Устный журнал, посвящённый Дню рождения Кайсына Кулиева «МИР И РАДОСТЬ ВАМ, ЖИВУЩИЕ» «PEACE AND JOY TO YOU,THE LIVING!» Авторы: учителя английского языка МОУ «СОШ 3» г.Тырныауза Афонина Елена Васильевна, Мосеева Раиса Абдулхаковна Мосеева Раиса Абдулхаковна

ЦЕЛЬ: развитие интереса учащихся к культурному наследию балкарского народа на примере творчества К.Кулиева ЗАДАЧИ: 1)развитие у учащихся таких качеств, как патриотизм, любовь к родным местам, природе; 2) поддержание интереса к изучению английского языка; 3)формирование познавательной активности учащихся.

Я родом из Чегемского ущелья I come from the Chegem valley I was born on November 1, 1917, into the family of a Balkar peasant who tilled his plot of land, herded sheep, hundet, was a good horseman, often winning races, and an excelent shot. Since my childhood i have gloried in the fact that Mount Elbrus, the highest summit in Europe, rises in splendour over the land of my fathers.

Как хорошо проснуться на рассвете, - Глядеть на мир, за птицами следить И знать, что выше счастья жить на свете На свете ничего не может быть. Какое счастье утром пробудиться, Увидеть гребни гор издалека, Увидеть как над зрелою пшеницей Неспешно проплывают облака. Какое это счастье, что ты можешь Смотреть на дорогих тебе людей, На землю, чьи черты святые схожи С чертами старой матери твоей. I love to wake at dawn, at hour blessed, To see the morning glow and watch the birds, And know that there's nо greater blessing Тhan living, simply living in the world! What happiness to open uр your eyes And see the mountains and the snow-white fleet Of clouds соте slowly sailing 'cross the skies Above the endless fields of ripened wheat! What happiness about уоu to behold Your dearest kin, and with your eyes to trace Upon the land уоu love the hallowed folds So like the lines upon уour mother's face.

My father died in the autumn of When my father died my mother took upon herself the entire responsibility for my up-bringing.

Not many people owe as much to their mothers as I do to mine. She reared me and, what is more. She managed to give me an education. Her concern and love for me were boundless. This frail – looking woman surmounted great obstacles and endured many hardships while rearing her children. My mother was beautiful and kind – hearted, and in spite of the wistful look in her large, dark eyes, she had great powers of endurance which is a trait characteristic of Caucasian women. With our mountain dwellers their mother always comes first. And my circumstances were rather special, besides. The pages of my books are illumined by the light of her gaze and the kindness of her heart. Poetry for me began from the lullabyes she sang and fairy tales she told me.

Я вижу, мама, день весенний, Ты молода ещё, я мал. Уткнув лицо в твои колени, Я слушал песню и дремал. Ты не откладывая дела, Под мерный гул веретена Про медвежат мне песню пела, И уносила их волна. Как искры на спине форели В прозрачном озере весной, Слова искрились, и горели, И пахли ягодой лесной. A day in spring comes back to me.... I was a child, and you - my young, And lovely mother. At your knee I dozed, and listened to your song. You did not lay aside your cares, The splindle hummed its melody, And you sang of the baby bears Who had been carried off to sea. Your voice dropped low, then it rang out. The words would flash and scintillate· Like sparks upon the fins of trout As in the lake they leap and play.

I was educated at the State Institute of Theatrical Art in Moscow. It was an excellent school. We studied under leadind Russian actors and writers. Much of what i learnt was a revelation to me, and I tried not to miss any plays, concerts and exhibitions. All this greatly helped my intellectual development, and I shall be always grateful to the Institute of Theatrical Art and Moscow.

Мне в сердце запали уроки, Когда я впервые постиг Зовущий, как мир, и широкий, Чарующий русский язык. И русских поэтов стихи я Читал, задыхаясь от слёз, - Меня обступала Россия Сплошным хороводом берёз. Сквозь годы, лишения, старость Всегда мне маячит с тех пор Мятежный, стремительный «Парус», Летящий в бескрайний простор… Учитель мой! Добрый и милый! Прости мне былые грехи. Я вместо цветов на могилу Принёс тебе эти стихи… Ill always remember the lessons When first I learnt Russian to speak, Loving at once its inflections, Its melody and its sweep. When I read the Russian poets, I wept in an ecstasy, 'Twas as if in a circle of birches Russia surrounded me. Since then, through the years fraught with hardships, A beckoning light I have seen In Lermontov's Sail with its magic Of turbulent spirit set free. My kind, my beloved teacher, Forgive me my lapses andfaults.Instead of a wreath on your tombstone This poem of mine I have brought.

On the morning of june 22, 1941, when my mother did not even know that war had begun, I was already fighting against fascism. I had to go through a lot during the war, and after. Like every Soviet man I have been a convinced anti – fascist since my early youth, I am against cruelty, chauvinism, and extermination of people. Poetry cannot serve antihuman ideas. It will always pursue its lofty aims.

I began to write when I was 10, and my first work was published when I was 17. Quite a number of my books have come out. These last twenti years or so I have freguently contributed to the periodical press. I hav been awarded the State Prize of the Russian Federation for my Book The Wounded Stone, and the State Prise of the USSR for my Book of the Earth.

In mу long life I have seen everything, Аll sorrowful experiences are mine, Of earthly mercies I'd beg just one thing: Let по one's children die! I know, of course, it cannot bе, for death Will set its snares at random. Still, l`ll try To make ту plea heard till ту dying breath: Let nо one's children die! А tree which in the winter does not dream Of spring will never соте again to flower. And ifwe do not dream ofwhat can't bе, What сап will hardly ever соте trиe either. I take lifе as it is, I аm not blind, Nor wear rose-tinted lenses, bиt 1 cry For this one mercy for the thoиsandth time ­ Let по one's children die!

Я знаю: трудно быть горой, Хранить покой века. Я знаю, тяжелы порой Снега и облака. Но как прекрасно быть горой, Вовек не знать забот И понимать, что над тобой Лишь снег да небосвод. Как хорошо на мир глядеть С той белой высоты, К которой могут долететь Лишь птицы и мечты. l know it's hard to bе а mountain, In solemn silence еvеr locked. The icy mаil must bе а burden, Clouds too, when low and dense they flock. And yet it's wonderful, I'т sure, То bе а mountain, calm and staid, With nothing but the sky azure And white clouds sailing overhead. How glorious to see the world From that tremendous snowy height That попе сап hope to reach save birds And people's dreams in fancy flight.

One crane fallen far behind the rest; An eagle swoops, and bears him to his nest… The snow upon the graves piles up in crests. Chopin is played.

How much I owe to the impeccably honest, enchanting Russian poetry! It has always been a revelation to me, a source of supreme happiness, sheer bliss and delight. It glows with such a powerful light of humaneness, such nobilitu of spirit, and is endowed with such an amasing artistic force! And at the same time it is sublimely simple and natural.

Мир и радость вам, живущие, Не от ваших ли забот Жизнь идет, земля цветет, Существует в мире сущее. Мир и радость вам, живущие, Всем, кто воздвигает кров, Сеет хлеб, пасет коров, Бережет сады цветущие! Мир и радость вам, живущие, В вашу честь горит закат, Ради вас в горах шумят Реки и ручьи бегущие. Мир и радость вам, живущие, Светит солнце ради вас, И горят в вечерний час Звезды, свет на землю льющие. Мир и радость вам, живущие, Ради вас издалека Проплывают облака, Влагу светлую несущие. Реасе and joy to уои, the living! Through your efforts and your care Stays the earth as ever fair, And life goes оп everywhere! Реасе and joy to уои, the living! Уои, who build for us our homes, Tend the orchards and the herds, Grow our daily bread for us. Реасе and joy to уои, the living! In your honour glow the skies, It's for уои the streams arise And pour down the mountain-sides. Реасе and joy to уои, the living! It's for уои the sun shines bright, Silver stars соте out at night, And the moonbeams shed their light. Реасе and joy to уои, the living! It's to bring уои blessed rain Соте the clouds from far away, Helping уои to grow your grain.

Poetry is the most beautiful part of mankind`s culture, and, like music, it is one of its highest achivements and invaluable treasures. Poets in allthe languages of the world have sung a hymn to life, to the earth, to the loveliness of women and the bravery of men, to mother love, to the human in men, to wheatears on the earth and stars up in the sky, to woodand stone, to grass and snow, to flowers, rain, and grapevines. Poetry will always remain enchanted by earthly beauty, bu our green world, and poets will always be inspired by humaneness, kindness and courage.I am supremely happi to be associated with poetry, however small my contribution.