Poems about September, October, November. Samuel Marshak "all year round"

In the previous publication, we offered you, and now let's take a closer look at the autumn brothers-months. It is some adults who think that autumn is equally gray and slushy, but in fact - everything autumn months different and attractive in their own way!
Let's teach kids to see the world amazing in any season, and we'll learn it again ourselves!

We read poems with children about September, October, November!

Poems about september

S. Marshak

Clear September morning
The villages are threshing bread,
Birds rush across the seas -
And the school opened.

Let's start, as always, with the classics - poems from Marshakov's "Round Year" and, of course, from the first month of autumn - September! It can be rainy and brooding, cool and a little sad - but still September is so green, warm, often sunny, like summer!

N. Firefly

September came with colors
Touched the leaves tenderly
And the tree is simple
Suddenly it became golden.

Juliet

Autumn boat in cozy dullness
Steers with a silent paddle
Only the tree glows festively
Outside the cold autumn window.

Still turning green stubbornly
Only this maple did not want to wait:
Blazed like the sun, but early
He flew south like a firebird.

N. Yazeva

In September, in September
Many leaves on the ground
Yellow and red!
Everyone is so different!

September apricot

Juliet

The chill is piercing in the morning.
It's autumn, and already in earnest.
But there is no need to worry about that,
So said the September apricot.

This is how the cicadas sing on a warm evening,
After all, like in summer, the night is shorter than the day.
The rains are in no hurry to meet,
As the birds catch up with the summer.

Summer did not close like doors
There is a distant horizon behind it.
And believe me, all is not lost yet
It's not time to straighten your umbrella yet.

In September, a summer lover
Because he waves a branch to me
Apricot, summer green,
All playing in solar fire.

A. Metzger

***
The yellow leaf flies like a bird
Chanterelle is in a hurry for the lesson.
New satchel behind my back
Knapsack with the alphabet of the forest.

September. The bell rang
The baby is walking into the first grade.
And a ball of yellow leaves
The breeze blows across the sky.

Poems about october

S. Marshak

In October, in October
Frequent rain in the yard.
The grass is dead in the meadows,
The grasshopper fell silent.
Firewood has been prepared
For the winter for stoves.

But autumn is already in earnest in October ... But you still don't need to worry, although sometimes it's good to be a little sad about summer ... And then start up and throw yourself into the heaps of golden leaves - rustling, fragrant, magical!

Juliet

For some reason we dreamed about summer
Although it's been a long time since autumn in reality,
And the wind fluttered the trees all night
Breaking off wet foliage.

Thin the sun maples
Blue can be seen through the crowns.
And the trees stand in surprise
And they drop the gold into the grass.

Maybe they also dreamed about summer ...
Only really - autumn in reality
Scatters generously like coins,
Legs golden foliage.

With whatever colors the trees surprise in October, when the artist Autumn, who timidly tried her new colors in September, has already sold out and paints the world in warm, sunny, fiery tones! As if specially to make us feel warmer among the rains and fogs.

Bonfire tree

Juliet

At the edge of the fog
the tree stands.
With a crimson torch
the tree is on fire.

Don't touch the crown:
it seems a little touch -
Will burn your palms
wood fire.

Washed the paint off the trees
rain ... but still
Doesn't go out in the rain
wood fire!

O. Alenkina

Soon the hedgehog will fall asleep,
The grove will throw off its outfit,
Until then, along all the paths
Leaves circling bright.

October smiles,
And already tickles the nose
School morning
Early in the morning
The smallest
Freezing.

I. Demyanov

October is coming.
But the forest day was bright.
And autumn smiles
Blue skies

Quiet lakes
That they lay their blue,
And pink dawns
In the birch land!

Here are the moss gray lace
On an old boulder
And the yellow leaf is spinning
Another is already on the stump! ..

And side by side, under the vines,
Under their dense canopy,
A boletus climbed -
And the hat is on one side.

But everything in the forest is sadder:
I couldn't find a flower
How the pendulum swings
Aspen leaf.

The shadows of the trees are long ...
And the rays are colder.
And in the sky there are cranes
Murmuring streams!

Poems about November

S. Marshak

The seventh day of November -
Red calendar day.
Look out your window:
Everything on the street is red.
Flags are hovering at the gate
Blazing with a flame.
See the music goes
Where the trams went.
All people - young and old -
Celebrates freedom.
And my red balloon flies
Straight to the sky!

“You see, the music goes where the trams went” - I remember this line from my childhood! And although now not everyone and not everywhere celebrate the "red day of the calendar", I like the poem!

A.S. Pushkin

Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
Less often the sun shone
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
She bared herself with a sad noise.
Fog fell on the fields,
Noisy caravan geese
Stretched towards the south: approached
Quite a boring time;
It was November already at the yard.

L. Lukanova

The rain is pouring down
The kids are sitting at home.
All November frowns
It's cold outside.

T. Kersten

Apple and plum trees are bare.
Our autumn garden looks dull.
Outside the window, it rains, then cold snow.
Gloomy, uncomfortable for everyone.
The sun drowned in the puddles of November.
But we will not be angry with him in vain.
We will prepare skis, sledges and skates.
Winter days await us very soon.

And although in the November verses the autumnal sadness is becoming more distinct, I think that its thick fogs are surprisingly cozy! Now go out for a walk in the evening, when the red light of the lanterns is gently scattered in thousands of tiny rains.

Winter is coming ... But it's great! This means - the first snow, New Year, pleasant surprises, new meetings and joys!

In the meantime ... Let's make friends with the Autumn and together we will wait for the new Summer!

Juliet

***
Summer is over today
And the rain does not subside in the morning ...
We are warmly and colorfully dressed,
And it was hot yesterday! ..

How quickly the summer is over!
We have been waiting for him for a whole year -
It flashed like a comet
And again autumn is coming to us.

Summer is over suddenly ...
It rushed over the seas
And disappeared behind the clouds somewhere,
Leaving us the rain of September ...

Well, summer is over ...
But we have our warm home.
We will be warm all winter
Cozy home warmth.

Well, the summer is over,
But don't you grieve for him.
We know that it is somewhere,
And again we are waiting for him!

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Great about poetry:

Poetry is like painting: another work will captivate you more if you look at it up close, and another if you go further away.

Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of greasy wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which fell through.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is the most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen sparkles.

Humboldt W.

Poems work well if they are created with spiritual clarity.

Writing poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish poetry grows without knowing shame ... Like a dandelion by the fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is poured everywhere, it is around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life blows from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a mental growth disease.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn along the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing within us. As he tells us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens our love and our sorrow in our souls. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no room for quibbling.

Murasaki Shikibu

I am turning to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags a stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. 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 yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! - asked the visitor pleadingly.
- I promise and I swear! - Ivan said solemnly ...

Mikhail Afanasevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write them in words.

John Fowles. "The mistress of the French lieutenant"

Every poem is a blanket stretched out over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

Poets of antiquity, 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 each poetic work of those times, the whole Universe is invariably hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for the one who inadvertently wakes up the dozing lines.

Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"

One of my clumsy hippopotamuses-verses I attached such a paradise tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not worry, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not the 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 - chase critics. They are just pitiful slips of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Do not let his vulgar palpating hands go there. Let the poems seem to him an absurd hum, a chaotic pile of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from boring reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "Thousand Lives"

Poems are a thrill of the heart, excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Opening the calendar
Begins in January.
In January, in January
There is a lot of snow in the yard.
Snow - on the roof, on the porch.
The sun is in the blue sky.
Stoves are being heated in our house.
Smoke goes up into the sky.

FEBRUARY

The winds blow in February
They howl loudly in the pipes.
Rushing like a snake on the ground
Light drift.
Rising, rushing into the distance
Aircraft links.
It celebrates February
Army birth.

MARCH

Loose snow darkens in March.
Ice floes melt on the window.
Bunny runs on the desk
And on the map
On the wall.

APRIL

April, April!
Drops are ringing in the yard.
Streams run through the fields
There are puddles on the roads.
The ants will come out soon
After the winter cold.
The bear is sneaking
Through the forest deadwood.
The birds began to sing songs,
And the snowdrop blossomed.

MAY

Lily of the valley blossomed in May
On the very holiday - on the first day.
May accompanying flowers,
Lilacs are blooming.

JUNE

June has come.
"June! June!"
Birds chirp in the garden ...
There is only a blow for a dandelion
And all of it will scatter.

JULY

Haymaking is in July,
Somewhere thunder grumbles at times.
And ready to leave the hive
Young bee swarm.

AUGUST

We collect in August
Harvest fruits.
Lots of joy to people
After all the work.
Sun over spacious
Nivami is worth it.
And sunflower seeds
Black
Stuffed.

SEPTEMBER

Clear September morning
The villages are threshing bread,
Birds rush across the seas
And the school opened.

OCTOBER

In October, in October
Frequent rain in the yard.
The grass is dead in the meadows,
The grasshopper fell silent.
Firewood has been prepared
For the winter for stoves.

NOVEMBER

Day of the seventh of November
Red calendar day.
Look out your window:
Everything on the street is red.
Flags are hovering at the gate
Blazing with a flame.
See the music goes
Where the trams went.
All people - young and old
Celebrates freedom.
And my red balloon flies
Straight to the sky!

DECEMBER

December, December
All trees are in silver.
Our river, as if in a fairy tale,
Paved frost overnight
Updated skates, sleds,
I brought a Christmas tree from the forest.
The tree cried at first
From home warmth.
I stopped crying in the morning
I breathed, came to life.
Her needles tremble a little,
The lights on the branches came on.
Like a ladder, a tree
The lights run up high.
Crackers glitter with gold.
I lit a star with silver
Reached the top
The most daring light.

A year has passed like yesterday.
Over Moscow at this hour
The clock of the Kremlin tower strikes
Fireworks - twelve times.

Opening the calendar
Begins in January.
In January, in January
There is a lot of snow in the yard.
Snow - on the roof, on the porch.
The sun is in the blue sky.
Stoves are being heated in our house.
Smoke goes up into the sky.

FEBRUARY

The winds blow in February
They howl loudly in the pipes.
Rushing like a snake on the ground
Light drift.
Rising, rushing into the distance
Aircraft links.
It celebrates February
Army birth.

MARCH

Loose snow darkens in March.
Ice floes melt on the window.
Bunny runs on the desk
And on the map
On the wall.

APRIL

April, April!
Drops are ringing in the yard.
Streams run through the fields
There are puddles on the roads.
The ants will come out soon
After the winter cold.
The bear is sneaking
Through the forest deadwood.
The birds began to sing songs,
And the snowdrop blossomed.

MAY

Lily of the valley blossomed in May
On the very holiday - on the first day.
May accompanying flowers,
Lilacs are blooming.

JUNE

June has come.
"June! June!"
Birds chirp in the garden ...
There is only a blow for a dandelion
And all of it will scatter.

JULY

Haymaking is in July,
Somewhere thunder grumbles at times.
And ready to leave the hive
Young bee swarm.

AUGUST

We collect in August
Harvest fruits.
Lots of joy to people
After all the work.
Sun over spacious
Nivami is worth it.
And sunflower seeds
Black
Stuffed.

SEPTEMBER

Clear September morning
The villages are threshing bread,
Birds rush across the seas
And the school opened.

OCTOBER

In October, in October
Frequent rain in the yard.
The grass is dead in the meadows,
The grasshopper fell silent.
Firewood has been prepared
For the winter for stoves.

NOVEMBER

Day of the seventh of November
Red calendar day.
Look out your window:
Everything on the street is red.
Flags are hovering at the gate
Blazing with a flame.
See the music goes
Where the trams went.
All people - young and old
Celebrates freedom.
And my red balloon flies
Straight to the sky!

DECEMBER

December, December
All trees are in silver.
Our river, as if in a fairy tale,
Paved frost overnight
Updated skates, sleds,
I brought a Christmas tree from the forest.
The tree cried at first
From home warmth.
I stopped crying in the morning
I breathed, came to life.
Her needles tremble a little,
The lights on the branches came on.
Like a ladder, a tree
The lights run up high.
Crackers glitter with gold.
I lit a star with silver
Reached the top
The most daring light.

A year has passed like yesterday.
Over Moscow at this hour
The clock of the Kremlin tower strikes
Fireworks - twelve times.