Great ones about poetry:
Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.
Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.
Humboldt V.
Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
– Don’t write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.
Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"
I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.
Poems about September are some of the most beautiful. Nature is especially beautiful this month. Golden and crimson leaves, warm days of Indian summer create a special atmosphere.
In September
(L. Kim)
The breeze plays in September
It's beautiful with fallen leaves,
Accompanying you to school for class,
It tangles our hair playfully.
Autumn will swirl in the falling leaves,
Golden autumn is rushing to us,
(L. Zubanenko)
A playful bird in September in the forest
Throws a rowan into the thick dew,
Shakes the heads of withered flowers,
I painted the tops of the bushes purple,
Cold showers shade the garden,
He doesn't like the green outfit
And rushes south in a fast flock,
Carrying away heat from snowstorms and blizzards.
Every moment he sends us landscapes
And he sings a song about autumn life.
In September
(L. Kim)
The breeze plays in September
It's beautiful with fallen leaves,
Accompanying you to school for class,
It tangles our hair playfully.
Autumn will swirl in the falling leaves,
Paint the leaves yellow.
Golden autumn is rushing to us,
And he won’t ask whether we are waiting for her or not.
In September
(N. Yazeva)
In September, in September
Lots of leaves on the ground
Yellow and red!
Everyone is so different!
"Golden September"
(Iris Review)
Golden September.
Enveloped in haze
Dozing under the moon,
Our familiar garden
The leaves are flying around,
The stream does not gurgle,
And not visible in the field
Proboscis rooks.
"September"
(Iris Review)
Summer whispered: “I’m running away,
I'll take flowers and paints,
I invite you to visit September,
You'll have to bring him to court."
September will give you gold,
He will reward you with rich bread,
In the morning it will beckon you into a wonderful forest,
You will be surprised by the gifts of the forest.
"Sad September"
(Iris Review)
Sad September
Continuous rains
The huge clouds have no end in sight,
The rowan and willow trees have already drooped,
They nod quietly at the porch.
"September"
(Iris Review)
September. No sun.
The day has become shorter
Hung in the sky
An alarming shadow.
I can't hear the robin,
Only the winds
They sing mournfully
A song in the morning.
"September. The tops of the birches are turning yellow"
(Iris Review)
September. The tops of the birches are turning yellow,
The aspen trembles anxiously,
The web flies, knows no boundaries,
But still waters do not shine.
September has arrived
(N. Firefly)
September has arrived with colors,
Touched the leaves tenderly
And the tree is simple
Suddenly it turned golden.
September brought umbrellas,
It rained on the grove
And grew up on a hummock
Waves and breasts...
Asked the children to care
Walk through puddles in boots.
And sadly, good friend
Sent the birds south
In September
(S. Tsokur)
It's not sad yet in September:
Warm afternoon, everything is in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They keep up in the fields.
In the mornings, of course, it’s chilly,
But there is no frost yet.
And also a green hat
The tired forest will dress up.
The bird noise does not stop,
But it's cool time
Reminds me of myself
Boring rain in the morning.
September saddens us with tears of rain
(O. Kukharenko)
September saddens us with tears of rain...
Already, grass has been hidden under silver more than once,
There are transparent frames on the puddles in the morning,
The rowan tree under the window began to glow like a child...
The river runs and hurries, trying to avoid
Tormenting sleep and long captivity...
And the maple whispers to the birch with inspiration,
How can he wait patiently...
In September in the forest
(Z. Pisman)
The yellow leaf circles and curls,
The rain drips and pours,
The rowan trees have already turned red,
Threads of cobwebs hang.
The wind flies and swirls
And the birds sing softly,
A ray of sunshine melts in the clouds,
The day is running away faster.
The forest is filled with mushrooms
Leaf, needles underfoot.
Dewdrops are melting on the grass,
Mushroom pickers are invited to the forest.
The squirrel is looking for a nut,
Her fur fluffed up.
The hedgehog walks, not in a hurry,
And there is a mushroom on the back.
The bunny jumps, loops,
He is collecting cabbage.
The mole is preparing the bins,
Winter is not scary for him.
September
(A. Metzger)
September. The bell rang
And a tangle of yellow leaves,
The breeze moves across the sky.
Here it is September
(T. Kersten)
The sun is hiding, the sky is gloomy.
So September is guarding at the gates.
The grass has wilted, the bushes are empty.
A bird's "goodbye" flies towards us from above.
Summer ended quickly... What a pity!
The leaves on the maple trees are trembling timidly...
But don't be sad about the summer day:
Make an autumn bouquet from leaves.
September
(A. Metzger)
September. The bell rang
The baby is starting first grade.
And a tangle of yellow leaves,
The breeze moves across the sky.
Clear September morning
The villages thresh bread,
Birds rush across the seas -
And the school opened.
(S. Marshak)
Autumn rains
It's raining in September,
No sooner had it begun than they poured water on it.
AND green leaves in the water
Reflecting, they floated somewhere.
Who, autumn, invented you?
You came quietly and quickly.
In your gray clouds, September,
Neither skylight nor sun is visible.
There's not a drop of knocking outside the window,
Dull rain floods our city.
And umbrellas opened everywhere,
And the cold silently creeps into us.
Only yesterday the courtyards were having fun,
They sat on the benches until late.
And now autumn is crying bitterly,
Branches pull wet spruce trees.
Everyone's faces are the same
He passed by, turned, and didn’t notice.
And we don’t see each other, no.
Who is responsible for everything that happened?
And under this rain forever,
Let's turn into faceless crowds.
Stop pouring from the sky, water,
You see, we don’t need an umbrella!
(L. Kaplenkova)
September
The summer is over,
School time is coming,
And in truth,
He is loved and desired,
Long-awaited, long-awaited
The ringing holiday of September!
(M. Sadovsky)
It's not sad yet in September:
Warm afternoon, everything is in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They keep up in the fields.
In the mornings, of course, it’s chilly,
But there is no frost yet.
And also a green hat
The tired forest will dress up.
The bird noise does not stop,
But it's cool time
Reminds me of myself
Boring rain in the morning.
(S. Tsokur)
September saddens us with tears of rain...
Already, grass has been hidden under silver more than once,
There are transparent frames on the puddles in the morning,
The rowan tree under the window began to glow like a child...
The river runs and hurries, trying to avoid
Tormenting sleep and long captivity...
And the maple whispers to the birch with inspiration,
How can he wait patiently...
(O. Kukharenko)
September has arrived...
September has arrived with colors,
Touched the leaves tenderly
And the tree is simple
Suddenly it turned golden.
September brought umbrellas,
It rained on the grove
And grew up on a hummock
Waves and breasts...
Asked the children to care
Walk through puddles in boots.
And with sadness the good spirit
Sent the birds south.
Great ones about poetry:
Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.
Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.
Humboldt V.
Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
– Don’t write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.
Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"
I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.
Beautiful children's poems about September:
N. Firefly
September brought umbrellas,
It rained on the grove
And grew up on a hummock
Waves and breasts...
Asked the children to care
Walk through puddles in boots.
And sadly, good friend
Sent the birds south
Read also:
N. Yazeva
IN September, in September
Lots of leaves on the ground
Yellow and red!
Everyone is so different!
S. Marshak
Clear morning September
The villages thresh bread,
Birds rush across the seas -
And the school opened.
L. Lukanova
It's still warm, but school is coming soon,
And the old backpack is no longer useful.
The baby has grown stronger and grown over the summer,
September good guy nearby, somewhere.
A. Metzger
September. The bell rang
The baby is starting first grade.
And a tangle of yellow leaves,
The breeze moves across the sky.
T. Kersten
The sun is hiding, the sky is gloomy.
Here we go September guards at the gate.
The grass has wilted, the bushes are empty.
A bird's "goodbye" flies towards us from above.
Summer ended quickly... What a pity!
The leaves on the maple trees are trembling timidly...
But don't be sad about the summer day:
Make an autumn bouquet from leaves.
L. Kim
IN September the breeze plays
It's beautiful with fallen leaves,
Accompanying you to school for class,
It tangles our hair playfully.
Autumn will swirl in the falling leaves,
Paint the leaves yellow.
Golden autumn is rushing to us,
And he won’t ask whether we are waiting for her or not.
S. Tsokur
IN September not sad yet:
Warm afternoon, everything is in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They keep up in the fields.
In the mornings, of course, it’s chilly,
But there is no frost yet.
And also a green hat
The tired forest will dress up.
The bird noise does not stop,
But it's cool time
Reminds me of myself
Boring rain in the morning.
Z. Pisman. In September in the forest.
The yellow leaf circles and curls,
The rain drips and pours,
The rowan trees have already turned red,
Threads of cobwebs hang.
The wind flies and swirls
And the birds sing softly,
A ray of sunshine melts in the clouds,
The day is running away faster.
The forest is filled with mushrooms
Leaf, needles underfoot.
Dewdrops are melting on the grass,
Mushroom pickers are invited to the forest.
The squirrel is looking for a nut,
Her fur fluffed up.
The hedgehog walks, not in a hurry,
And there is a mushroom on the back.
The bunny jumps, loops,
He is collecting cabbage.
The mole is preparing the bins,
Winter is not scary for him.
E. Zikh
The leaves are circling September.
It's autumn and it's just around the corner.
The whole birch tree flew around,
And a tear glistens on the branch.
Murka is huddling closer to the stove,
The rolls smell delicious.
Good at learning lessons
Even the youngest baby.
T. Pogorelova
Summer with a scarlet path
Disappeared somewhere across the river.
Potatoes are baked in the fields,
The air is tart, and what a tart one!
Gossamer airplane
It will fly with spiders,
The sun is like a sleepy cat,
He purrs and goes back to sleep.
And across the river is our school
Expecting children.
This is where the path is heading -
On a date, to September!
L. Zubanenko
A playful bird September in the forest
Throws a rowan into the thick dew,
Shakes the heads of withered flowers,
I painted the tops of the bushes purple,
Cold showers shade the garden,
He doesn't like the green outfit
And rushes south in a fast flock,
Carrying away heat from snowstorms and blizzards.
Every moment he sends us landscapes
And he sings a song about autumn life.