańsk seamstress?
Or maybe this is a laundress from Toulouse?
She goes, leaving her comfort,
Not about yourself - worrying about the world.
And the monuments honor her.
And the obelisks bow to the waist

Egor Isaev,
excerpt from the poem “The Court of Memory”

The photo is included in an old book...

Photo included in an old book
And forgotten among the yellowed pages.
Short, in an overcoat, some guy,
Smiling, he looks out from under his long eyelashes.

Pencil inscription: “Winter, forty-third”,
And, a little lower, another: “Died like a hero”...
How many of them - nameless heroes - are there in the world,
How many of them never returned home!..

They would live without worries, and be friends, and fall in love,
Only suddenly on a summer day they declared war.
And they, taking rifles, at eighteen,
They went to the front - to die defending the country...

No matter how many destinies have been made, no songs have been sung,
How many wives and mothers were left without sleep...
So why, why in this terrible summer
Suddenly a war appeared on our land?!

The picture from the textbook comes to life again,
Pushing the boundaries of events and dates.
As if in memory of the past, from an old photograph
An unfamiliar soldier looks at him, smiling.

He is a hero. It means he didn't give up
This means he didn’t take a step back.
Maybe he was left alone in the trench,
Covering the retreating detachment,

Maybe in the roar of the hoarse German guns
The battalion led the attack...
Only he did not return, like many people -
Those who never returned from these battles.

Let freedom come too dearly to us,
The more valuable it is for those living now.
And a yellowed leaf - a forgotten photo -
It's like a monument to everyone who fought for us.

They gave their lives so that the world could go on,
Spring was coming, birds were singing,
So that another boy smiles at the camera
And he looked embarrassedly from under his long eyelashes.

Svetlana Odinokaya

Alyoshenka

The mother has aged thirty years,
But there is no news from my son.
But she still keeps waiting
Because she believes, because she is a mother.

And what does she hope for?
Many years since the war ended,
Many years since everyone came back,
Except for the dead that lie in the ground.
How many of them are there in that distant village?
No boys without mustaches came...

Once they sent me to the village in the spring
Documentary film about the war.
Everyone came to the cinema: both old and young,
Who knew war and who did not.

Before the bitter memory of people
Hatred flowed like a river.
It was hard to remember...
Suddenly the son looked at his mother from the screen.
The mother recognized her son at that very moment,
And a mother’s cry rang out:

“Alexey, Alyoshenka, son!”
As if her son could hear her.

He rushed out of the trench into battle.
His mother stood up to cover him with herself,
I was always afraid that he might fall,
But through the years the son rushed forward.

"Alexei!" - the fellow countrymen shouted,
"Alexei!" - they asked, - “Run!”
...The frame changed. The son remained to live.
He asks the mother to repeat about her son.

And again he runs to the attack,
Alive and well, not wounded, not killed.

“Alexey, Alyoshenka, son,”
As if her son could hear her...

At home everything seemed like a movie to her,
I've been waiting for everything - now out the window
In the midst of alarming silence
Her son will come knocking from the war.
(A. Dementyev)

Monument

It was at dawn in May,
The battle intensified near the walls of the Reichstag.
I noticed a German girl
Our soldier on the dusty pavement.

She stood at the post, trembling,
There was fear in his blue eyes.
And pieces of whistling metal
Death and torment were sown all around.

Then he remembered how, saying goodbye in the summer,
He kissed his daughter
Maybe this girl's father
His own daughter was shot...

But now, in Berlin, under fire,
The fighter crawled and, shielding him with his body,
A girl in a short white dress
He carefully took it out of the fire.

How many children have their childhood restored?
They gave joy and spring.
Privates of the Soviet Army,
People who won the war!

And in Berlin on a holiday
Was erected to stand for centuries,
Monument to the Soviet soldier
With a rescued girl in her arms.

He stands as a symbol of our glory,
Like a beacon shining in the darkness.
This is him, a soldier of my state,
Protects peace throughout the world!
(G. Rublev)

On the threshold of Victory

Red flag, Reichstag, forty-fifth,
Meters left until the happiness of Victory,
But the soldiers stumbled upon lead,
Orphan troubles multiplied in the huts.

Fireworks will go off!
Thousands of autographs
The Reichstag will be installed on granite walls!
But not now.
Evil bullets prowl
Death has not left the hellish scene:

Hitler is kaput! And the Nazis were defeated.
But the sniper is being targeted from cover.
It’s bitter, brothers, lie down and stay
In mass graves in Berlin, at the target.

- Kolya! Well, how?! - a soldier without a mustache
He sobs loudly over his friend, the sergeant.
– What will I tell nurse Marusya?
I got food for three days?!...

In his simple uniform, in raincoats
Soldiers smoke in between battles,
And on the threshold of the Great Victory
Death awaits them in an everyday, eerie way.

They remember the dead, the burned huts,
But having opened the scorched souls,
Soldiers pour soup for a German girl,
Petting the boy:
- Eat, eat!

Lair of the beast, Reichstag, forty-fifth,
The Victory Banner flutters proudly!
Soldiers are sleeping in the foreign land of Russia...
Everlasting memory!
And happy holiday, Grandfathers!
(G. Stanislavskaya)

River Nara

…in the battle of Moscow the enemy was
stopped at the turn of the river. Bunks...
From the "History of the Great"
Patriotic War"

Nara River, Nara River,
Not long, not wide,
But when it is necessary -
Impregnable river.
Here on this river Nara
Into the ground, into the sky, into the fire, into the ice
Vros international
Untrained people.
And, as if next door,
Protecting the human race,
Took your last
And a decisive fight.
The bayonet broke from the blow...
Bloody fist...
He will not offend Naru,
This guy is Siberian.
Here is a Lezgin crawling with a grenade,
Grabbing black snow with your mouth:
Here, by this river Nara,
He protects his home.
And war is not a fairy tale
Happy sugary ending!
Here is a Bashkir tenth grader
I fell face first into the Russian snow.
There is frost on my mustache,
The pain in the eyes hardened:
Then in the snow near the Nara River
The Zaporozhye Cossack fell.
We know it’s not in vain
A handful of guys fell
What's in the mass grave now?
BROTHERLY - do you hear?! - are lying.
For the country near the Nara river
folded their heads,
They gave everything, everything they needed...
But it was necessary - life.

(E. Grinberg)

I am the ancestors of the Slavic blood

I am the ancestors of the Slavic blood.
I am the soldier's widow's tear,
Overgrown trench blade of grass,
The dying battle is a thunderstorm.

I am the moan of a young soldier
Killed in the first battle.
I am the feeling of sudden loss
When they give a funeral.

I am the stars on the obelisks,
The tenacity of Soviet soldiers
Those killed near Naro-Fominsk,
Without taking a step back.

I am the bitter joy of Victory!
I am proud of the Russian people!
And no matter what I do
And wherever I am,
All this lives with me!

(Yuri Solovyov)

On this page, the author of the publication has selected poems about the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945 that will bring tears to your eyes. The bitterness of losses and separations, maternal tears, the joy of meeting and victories, revenge, rage, love for the homeland - the feelings that war gives rise to.

Our site is mainly for school-age children, but the more we selected insightful poems about war, the clearer it became that even famous authors, for example Konstantin Simonov, have poems about war that are very difficult for child psychology.

May there still be more joyful sunny days in our lives and fewer tears of mothers, children and fathers.

Robert Rozhdestvensky
BALLAD OF A LITTLE MAN

On Earth mercilessly small
Once upon a time there was a small man.
His service was small.
And a very small briefcase.
He received a small salary...
And one day - a beautiful morning -
knocked on his window
It seemed like a small war...
They gave him a small machine gun.
They gave him small boots.
They gave me a small helmet
and a small - in size - overcoat.
...And when he fell, it was ugly, wrong,
turning his mouth out in an attacking cry,
then there was not enough marble in the whole earth,
to knock a guy out in full force!

In May 1945

A. D. Dementyev

The news of the Victory spread instantly...
Among smiles, joy and tears
Military Academy Band
He carried her through the noisy streets.

And we boys rushed after him -
Barefoot army in tattered clothes.
The pipe floated in the sun, like a halo,
Above the head of the gray-haired orchestra player.

The victorious march thundered through the alleys,
And the city died from excitement.
And even Kolka, an inveterate mischief maker,
He didn't bully anyone that morning.

We walked through the streets
To the relatives and the poor,
Like going to the train station
To meet fathers.
And the light slid across our pale faces.
And someone's mother began to sob loudly.

And Kolka, my friend,
Joyfully and timidly
He smiled from ear to ear at passers-by,
Not knowing,
There's a funeral tomorrow
From the past war he will come to his father.

He's been gone for a long time now,
That fair-haired soldier...
The letter wandered for more than twenty years,
And yet it reached the addressee.
Blurred by the years like water
From the first letter to the last dot,
The lines were throwing and jumping
Before the eyes of a gray-haired woman...
And the silent memory led
Along a torn and thin thread,
She was still a girl in the letter,
Another dream and song was...
He has now unraveled everything in his soul...
As if she heard a quiet moan -
The husband lit a cigarette and carefully walked out
And the son immediately hurried somewhere...
And here she is alone with the letter,
Even in the letter he jokes and laughs,
He's still alive, he's still at war,
There is still hope that he will return...

REQUIEM(Robert Rozhdestvensky)
(Excerpt)

Remember!
Through the centuries,
in a year, -
remember!
About those,
who won't come anymore
never, -
remember!

Do not Cry!
In the throat
hold back your moans
bitter moans.
In memory
fallen
be
worthy!
Forever
worthy!

Bread and song
Dreams and poems
life
spacious,
every second
with every breath
be
worthy!

People!
As long as hearts
knocking -
remember!
Which
at the cost
happiness is won, -
Please,
remember!

Your song
sending you flying -
remember!
About those,
who never again
won’t sing, -
remember!

To my children
tell us about them
so that
remember!
For children
children
tell us about them
so that too
remember!
At all times
immortal
Earth
remember!
To the twinkling stars
leading ships, -
about the dead
remember!

Meet
tremulous spring,
people of the Earth.
Kill
war,
curse
war,
people of the Earth!

Carry your dream
in a year
and life
fill it up!..
But about those
who won't come anymore
never, -
I conjure, -
remember!

Alexey Nedogonov "MOTHER'S TEARS"

How the iron winds of Berlin blew,
How military thunderstorms boiled over Russia!
A Moscow woman saw off her son...

Forty-one is a bloody, sultry summer.
Forty-third - attacks in the snow and frosts.
The long-awaited letter from the infirmary...
Mother's tears, Mother's tears!

Forty-fifth - there is a battle beyond the Vistula,
The Russians are tearing up the Prussian land with bomb trucks.
And in Russia the candle of expectation does not go out...
Mother's tears, Mother's tears!

The fifth snow began to swirl and covered the road
Over the bones of the enemy near the Mozhaisk birch.
The gray-haired son returned to his native threshold...
Mother's tears, Mother's tears!

Yu. Drunina

I've seen hand-to-hand combat so many times,
Once in reality. And a thousand - in a dream.
Who says that war is not scary?
He knows nothing about the war.

YOU MUST!
Yu. Drunina

Turning pale,
Gritting my teeth until they crunch,
From the native trench
One
You gotta break away
And the parapet
Jump under fire
Must.
You must.
Even if you're unlikely to return,
At least "Don't you dare!"
The battalion commander repeats.
Even tanks
(They're made of steel!)
Three steps from the trench
They are burning.
You must.
After all, you can't pretend
In front of,
What don't you hear in the night?
How almost hopeless
"Sister!"
Someone is there
Under fire, screaming...

Sergey Orlov
HE WAS BURIED IN THE EARTH'S BALL...

They buried him in the globe,
And he was just a soldier,
In total, friends, a simple soldier,
No titles or awards.
The earth is like a mausoleum to him
For a million centuries,
And the Milky Ways are gathering dust
Around him from the sides.
The clouds sleep on the red slopes,
Blizzards are sweeping,
Heavy thunder roars,
The winds are taking off.
The battle ended a long time ago...
By the hands of all friends
The guy is placed in the globe,
It's like being in a mausoleum...

Before the attack
(S. Gudzenko)

When they go to death, they sing,
And before that you can cry.
After all, the most terrible hour in battle is
An hour of waiting for an attack.

The snow is full of mines all around
And turned black from mine dust.
A breakup and a friend dies.
And that means death passes by.

Now it's my turn.
I'm the only one being hunted.
Forty-one be damned
And the infantry frozen in the snow...

Blockade
Nadezhda Radchenko

The black barrel of the blockade night.
Cold,
Cold,
very cold.
Inserted instead of glass
cardboard.
Instead of the neighboring house -
funnel.
Late.
But for some reason mom is still missing.
Barely alive, she went to work.
I really want to eat.
Scary.
Dark.
My brother died.
In the morning.
For a long time.
Water came out.
Don't reach the river.
Very tired.
There is no strength anymore.
The thread of life is stretched thin.
And on the table -
funeral for father.

Musa Jalil (1943)
BARBARISM

They drove the mothers with their children
And they forced me to dig a hole, but they themselves
They stood there, a bunch of savages,
And they laughed in hoarse voices.
Lined up at the edge of the abyss
Powerless women, skinny guys.
A drunken major came with copper eyes
He looked around the doomed... Muddy rain
Hummed through the foliage of neighboring groves
And on the fields, clothed in darkness,
And the clouds descended over the earth,
Chasing each other furiously...
No, I won't forget this day,
I will never forget, forever!
I saw rivers crying like children,
And Mother Earth wept in rage.
I saw with my own eyes,
Like the mournful sun, washed with tears,
Through the cloud it came out into the fields,
The children were kissed for the last time,
Last time.. .
The autumn forest rustled. It seemed that now
He went crazy. raged angrily
Its foliage. The darkness was thickening all around.
I heard: a powerful oak suddenly fell,
He fell, letting out a heavy sigh.
The children were suddenly seized with fear,
They huddled close to their mothers, clinging to their hems.
And there was a sharp sound of a shot,
Breaking the curse
What came out of the woman alone.
Child, sick little boy,
He hid his head in the folds of his dress
Not an old woman yet. She
I looked, full of horror.
How can she not lose her mind?
I understood everything, little one understood everything.
- Hide me, mommy! Do not die!
He cries and, like a leaf, cannot stop trembling.
The child that is dearest to her,
Bending down, she lifted her mother with both hands,
She pressed it to her heart, directly against the muzzle...
- I, mom, want to live. No need, mom!
Let me go, let me go! What are you waiting for?
And the child wants to escape from his arms,
And the crying is terrible, and the voice is thin,
And it pierces your heart like a knife.
- Don't be afraid, my boy. Now you can breathe freely.
Close your eyes, but don't hide your head,
So that the executioner doesn't bury you alive.
Be patient, son, be patient. It won't hurt now.
And he closed his eyes. And the blood ran red,
A red ribbon snakes around the neck.
Two lives fall to the ground, merging,
Two lives and one love!
Thunder struck. The wind whistled through the clouds.
The earth began to cry in deaf anguish,
Oh, how many tears, hot and flammable!
My land, tell me, what's wrong with you?
You have often seen human grief,
You have bloomed for us for millions of years,
But have you experienced it at least once?
Such a shame and such barbarity?
My country, your enemies threaten you,
But raise the banner of great truth higher,
Wash its lands with bloody tears,
And let its rays pierce
Let them destroy mercilessly
Those barbarians, those savages,
That the blood of children is swallowed greedily,
The blood of our mothers.

NO ONE IS FORGOTTEN
A. Shamarin

“No one is forgotten and nothing is forgotten” -
Burning inscription on a block of granite.
The wind plays with faded leaves
And the wreaths are covered with cold snow.
But, like fire, at the foot there is a carnation.
No one is forgotten and nothing is forgotten.

"A boy from the village of Popovki"

S. Ya. Marshak

Among the snowdrifts and funnels
In a village destroyed to the ground,
The child stands with his eyes closed -
The last citizen of the village.

Scared white kitten
A fragment of a stove and pipe -
And that's all that survived
From my former life and hut.

White-headed Petya is standing
And cries like an old man without tears,
He lived in the world for three years,
And what I learned and endured.

In his presence they burned down his hut,
They drove mom away from the yard,
And in a hastily dug grave
The murdered sister lies.

Don't let go of your rifle, soldier,
Until you take revenge on the enemy
For the blood shed in Popovka,
And for the child in the snow.

"ENEMIES BURNED THEIR HOME..."
Isakovsky M.

Enemies burned down my home
They killed his whole family
Where should the soldier go now?
To whom should I bear my sorrow?
The soldier went in deep grief
At the crossroads of two roads
Found a soldier in a wide field
Grass-overgrown hillock
The soldier stands and looks like a lump
Stuck in his throat
The soldier said
Meet Praskovya
Her husband's hero
Prepare a meal for the guest
Set a wide table in the hut
Your day, your holiday of return
I came to you to celebrate
No one answered the soldier
Nobody met him
And only a warm summer evening
Rocked the grave grass
The soldier sighed and adjusted his belt.
He opened his traveling bag
I put a bottle of bitter
On the gray gravestone
Don't judge me Praskovya
Why did I come to you like this
I wanted to drink to your health
And I must drink for the peace
Friends and girlfriends will get together again
But we will never meet again
And the soldier drank from a copper mug
Half the wine with sadness
He drank soldier servant of the people
And he spoke with pain in his heart
I've been coming to you for four years
I conquered three powers
The soldier was drunk and a tear was rolling
Tear of unfulfilled hopes
And there was a glow on his chest
Medal for the City of Budapest
Medal for the City of Budapest

Grandfather's story

Andrey Poroshin

Yesterday Grandfather Zhenya told me:
The partisan detachment was surrounded.
They have eighteen grenades left,
One pistol and one machine gun.

There are more and more dead soldiers in the squad,
The fascists are squeezing the ring ever tighter, -
They are behind the bushes, they are behind the stones.
And my grandfather shouted: “The Motherland is with us!”

And everyone ran towards the enemy,
And they started throwing grenades as they ran.
Everyone fought bravely, forgetting about death, -
And so, they managed to make a breakthrough.

They went through the forest through the swamp:
And then my grandfather was awarded a medal.

On a stretcher, near the barn,
On the edge of a recaptured village,
The nurse whispers, dying:
- Guys, I haven’t lived yet...

And the fighters crowd around her
And they can’t look her in the eye:
Eighteen is eighteen
But death is inexorable to everyone...

After many years in the eyes of my beloved,
What's looking into his eyes,
The glow of the glow, the sway of smoke
Suddenly a war veteran sees.

He will shudder and go to the window,
Trying to light a cigarette while walking.
Wait for him, wife, a little -
He is now in his forty-first year.

Where, near the black barn,
On the edge of a recaptured village,
The girl babbles, dying:
- Guys, I haven’t lived yet...

Yu. Drunina

Eduard Asadov

Stockings

They were shot at dawn
When there was a white darkness all around.
There were women and children
And there was this girl.

First they told everyone to undress,
Then turn everyone’s back to the ditch,
But suddenly a child’s voice was heard.
Naive, quiet and lively:

“Should I take off my stockings too, uncle?” -
Without reproaching, without threatening
They looked as if looking into the soul
Three-year-old girl's eyes.

“Stockings too!”
But for a moment the SS man was overcome with confusion.
The hand by itself in an instant
Suddenly the machine gun lowers.

He seems to be shackled with a blue gaze,
My soul woke up in horror.
No! He can't shoot her
But he gave his turn in a hurry.

A girl in stockings fell.
I didn’t have time to take it off, I couldn’t.
Soldier, soldier! What if my daughter
Did yours lie here like that?

And this little heart
Pierced by your bullet!
You are a Man, not just a German!
But you are a beast among people!

...The SS man walked sullenly
By dawn, without raising your eyes.
For the first time maybe this thought
It lit up in the poisoned brain.

And everywhere the look shone blue,
And everywhere it was heard again
And will not be forgotten to this day:
“Uncle, should I take off my stockings too?”

K. Simonov
“Kill him!” (“If your home is dear to you...”)

If your home is dear to you,
Where were you raised Russian?
Under the log ceiling
Where were you, rocking in a cradle, floating;
If there are roads in the house
Walls, stove and corners for you,
Grandfather, great-grandfather and father
It has well-worn floors;

If the poor garden is dear to you
With May flowers, with the buzzing of bees
And under the linden tree a hundred years ago
A table dug into the ground by grandfather;
If you don't want the floor
A German trampled in your house,
So that he sits at his grandfather's table
And he broke the trees in the garden...

If your mother is dear to you -
The breast that fed you,
Where there has been no milk for a long time,
You can just press your cheek;
If you can't bear it,
So that the German, standing next to her,
He hit the wrinkled cheeks,
I wrapped the braids around my hand;
So that the same hands of hers
That they carried you to the cradle,
We washed the bastard's underwear
And they made his bed...

If you haven't forgotten your father,
Who rocked you in his arms,
That he was a good soldier
And disappeared in the Carpathian snows,
Who died for the Volga, for the Don,
For your fatherland's fate;
If you don't want him
Rolling over in his grave
So that a soldier's portrait in crosses
The fascist took it off and tore it to the floor
And in front of my mother's eyes
Stepped on his face...

If you feel sorry for the old man,
Your old school teacher,
In front of school in a loop, drooping
With a proud old head,
So that for everything that he raised
And in your friends and in you,
The German broke his arms
And I would hang it on a pole.

If you don't want to give
The one with whom I went together,
The one that takes a long time to kiss
You didn’t dare - you loved her so much -
So that the fascists live
They took me by force, pinned me in the corner,
And the three of them crucified her,
Nude, on the floor;
So that these three dogs get it
In groans, in hatred, in blood
Everything that you cherish sacredly
With all the power of a man's love...

If you don't want to give
The German with his black gun
The house where you lived, your wife and mother,
Everything that we call homeland -
Know: no one will save her,
If you don't save her;
Know: no one will kill him,
If you don't kill him.

And until he was killed,
Keep quiet about your love
The land where you grew up and the house where you lived,
Don't call it your homeland.

If your brother killed a German,
Let a neighbor kill a German, -
This is your brother and neighbor taking revenge,
And you have no excuse.
They don’t sit behind someone else’s back,
You don't take revenge with someone else's rifle.
If your brother killed a German, -
It is he, not you, who is the soldier.

So kill the German so that he
And it wasn’t you who was lying on the ground,
Not in your house to moan,
And in it stood on the dead.
That’s what he wanted, it’s his fault, -
Let his house burn, not yours,
And even if it’s not your wife,
And let him be a widow.
Let it not be yours to cry,
And his mother who gave birth,
Not yours, but his family
Let him wait in vain.

So kill at least one!
So kill him quickly!
How many times will you see him?
Kill him so many times!

K. Simonov
"Cities are burning along the path of these hordes..."

Cities are burning along the path of these hordes.
Villages were destroyed, rye was trampled.
And everywhere, hastily and greedily, like a wolf,
These people commit robbery and robbery.

But are they really people? Nobody will believe
When meeting with a beast dressed in uniform.
They eat not like people - like animals,
Swallow raw pork.

Their habits are not at all human,
Tell me if any of the people are capable
Torture an old man by dragging him with a rope,
Rape a mother in front of her children?

Bury civilians alive,
Because there is more than one appearance with you.
No! You're lying! Someone else's name has been appropriated!
Nobody considers you human for a long time.

You honor war, and in this field
This is how we know you, what you are:
Shoot the wounded, burn hospitals,
Is it an honor for your soldiers to bomb schools?

We recognized you in a short time,
And they realized that he was leading you to battle.
Cold, contented, stupid and cruel,
But meek and pitiful as the time comes.

And you, who stand without a belt in front of me,
Hitting himself in the chest with his palm,
Sending me a card of his son and his wife,
Do you think I believe you? Not at all!!!

I see the faces of women and boys,
When you were shooting at them in the square.
Their blood is on hastily torn buttonholes,
On your sweaty cold palms.

As long as you are with those who make heaven and earth
They want to take our freedom and honor,
As long as you are with them, you are an enemy,
And long live punishment and revenge.

You, gray from the ashes of burned villages,
Hanging the shadow of his wings over life.
Did you think we'd crawl on our knees?
Not horror, you awakened rage in us.

We will beat you harder and harder hour by hour:
With a bayonet and a shell, a knife and a club.
We will beat you, jam you with a landmine,
We will fill your mouth with Soviet soil!

And let until the last hour of reckoning,
The day of celebration, the day not far away,
I won’t live long like many guys,
Who were no worse than me.

I always accept my duty like a soldier
And if we choose death, friends,
It's better than dying for your native land
And you can't choose...

TWO LINES
A. Tvardovsky

From a shabby notebook
Two lines about a boy fighter,
What happened in the forties
Killed on ice in Finland.

It lay somehow awkwardly
Childishly small body.
The frost pressed the overcoat to the ice,
The hat flew far away.
It seemed that the boy was not lying down,
And he was still running
Yes, he held the ice behind the floor...

Among the great cruel war,
I can’t imagine why,
I feel sorry for that distant fate
Like dead, alone,
It's like I'm lying there
Frozen, small, killed
In that unknown war,
Forgotten, small, lying.

Ballad of Mother

Olga Kyiv

Forty-one – a year of loss and fear
Flamed with a bloody glow...
Two guys in torn shirts
They were taken out in the morning to be shot.

The older one, dark blond, walked first,
Everything is with him: both strength and becoming,
And behind him the second one is a boy without a mustache,
Too young to die.

Well, and behind, barely keeping up,
The old mother minced,
Begging for the German's mercy.
“Nine,” he repeated importantly, “will shoot!”

"No! - she asked, - have mercy,
Cancel the execution of my children,
And in return, kill me,
But leave your sons alive!"

And the officer answered her decorously:
“Okay, mother, save one.
And we will shoot the other son.
Who is your favorite? Choose!”

As in this deadly whirlwind
Will she be able to save anyone?
If the firstborn is saved from death,
The last one is doomed to death.

The mother began to sob and lament,
Looking into the faces of my sons,
As if she really chose
Who is dearer to her, who is dearer to her?

She looked back and forth...
Oh, you wouldn't wish it on your enemy
Such torment! She baptized her sons.
And she admitted to the Fritz: “I can’t!”

Well, he stood there, impenetrable,
Smelling flowers with pleasure:
“Remember, we kill one,
And you kill the other.”

The elder, smiling guiltily,
He pressed the youngest to his chest:
“Brother, save yourself, well, I’ll stay,”
I lived, but you didn’t start.”

The younger one responded: “No, brother,
Save yourself. What to choose here?
You have a wife and children.
I haven’t lived, so don’t start.”

Here the German politely said: “Bitte,”
Pushed away the crying mother,
He walked away busily
And he waved his glove, “they’ll shoot you!”

Two shots gasped, and the birds
They scattered fractionally into the sky.
The mother unclenched her wet eyelashes,
He looks at the children with all his eyes.

And they, hugging, as before,
They sleep in a leaden, restless sleep, -
Two bloods, two hopes,
Two wings that were scrapped.

The mother silently turns to stone in her heart:
My sons can't live, can't bloom...
“Fool mother,” the German teaches, “
I could at least save one.”

And she, cradling them quietly,
She wiped the blood from her filial lips...
This one, killer great, -
Maybe Mother has love.

Poems about war to tears video