Samuel Marshak. All year round

Open the calendar -
January begins.
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.
The stoves are heated in our house,
Smoke rises into the sky in a column.

February

The winds blow in February
The pipes howl loudly.
Like a snake rushes along the ground
Light drifting snow.
Rising, they rush into the distance
Aircraft flights.
It celebrates February
The birth of the army.

March

Loose snow darkens in March,
The ice on the window is melting.
Bunny running around 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.
A bear sneaks through
Through the dead wood.
The birds began to sing songs,
And the snowdrop blossomed.

May

The lily of the valley bloomed in May
On the holiday itself - on the first day.
Seeing off May with flowers
The lilac is blooming.

June

June has arrived.
"June! June!"
Birds are chirping in the garden.
Just blow on a dandelion -
And it will all fly apart.

July

Haymaking is in July,
Sometimes thunder grumbles somewhere,
And ready to leave the hive
Young bee swarm.

August

We collect in August
Fruit harvest.
Lots of joy for people
After all the work.
The sun over the spacious
Nivami is worth it
And sunflower grains
Full of blacks.

September

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

October

In October, in October
Frequent rain outside.
The grass in the meadows is dead,
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 flutter at the gates,
Blazing with flames.
See, the music is on
Where the trams were.
All the people - both young and old -
Celebrates freedom.
And my red ball flies
Straight to the sky!

December

In December, in December
All trees are in silver.
Our river, like in a fairy tale,
The frost paved the way overnight,
Updated skates, sleds,
I brought a Christmas tree from the forest.
The tree cried at first
From home warmth.
In the morning I stopped crying,
She breathed and came to life.
Its needles tremble a little,
The lights lit up on the branches.
Like a ladder, like a Christmas tree
The lights shoot up.
Firecrackers sparkle with gold.
I lit a star with silver
reached the top
The bravest light.

Open the calendar.

January begins.

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.

The stoves are heated in our house,

Smoke rises into the sky in a column.

February

The winds blow in February

The pipes howl loudly.

It curls like a snake on the ground

Light drifting snow.

Rising, they rush into the distance

Aircraft flights.

It celebrates February

Army birth

March

The sun is higher in March

Its rays are hot.

Soon the roof will be dripping,

The rooks will scream in the garden

The loose snow darkens in March.

The ice on the window is melting.

Bunny running around 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.

A bear sneaks through

Through the dead wood.

The birds began to sing songs,

And the snowdrop blossomed.

May

The lily of the valley blossomed in May -

On the very holiday, on the first day.

Seeing off May with flowers,

The lilac is blooming.

June

June has arrived.

"June! June!" -

Birds are chirping in the garden...

Just blow on a dandelion -

And it will all fly apart.

July

Haymaking is in July

Somewhere thunder grumbles sometimes.

And ready to leave the hive

Young bee swarm.

August

We collect in August

Fruit harvest.

Lots of joy for people

After all the work.

The sun over the spacious

Nivami is worth it.

And sunflower grains

September

Clear September morning

The villages thresh bread,

Birds fly across the seas

And the school opened.

October

In October, in October

Frequent rain outside.

The grass in the meadows is dead,

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 flutter at the gates,

Blazing with flames.

See, the music is on

Where the trams were.

All the people - both young and old -

Celebrates freedom.

And my red ball flies

Straight to the sky!

December

In December, in December

All trees are in silver.

Our river, like in a fairy tale,

The frost paved the way overnight,

Updated skates, sleds,

I brought a Christmas tree from the forest.

The tree cried at first

From the warmth of home,

In the morning I stopped crying,

She breathed and came to life.

Its needles tremble a little,

The lights lit up on the branches.

Like a ladder, like a Christmas tree

The lights shoot up.

Firecrackers sparkle with gold.

I lit a star with silver

Reached the top

The bravest light.

* * *

A year has passed like yesterday.

Above Moscow at this hour

The clock of the Kremlin tower is striking

Fireworks - twelve times!

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.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "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.

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.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "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.

Open the calendar
January begins.
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.
The stoves are heated in our house.
Smoke rises into the sky in a column.

FEBRUARY

The winds blow in February
The pipes howl loudly.
Like a snake rushes along the ground
Light drifting snow.
Rising, they rush into the distance
Aircraft flights.
It celebrates February
The birth of the army.

MARCH

The loose snow darkens in March.
The ice on the window is melting.
Bunny running around 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.
A bear sneaks through
Through the dead wood.
The birds began to sing songs,
And the snowdrop blossomed.

MAY

The lily of the valley bloomed in May
On the holiday itself - on the first day.
Seeing off May with flowers,
The lilac is blooming.

JUNE

June has arrived.
"June! June!"
Birds are chirping in the garden...
Just blow on a dandelion
And it will all fly apart.

JULY

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

AUGUST

We collect in August
Fruit harvest.
Lots of joy for people
After all the work.
The sun over the spacious
Nivami is worth it.
And sunflower grains
Black
Stuffed.

SEPTEMBER

Clear September morning
The villages thresh bread,
Birds fly across the seas
And the school opened.

OCTOBER

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

NOVEMBER

November seventh day
Red calendar day.
Look out your window:
Everything on the street is red.
Flags flutter at the gates,
Blazing with flames.
See, the music is on
Where the trams were.
All the people - both young and old
Celebrates freedom.
And my red ball flies
Straight to the sky!

DECEMBER

In December, in December
All trees are in silver.
Our river, like in a fairy tale,
The frost paved the way overnight,
Updated skates, sleds,
I brought a Christmas tree from the forest.
The tree cried at first
From home warmth.
In the morning I stopped crying,
She breathed and came to life.
Its needles tremble a little,
The lights lit up on the branches.
Like a ladder, like a Christmas tree
The lights shoot up.
Firecrackers sparkle with gold.
I lit a star with silver
Reached the top
The bravest light.

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