Poems about September, October, November. With

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

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

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe 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. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn 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 the 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! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, for each poetic work of those times, the whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a 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 critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds 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 but pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Poems about September are one of the most beautiful. During this month, nature is especially beautiful. Gold and crimson leaves, warm Indian summer days create a special atmosphere.

In September
(L. Kim)

In September the breeze plays
With beautifully fallen leaves
Takes you to school for a lesson
Hair confuses us playfully.
Autumn will spin in the leaf fall,

gold autumn hurry to us

(L. Zubanenko)

Playful september bird in the forest
Throws mountain ash into thick dew,
Shakes the heads of withered flowers,
Purple painted the tops of the bushes,
Shades the garden with cold showers,
He doesn't like the green outfit
And a quick flock rushes south,
Carrying away heat from blizzards and blizzards.
He sends us landscapes every moment
And he sings a song about autumn life.

In September
(L. Kim)

In September the breeze plays
With beautifully fallen leaves
Takes you to school for a lesson
Hair confuses us playfully.

Autumn will spin in the leaf fall,
Decorate the leaves yellow.
Golden autumn hurries to us,
And he will not ask if we are waiting for her or not.

In September
(N. Yazeva)

In september, in september
Lots of leaves on the ground
Yellow and red!
All are so different!

"Golden September"

(Iris Revue)

Golden September.
Haze embraced
Slumbering under the moon
Our familiar garden

Leaves are flying,
The stream does not murmur
And not visible in the field
Nosy rooks.

"September"

(Iris Revue)
Summer whispered: "I'm running away,
I'll take flowers and paints,
I invite you to visit September
He will come to your court."

September will give you gold
He will reward you with rich bread,
In the morning it will beckon to the wonderful forest,
The gifts of the forest will surprise.

"Sad September"

(Iris Revue)
sad september,
Rains are continuous
Clouds-hulks do not see the end,
The mountain ash and the willow have already drooped,
They nod softly at the porch.

"September"

(Iris Revue)
September. No sun.
The day became shorter
hung in the sky
Anxious shadow.

Can't hear the robin
Only the wind
They sing a mournful
Song in the morning.

"September. Tops of birch trees turn yellow

(Iris Revue)
September. Tops of birches turn yellow
Aspen trembles anxiously,
The web flies, knows no boundaries,
And still waters do not shine.

September has come
(N. Firefly)

September came with colors
Touched the leaves affectionately
And a simple tree
Suddenly it turned golden.

September brought umbrellas
Poured rain on the grove
And grew up on a bump
Volnushki and gruzdochki…

I asked the children carefully
Walk through puddles in boots.
And sadly a good friend
Sent the birds south

In September
(S. Tsokur)

September is not sad yet:
Warm afternoon, all in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They thrive in the fields.

In the morning, of course, chilly,
But so far no frost.
And a green hat
The forest is tired.

The bird's chirp does not stop,
But cool time
Reminds me of myself
A boring rain in the morning.

With teardrops of rain, September saddens us
(O. Kukharenko)

September makes us sad with tears of rain...
Already under the silver more than once the herbs were hidden,
In the puddles in the morning transparent frames,
Rowan under the window blushed like a child ...
The river runs, hurries, trying to avoid
A languid sleep and a long captivity ...
And the maple birch whispers with inspiration,
How can he wait patiently...

September in the forest
(Z. Pisman)

The yellow leaf turns and curls,
Rain drips and pours
The rowan berries have blushed,
Hanging threads of the web.

The wind flies, whirls
And the birds sing softly
The sun's ray in the clouds melts,
The day is running out faster.

The forest is filled with mushrooms
Leaf, needles underfoot.
Dewdrops melt on the grass
Mushroom pickers are invited to the forest.

The squirrel is looking for a nut,
Her fur fluffed up.
Hedgehog walks, not in a hurry,
And on the back of the mushroom lies.

The bunny jumps, winds,
He picks cabbage.
The mole prepares the bins,
He is not afraid of winter.

September
(A. Metzger)

September. The bell rang

And a ball of yellow leaves
The wind is blowing across the sky.

Here comes September
(T. Kersten)

The sun is hiding, the sky is gloomy.
And September is at the gates.
The grass has fallen, the bushes have fallen.
The bird's "farewell" flies to us from a height.

Summer ended quickly ... What a pity!
Timidly the leaves on the maple trees are trembling...
But do not grieve for the summer day:
Make an autumn bouquet out of leaves.

September
(A. Metzger)

September. The bell rang
The baby is going to first grade.
And a ball of yellow leaves
The wind is blowing across the sky.

September-Frowning. The weather begins to frown, hence the name of the month - Frowning. Autumn is slowly approaching. There will be many more sunny days, but at times it will rain. The tops of the trees are covered with light gilding, yellowed leaves fall and the glorious time of warm days comes - Indian summer.

Poems about September

N. Firefly

September came with colors

Touched the leaves affectionately

And a simple tree

Suddenly it turned golden.

September brought umbrellas

Poured rain on the grove

And grew up on a bump

Waves and breasts...

I asked the children carefully

Walk through puddles in boots.

And sadly a good friend

Sent the birds south

N. Yazeva

In september, in september

Lots of leaves on the ground

Yellow and red!

All are so different!

S. Marshak

On a clear September morning

Villages thresh bread

Birds rush across the sea

And the school opened.

L. Lukanova

Still warm, but soon to school

And the old backpack is no longer in time.

Got stronger, the baby grew up over the summer,

Good September is near, somewhere.

A. Metzger

September. The bell rang

The baby is going to first grade.

And a ball of yellow leaves

The wind is blowing across the sky.

T. Kersten

The sun is hiding, the sky is gloomy.

And September is at the gates.

The grass has fallen, the bushes have fallen.

The bird's "farewell" flies to us from a height.

Summer ended quickly ... What a pity!

Timidly the leaves on the maple trees are trembling...

But do not grieve for the summer day:

Make an autumn bouquet out of leaves.

L. Kim

In September the breeze plays

With beautifully fallen leaves

Takes you to school for a lesson

Hair confuses us playfully.

Autumn will spin in the leaf fall,

Decorate the leaves yellow.

Golden autumn hurries to us,

And he will not ask if we are waiting for her or not.

S. Tsokur

September is not sad yet:

Warm afternoon, all in flowers.

Tomatoes and cabbage

They thrive in the fields.

In the morning, of course, chilly,

But so far no frost.

And a green hat

The forest is tired.

The bird's chirp does not stop,

But cool time

Reminds me of myself

A boring rain in the morning.

Z. Pisman. September in the forest.

The yellow leaf turns and curls,

Rain drips and pours

The rowan berries have blushed,

Hanging threads of the web.

The wind flies, whirls

And the birds sing softly

The sun's ray in the clouds melts,

The day is running out faster.

The forest is filled with mushrooms

Leaf, needles underfoot.

Dewdrops melt on the grass

Mushroom pickers are invited to the forest.

Her fur fluffed up.

Hedgehog walks, not in a hurry,

And on the back of the mushroom lies.

The bunny jumps, winds,

He picks cabbage.

The mole prepares the bins,

He is not afraid of winter.

Riddles about September

The collective farm garden is empty,

Spider webs fly into the distance,

And to the south end of the earth

Cranes stretched out.

School doors opened.

What month has come to us?

August comes after

Dances with leaf fall

And he is rich in harvest,

Of course we know him!

August is a busy month

Peaches and pears sing.

Just make sure to eat them.

But the maples in the yard

Falling into…

(September)

Autumn has come to visit us

And she brought with her...

What? Say random!

Well, of course...

(leaf fall)

I bring the harvest

I sow the fields again

Sending birds to the south

I undress the trees

But I do not touch pines and fir-trees.

I AM - ... (autumn)

Proverbs and sayings about September

August cooks, September - serves to the table.

In September, hold on tight to your caftan.

In September it's nicer in the afternoon, but it's worthless in the morning.

In September, if the web spreads over the plants - to heat.

In September, even the leaf on the tree does not hold.

Summer ends in September and autumn begins.

In September, it is not the hut that warms the peasant, but the chain (threshing bread).

In September, one berry, and that bitter mountain ash.

In September, the tit asks for autumn to visit.

Thunder in September portends a warm and long autumn.

A lot of acorns on oak in September - for a fierce winter. A lot of nettennik in Indian summer - to a clear autumn and cold winter.

The breezes rushed from midnight, ah yes September!

September is the evening of the year.

September is leaf fall.

September is wet weather and, above all, fertile.

September is never fruitless.

September tears off the caftan from his shoulder, puts on a sheepskin coat.

September sees off the red summer, welcomes the golden autumn.

September reddened the swamps - oats are threshed with frost.

September drove the birds on the road.

September is cold, but full.

The drier and warmer September is, the later winter will come.

We develop by playing

Artists' paintings

V. Polenov "Golden Autumn"

Levitan I.I. "Autumn. River"

Shishkin I. I. "Golden Autumn"

Shishkin I. I. "Autumn"

Zhukovsky S. Yu. "Autumn alley"

Zverkov E. I. "Golden Autumn"

Clover Yu. Yu. "Autumn Park"

Kostandi K. K. "Daws. By autumn"

Krymov N. P. " Autumn evening. Gold autumn"

S. Andriyaka "Golden Autumn"

Levitan I. I. "Oak Grove. Autumn"

Myasoedov G. G. "Autumn Morning"

N. Eltyshev "Golden Autumn"

I. Ostroukhov "Golden Autumn"

I. Brodsky "Golden Autumn"

D. Mayevsky "Golden Autumn"

V. Sofronov "Golden Autumn"

V. Efanov "Golden Autumn"

V. Belikov "Golden Autumn"

A. Kurinenko "Golden Autumn"

Nesterov N. V. "Autumn Landscape"

Efim Volkov "Golden autumn. Quiet river"

E. Volkov "Autumn"

Levitan I.I. "Golden autumn. Slobodka"

Levitan I.I. "Gold autumn"

I. Levitan "Autumn Day Sokolniki"

A. M. Gerasimov "Gifts of Autumn"

S. Zhukovsky "In the evening"

E. Volkov "Stream in the forest"

E. Volkov "Forest Lake"

Y. Valliulina "Golden Autumn"

S. Petrov "Golden Autumn"

S. Gerasimov "Golden Autumn"

I. I. Brodsky"Summer garden in autumn"

S. Yu. Zhukovsky "Autumn. Veranda"

I. I. Brodsky "Fallen Leaves"

Osipov A. E. "Autumn in Sokolniki"

Ostroukhov I. S. "Golden Autumn"

Petrovichev P. I. "Autumn"

Savrasov A. K. "Autumn"

Levitan I.I. "Autumn sunny day"

Boris Kustodiev "Autumn over the city"

Claude Monet "Autumn"

Kuindzhi Arkhip Ivanovich "Autumn"

Jerome Jean Leon "Memories of Asher"

K. Korovin "Autumn"

Levitan I.I. "Autumn landscape with a church"

Levitan I.I. "Autumn" Etude

Stanislav Zhukovsky "Estate in autumn"

Stanislav Zhukovsky "Autumn colors"

Stanislav Zhukovsky "Autumn (At the pond)"

Stanislav Zhukovsky "Golden Autumn"

Stanislav Zhukovsky "Forest lake. Golden autumn. (Blue water)"

I.I. Levitan "Autumn"

Levitan I.I. "Autumn. Mill. Ples"

Ivan Shishkin "Twilight. After sunset."

Ivan Shishkin "Birch Grove"

Ivan Shishkin "Fog in the forest"

Tyutina E.

"Alley. September"

Viktor Nikolaevich Sofronov "September"

Morozov Anatoly "Autumn. September"

Adamov Alexey "September"

Herrero-Utyasheva Julia "September"

Khamkov Vladimir Ivanovich "Golden September"

Panteleev Igor "September"

Oleg Buiko "Road to September"

Panin Sergey "Russian expanses. September"

Maslennikova Irina "September"

Ivan Ageev "Autumn"

Ivan Ageev "Autumn in the province"

Ivan Ageev "Colors of autumn"

Gaiderov Mikhail Warm September.

Efim Volkov Autumn landscape

On a clear September morning
Villages thresh bread
Birds rush across the sea -
And the school opened.

(S. Marshak)

autumn rains

It rained in September
He did not have time to start - watered.
And green leaves in the water
Reflecting, they swam somewhere.

Who, autumn, invented you?
You came quietly and quickly.
In your gray clouds, September,
There is no light, no sun.

Outside the window, not a drop knocks,
A dull rain fills our city.
And umbrellas opened everywhere
And silently creeps into us the cold.

Only yesterday the yards were having fun,
They sat on the benches until late.
And now autumn is crying sobbing,
Branches are pulled by wet fir trees.

Everyone has the same faces
Here he passed, turned, did not notice.
And we do not 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 has come to an end,
School time is coming
And in truth,
He is loved and desired
long-awaited, long-awaited
Sound holiday of September!

(M. Sadovsky)

September is not sad yet:
Warm afternoon, all in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They thrive in the fields.

In the morning, of course, chilly,
But so far no frost.
And a green hat
The forest is tired.

The bird's chirp does not stop,
But cool time
Reminds me of myself
A boring rain in the morning.

(S. Tsokur)

The river runs, hurries, trying to avoid
A languid sleep and a long captivity...
And the maple birch whispers with inspiration,
How can he patiently wait...

(O. Kukharenko)

September has come...

September came with colors
Touched the leaves affectionately
And a simple tree
Suddenly it turned golden.

September brought umbrellas
Poured rain on the grove
And grew up on a bump
Volnushki and gruzdochki…

I asked the children carefully
Walk through puddles in boots.
And sadly good spirit
Sent the birds south.

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

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

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a 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

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

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