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, 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

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.

There will be a long road
either at dawn or at sunset.
There will be long-term anxiety -
both with cards and without cards.

Youth, happy sailboat,
not saying goodbye to the end
in the tides, then in the tides
draws mature hearts.

No, not lines - talent
and nature, and fate, -
these troubles charm,
the intoxication of struggle.

You won't pay for this sky
where - with eagles in unison -
you feel how menacing, nervous
ozone smells like gunpowder...

How often am I on the fast train

How often, how often am I on the fast train
sat and marveled at the floating expanses
and clung to the glass with a cold forehead! ..
And past the wide roaring windows
curled and melted behind a curl
flying smoke, and pillar after pillar
slipped by, interrupting the impulse
soaring threads, and the distance of the field
blissfully rotated in a blue delirium.

And often I saw such sunsets,
that the train seemed to run up the slopes
steep fire clouds and over them
descends smoothly, rises again
into the crimson fire from the golden fire,
and with the train along the colored steeps
pillars fly by in the delight of the sunset,
and black strings soar winged,
and lilac smoke flies like an angel.

WINTER ROAD

WINTER ROAD
Through the wavy mists
The moon is creeping
To sad glades
She pours a sad light.
On the winter road, boring
Troika greyhound runs
Single bell
Tiring noise.
Something is heard native
In the coachman's long songs:
That revelry is remote,
That heartache...
No fire, no black hut...
Wilderness and snow... Meet me
Only miles striped
Come across alone.
Bored, sad... Tomorrow, Nina,
Tomorrow, returning to my dear,
I'll forget by the fireplace
I look without looking.
Sounding hour hand
He will make his measured circle,
And, removing the boring ones,
Midnight won't separate us.
It's sad, Nina: my path is boring,
Dremlya fell silent my coachman,
The bell is monotonous
Foggy moon face.

autumn road

The day fades. Above the weary, faded earth
Still clouds hang.
Under the farewell dress of golden foliage
And birch and linden see through.
Soul embraced gently-dreary dreams,
Endless distance froze
And luxuriously brilliant and noisy spring
A reconciled heart is not sorry.
And as if the earth, retiring to rest,
Immersed in prayer without words
And an invisible swarm descends from the sky
Pale-winged, silent spirits.

It's time for me to go

My dear, it's time for me to go
I don't take good things with me.
I leave these spring winds,
The chirping of birds in the morning.

I leave you the radiance of the moon,
And flowers in the Tlyarotinsky forest,
And the distant song of the Caspian wave,
And hurrying to the sea Koisu,

And the highlands, where the cliff clings to the cliff,
With traces of thunderstorms and rains,
Expensive, like a trace of lack of sleep and tears
On the beloved cheeks of mothers.

I will not take the Sulak jet with me.
In those parts I can not save
No rays warming your shoulders
No grass reaching the shoulders.

I will not take anything that is mine from time immemorial,
What my soul has grown to,
Mountain paths twisted like belts
Sweet-smelling hay in the mowing.

I leave you both rain and heat,
Cranes, sky blue...
I take a lot with me:
I take love with me.

Way-roads

Like a gossamer thread
Among other roads
Runs, runs the path,
And her way is far.
Runs, doesn't break
Lost in thick grass
Where it goes uphill
Where it goes downhill
And a tired traveler -
Both old and small
Leads, leads...
In the heat of such a path
You go, you go, you go
Get tired, get wet -
Sit down, rest;
Green bylinochka
Munch in thought
And again on the path
You get up.
The path continues -
Lost in the grass again
Down into the ravine again
Runs across the bridge
And in the field is selected
And in the field suddenly ends -
It merges into the native highway,
Like a stream in a river.

Asphalt, new
Through the pine forests
Through honey meadows,
Through the fields of wheat
Strawberry glades, -
In all its glory -
Washed by rain, dew,
rolled on wheels,
The highway is up!
It comes from the city
It leads to the city
From city to city.
Go yourself, go
Look around,
Guess the names of the villages
What will be ahead.

You get tired - you choose a place,
You swear to rest
You look - dear distant
And someone rolls.
Stand up to be seen
You ask for a ride.
Oh, just don't offend
And they took it along the way! ..

Both old and new
Wheels, horseshoes
And thousands of feet
Rolled, well-groomed,
Across the country laid
There are a lot of them, roads -
Paths and roads!

funny, sad,
Now near, now far,
Both light and thorny -
winding mountain,
direct walking,
air and water,
Railroad tracks...
Fly!..
Swim!..
Katy!..

Like a gossamer thread
Among other roads
Runs, runs the path,
And her way is far.
Runs, doesn't break
Lost in thick grass
Where it goes uphill
Where it goes downhill
And a tired traveler -
Both old and small
Leads, leads...

In the heat of such a path
You go, you go, you go
Get tired, get wet -
Sit down, rest;
Green bylinochka
Munch in thought
And again on the path
You get up.
The path continues
Lost in the grass again
Down into the ravine again
Runs across the bridge
And in the field is selected
And in the field suddenly ends -
It merges into the native highway,
Like a stream in a river.

Asphalt, new
Through the pine forests
Through honey meadows,
Through the fields of wheat
Strawberry glades, -
In all its glory -
Washed by rain, dew,
rolled on wheels,
The highway is up!
It comes from the city
It leads to the city
From city to city.
Go yourself, go
Look around,
Guess the names of the villages
What will be ahead.

You get tired - you choose a place,
You swear to rest
You look - dear distant
And someone rolls.
Stand up to be seen
You ask for a ride.
Oh, just don't offend
And they took it along the way! ..

Both old and new
Wheels, horseshoes
And thousands of feet
Rolled, well-groomed,
Across the country laid
A lot of them, roads -
Paths and roads!

funny, sad,
Now near, now far,
Both light and thorny -
winding mountain,
direct walking,
air and water,
Railroad tracks...
Fly!..
Swim!..
Katy!..

I sat at the table and ate
When the eagle flew through the window
And sat opposite, at the table,
Spreading two large wings.

Sitting. I marvel. I don't move
And I'm afraid to say a word;
After all, he flew to my table
Not Chizhik-Pyzhik, but Eagle!
Looks. Opened its sharp beak...
And then my guest spoke:

- I am among the rocks, almost a chick,
Was caught by an experienced fisherman.
He took me to the zoo.

I lived in a cage. Growing up in captivity
I could only dream of the sky
And I learned to fly...

The fugitive is silent. And how could I
Warmed him up, helped him -
And fed and watered
And I didn't call the zoo.

broken wing

One night on the phone
The heron called the Crow:
- Send a doctor immediately
For the stray Rook!

- Cre-ra! Raven replied. -
The rook is not from our area.
Contact the area
Where is he registered now?

- I repeat: he is stray!
Fleeting! Migratory!
I broke my wing!
We need a doctor!.. Hello!.. Hello!..

Moved away from the phone
Indifferent Crow:
"Someone Rook broke his wing?
It's a pity. Bad luck!"

Can't raise puppies
Through screaming and kicking.

Puppy raised by kick
Will not be a devoted puppy.

You after a rough kick
Try calling a puppy!

How the starling flew home

The starling flew to his home,
I flew on a straight line.
He studied over the years
She will be accepted by many.

Four days to fly the starling.
Only on the last day, towards the end,
He must see from heaven
crooked horseshoe forest,
Behind the forest of the river bank,
And there are familiar meadows,
And beyond the meadows, that collective farm,
Where he once grew up as a chick,
And in that collective farm, in that village,
His birdhouse on the branch...

And day and night the starling flew.
Tired, poor fellow, lost weight.
The fourth day comes to an end -
It's time for the starling to be at home.
But what is the miracle of miracles?
He sees the forest below him,
But the forest that is so familiar to him
Standing on the seashore
And the surf splashes on the shore
The water is clear blue...

And suddenly the starling heard: "Quack!
You need not worry, fellow countryman!
Why spend so much extra energy
You'd better ask us.
No, you did not make a mistake on the way,
You just fly further.
There, beyond the water, among the birches
You will find your native collective farm,
And a new house and a new garden.
Starlings are now flying there.
And here is space! And the way is ready
For us and for ships…"

Starling listened to two teals
And soared above the clouds ...
Here across the sea at last
Messenger of spring has flown
And I saw among the birches
In a new place there is a collective farm.
And I was waiting for the starling on the collective farm
In any yard, a finished house.
And not a birdhouse, but ... a palace
Loved the starling!

Clouds

Clouds,
Clouds -
curly sides,
Curly clouds,
whole,
holey,
Lungs,
Air -
obedient to the wind...

I'm lying in the meadow
I look at you from the grass.
I lie to myself, I dream:
Why can't I fly
Like these clouds
Am I the writer Mikhalkov?!

Clouds to any countries
Through mountains, oceans
Can easily fly:
Above, below, whatever!
Dark night - no fire!
Heaven is free for them
And at any time of the day.

Let's say the cloud decided
View Vladivostok
And - floated
And floated...
The wind would blow in the back! ..

It's just bad what happens
All of a sudden this is nonsense.
A cloud flies in the sky
And then it will melt
Leaving no trace!

I don't believe in miracles
But I saw it myself!
Personally! Lying on your back.
I even got scared!

Svetlana

You don't sleep
The pillow is crumpled
Blanket on weight...
The wind carries the smell of mint,
The stars fall into dew.
Tits sleep on birch trees
And in the rye quail ...

Why can't you sleep?
You are sleepy!

You have grown big
Don't be afraid of the dark...
Maybe the stars interfere with sleep?
Maybe bring flowers?

A hare lies under a bush,
Sleep and you and I must.
Friend after friend
Quiet-quiet
Dreams go through the apartments.

Somewhere the oceans splash
Jellyfish sleep on the wave.
Pelicans at the zoo
They see Africa in their dreams.
Turtle naps nearby
The elephant stands with its eyes closed.
They dream of their native lands
And a thunderstorm over the lands.

The winds turned south
Not a soul in the alleys
Sleepy on the Amur River
The reeds moved
Thin grasses swayed,
The forest stands as if rooted to the spot…

At a distant
At the outpost
The sentry in the forest does not sleep.
It costs -
Lightning above him
He looks up at the clouds.
Above his gun border
Clouds are passing.
They look like animals
They just can't be caught...

Sleep. You won't be disturbed.
You can sleep peacefully.
I won't wake you up
You until dawn
In a dark room
Svetlana,
See funny dreams.

Tired of big roads
A warm wind lay in the steppe.
Cover yourself with a blanket
Sleep...

three winds

Three Winds - three brothers
Walked around the world
Walked around the world -
Peace was not known.
Didn't know peace
For your own amusement
But they were different
In strength and temper.

Was the youngest of the brothers
And gentle and quiet
And he was weaker
Two of his brothers.
He is all day long
frolic at will,
He is road dust
lay down on the grass,
blowing dandelions,
Touched a blade of grass
And in the spruce often
Rocked cobwebs.
And it was carefree
His breath
And it was inaudible
His appearance.

At the middle brother
Enough work
Stubbornness and strength
It contained a lot.
He liked to pat
kite
And take off your hat
From the head of a rotozee.
He blew,
Dispersed at will
And the mills in the field
milled wheat,
centennial trees
The peaks swayed
On the surface of the water
Wrinkles ran
And a sailboat
He gave movement
And it was noticeable.
His appearance.

Was the third, was the eldest
From the Wind Brothers
In your distance
And cruel and harsh.
He is hot sand
Sleeping caravans,
To spite the sailors
Worried about the oceans.
And it was, apparently,
It's not the first time for him
Break like reeds
Old oaks
And tearing down roofs
Break into dwellings.
They called him
Sail! Windy!
Owned them senseless
Spirit of destruction
And it was sudden
His appearance.