Fly away, fly away...
verse

Soon white blizzards
Snow will rise from the ground.
Fly away, fly away
the cranes flew away.

Do not hear the cuckoo in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
Fly away, fly away!

Leaf sways patterned
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden, in the ridge.

Showered, turned yellow
The sun's rays are rare.
Fly away, fly away
the rooks flew away.

Elena Alexandrovna Blaginina
(1903-1989)
Children's poetess, translator - a native of the Oryol village. The daughter of a luggage clerk at the Kursk-I station, the granddaughter of a priest was going to become a teacher. Every day, in any weather, in home-made shoes with rope soles (it was a difficult time: the twenties), she walked seven kilometers from home to the Kursk Pedagogical Institute. But the desire to write turned out to be stronger, and at the same time - during the student years - the first lyrical poems of Elena Alexandrovna appeared in the almanac of Kursk poets. Then there was the Higher Literary and Art Institute in Moscow, which was led by the poet Valery Bryusov. Elena Aleksandrovna came to children's literature in the early 1930s. It was then that on the pages of the Murzilka magazine, where such poets as Marshak, Barto, Mikhalkov were published, a new name appeared - E. Blaginina. Elena Alexandrovna lived a long life and worked constantly. She wrote poems sparkling with humor, "teasers", "counters", "patters", songs, fairy tales. But most of all she has lyrical poems. She also worked on translations, introduced the children to the poetry of Taras Shevchenko, Maria Konopnitskaya, Julian Tuvim, Lev Kvitko.
The best of everything created by Elena Blaginina was included in the collections "Crane" (1973, 1983, 1988), "Fly away, flew away" (1983), "Burn, burn clearly!" (1990). The last collection appeared when Elena Alexandrovna was no longer alive, she died in 1989.

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.

Fly away, fly away...
verse

Soon white blizzards
Snow will rise from the ground.
Fly away, fly away
the cranes flew away.

Do not hear the cuckoo in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
Fly away, fly away!

Leaf sways patterned
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden, in the ridge.

Showered, turned yellow
The sun's rays are rare.
Fly away, fly away
the rooks flew away.

Elena Alexandrovna Blaginina
(1903-1989)
Children's poetess, translator - a native of the Oryol village. The daughter of a luggage clerk at the Kursk-I station, the granddaughter of a priest was going to become a teacher. Every day, in any weather, in home-made shoes with rope soles (it was a difficult time: the twenties), she walked seven kilometers from home to the Kursk Pedagogical Institute. But the desire to write turned out to be stronger, and at the same time - during the student years - the first lyrical poems of Elena Alexandrovna appeared in the almanac of Kursk poets. Then there was the Higher Literary and Art Institute in Moscow, which was led by the poet Valery Bryusov. Elena Aleksandrovna came to children's literature in the early 1930s. It was then that on the pages of the Murzilka magazine, where such poets as Marshak, Barto, Mikhalkov were published, a new name appeared - E. Blaginina. Elena Alexandrovna lived a long life and worked constantly. She wrote poems sparkling with humor, "teasers", "counters", "patters", songs, fairy tales. But most of all she has lyrical poems. She also worked on translations, introduced the children to the poetry of Taras Shevchenko, Maria Konopnitskaya, Julian Tuvim, Lev Kvitko.
The best of everything created by Elena Blaginina was included in the collections "Crane" (1973, 1983, 1988), "Fly away, flew away" (1983), "Burn, burn clearly!" (1990). The last collection appeared when Elena Alexandrovna was no longer alive, she died in 1989.
http://lib.rus.ec/a/29578/YI