She walked out onto the porch and wrinkled her face. Ryushka girl

And only then the parents read these verses in sepulchral voices, with howls, to naughty children before going to bed and, it must be admitted, the children then walked for a week as if knocked down, on the line, did not play pranks and did not indulge, each time frightened shuddering at the creak of the floorboards. One of these poems was "The Rye Girl" - the most effective means in a week to turn a cheerful, restless fidget into a silent, thoughtful, serious, gray-haired person beyond his years. How were these poems born? As a rule, they are all taken from life ...

Once, while walking around the village, the venerable writer Agniya Barto suddenly heard the soft cry of a child and, catching herself like a vulture on carrion, flew up to the girl Hana:

What's the howl? What's a roar?
Is there a herd of cows there?
No, there is not a cow -
This is Ganya-roar
crying,
poured,
The dress is wiped off ...
UUUUUU!..

The poetess, grinning angrily, frightened the girl with a "goat", hitting her with one finger right in the eye. The girl looked frightened at the angry aunt with one eye and cried a little louder to attract the attention of her mother, who was digging in the garden at that time. The aunt, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head, continued to muzzle the unfortunate child:

There was a roar on the porch,
Reva wrinkled her face.
- I'm not going anywhere!
I don't like being in the garden.

Uu-uu-u! .. - Ganechka miraculously twisted out of the tenacious paws of the poetess and slipped into the house, hoping for salvation. Immediately from behind the door came:

Here Ganya returned to the house,
Tears run like a stream:
- Oh, I'll go back!
It's embarrassing at home!
Oh-oh-oh!..

The aunt, bursting into the house, grabbed a mug from the table, poured milk into it, mixed something in, and rudely thrust the potion into Ganechka. Ganya, eyes wide with horror, looked, as if at a snake, at a mug in which poison was foaming. The writer circled around her and sang, dancing:

Gave Ghana milk.
- This mug is great!
I can't do this!
Give me another!
UUUUUU!..

Yeah, **** and I'm your milk! - Ganechka thought to herself, but said nothing aloud - she was a well-bred girl and only cried even louder. The poetess began to squat, reciting with surprising clarity:

They gave a roar in another,
Reva stamped her foot.
- In this I do not want!
Better have some tea!
Ah-ah-ah!..

Mom, having entered the house, looked angrily and surprised at someone else's aunt, twisted her finger at her temple and pointed to the door and, having calmed her daughter a little, put her to bed - it was time for an afternoon nap, but the frightened Ganya could not fall asleep. Moreover, the aunt did not let up - jumping out the door, she immediately appeared in the window and continued to persecute:

They put Ganya to sleep,
The roar is crying again:
- Oh, I won't sleep!
Oh, put on a dress!

UU-UU-U! .. - Ganya groaned hopelessly and began to cry again. Passers-by had already begun to gather at the noise. The aunt, pointing to the crowd, yelled out the window:

Here the people fled.
To find out: who is roaring?
Who cries all the time?
What does all of this mean?
They see - the girl is standing,
Looks very odd:
The nose is swollen like a beetroot
The dress got wet.

Ganechka's nose was really swollen, her throat was blocked, and the girl could hardly breathe... Ganechka wheezed and groaned:
-Oh-oh-oh!..
-UUUUUU!..

And the poetess, deftly dodging the grip thrown at her by her mother, continued to yell, turning now to the crowd, now out the window:

What are you crying, roar,
Howling cow?
On you from dampness
Mold can grow.

EPILOGUE
The blue-haired girl was slowly covered with mold. Instantly, her gray-haired mother sat in front of her on the floor, her head in her hands, and swayed from side to side. Finally coming to their senses and realizing what was happening, the crowd drove the poetess along the dusty village street with bricks and sticks. The resilient Agnia, limping, kept a fairly decent speed for her build and age, on the go writing in a notebook in uneven letters: "Girl-Revushka" ...

APPENDIX: Full text of the poem by A. Barto "Girl-Revushka"

What's the howl? What's a roar?
Is there a herd of cows there?
No, there is not a cow -
This is Ganya-roar
crying,
poured,
The dress is wiped off ...
UUUUUU!..
There was a roar on the porch,
Reva wrinkled her face.
- I'm not going anywhere!
I don't like being in the garden.
Uuuuuu!..-
Here Ganya returned to the house,
Tears run like a stream:
- Oh, I'll go back!
It's embarrassing at home!
Oh-oh-oh!..
Gave Ghana milk.
- This mug is great!
I can't do this!
Give me another!
UUUUUU!..
They gave a roar in another,
Reva stamped her foot.
- In this I do not want!
Better have some tea!
Ah-ah-ah!..-
They put Ganya to sleep,
The roar is crying again:
- Oh, I won't sleep!
Oh, put on a dress!
UUUUUU!..
Here the people fled.
To find out: who is roaring?
Who cries all the time?
What does all of this mean?
They see - the girl is standing,
Looks very odd:
The nose is swollen like a beetroot
The dress got wet.
Oh-oh-oh!..
UUUUUU!..
- What are you crying, roar,
Howling cow?
On you from dampness
Mold can grow.

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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 peculiar 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.

Everyone knows how the famous children's poet Agniya Barto loved children. Agnia used to catch a child and how let him read his poems! And then and what else worse got up! Yes, everything is in rhyme, yes, in a patter, yes, dancing, so much so that the child then everything ripples and blurs before his eyes - so the children started crying, hoping that the aunt would suddenly regret and fall behind, but it wasn’t there ... Agnia just what was required! Having gone into all serious trouble, bringing the child to hysteria, to an epileptic fit, the poetess then cynically framed her adventures in the form of poems.
And only then the parents read these verses in sepulchral voices, with howls, to naughty children before going to bed and, it must be admitted, the children then walked for a week as if knocked down, on the line, did not play pranks and did not indulge, each time frightened shuddering at the creak of the floorboards. One of these poems was "The Rye Girl" - the most effective means in a week to turn a cheerful, restless fidget into a silent, thoughtful, serious, gray-haired person beyond his years. How were these poems born? As a rule, they are all taken from life ...

Once, while walking around the village, the venerable writer Agniya Barto suddenly heard the soft cry of a child and instantly, like a bird of prey, flew up to the girl Hana: