With marshak all year round February. All year round - poems by Samuil Yakovlevich Marshak for children
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.
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. "The 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, it 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.
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. "The 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 every 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, it 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 heated in our house,
Smoke goes up into the sky.
February
The winds blow in FebruaryThey 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 MayOn the very holiday - on the first day.
May accompanying flowers
Lilacs are blooming.
June
June came."June! June!"
Birds chirp in the garden.
There is only a blow for a dandelion -
And all of it will scatter.
July
Haymaking takes place in July,Somewhere thunder grumbles at times
And ready to leave the hive
Young bee swarm.
August
We collect in AugustHarvest fruits.
Lots of joy to people
After all the work.
Sun over spacious
Nivami stands
And sunflower seeds
Crammed with black.
September
Clear September morningThe villages are threshing bread
Birds rush across the seas -
And the school opened.
October
In October, in OctoberFrequent 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
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 is on
Where the trams went.
All people - young and old -
Celebrates freedom.
And my red balloon flies
Straight to the sky!
December
December, DecemberAll 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.
We open 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 heated in our house,
Smoke goes up into the sky.
February
The winds blow in February
They howl loudly in the pipes.
Snake twists on the ground
Light drift.
Rising, rushing into the distance
Aircraft links.
It celebrates February
Army birth
March
The sun goes higher in March
Its rays are hot.
Soon it will drip from the roof
Rooks will scream in the garden
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
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 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
Your fireworks - twelve times!