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 knowing 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.
– Don’t write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The 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.
April
Alexander Fukalov Vyatsky
We open the windows wide,
We invite the sun to visit.
Let's open the door wider
April has come to us again.
April ran in streams,
Well, the first starlings
He surprised, sang, played...
Next May invited me to visit.
April
Alena Ranneva
Ding-ding-ding! The drops are ringing.
April is coming back.
He's so blue eyed -
You will recognize him immediately.
April
Alla Fonina
It's frosty in the morning,
All day long drops
Sunny and sonorous
April is coming to us.
Melted the snowdrifts
Released streams
Asks the birds to be louder
Sing your own songs.
Let him hear spring
Old winter
Let him not be angry -
The line has passed.
The blizzards whistled,
The frost has crunched,
Oh, and he pinched
You and I are by the nose!
The first warm wind
He wants to take off his hats.
The river shook off the ice,
It rushes and cannot be stopped.
Black thawed patches
They showed up instantly
Drying his felt boots
There is an old man on the stove.
The courtyards have come to life
Noisy kids
Soon the garden will be dressed
Fresh leaves.
April is in a hurry
Alla Fonina
What are you carrying with you, April?
- Sun, streams, drops,
Laughter, freckles, birdsong
And fogs in the morning.
I grabbed a big spoon -
There are a little snowdrifts,
Picking ice on the river,
To arrange an ice drift.
- Why are you in such a hurry?
And where are you running now?
- I’m rushing to wake up spring as soon as possible
Hurry up Brother May.
They are waiting for me in the forests,
Groves, parks and gardens.
I'm needed in cities too -
Make puddles for the guys -
They will go out for a walk in boots
And launch the boats.
April
Agnia Barto
Willow, willow, willow,
The willow blossomed.
This means, that's right,
That spring has come
This means it's true
That winter is over.
The very, very first
The starling whistled.
Whistled in the birdhouse:
Well, now I'm from here.
But don't trust spring
The wind whistles.
Wind, wind, wind
It turns along the roads
Last year's leaf.
All April jokes!
Rural kindergarten
In the morning I took off my fur coats,
At noon - snowfall.
But it's not that bad
The way things are,
If there is a willow, a willow, the willow has bloomed.
Martin
Boris Zakhoder
The Swallow flew away
Far away...
Come back, Swallow!
It's April.
Come back, Swallow!
Not alone:
Let it be with you, Swallow,
Spring is coming!
Month of April
Vladimir Kokarev
It's April, which means...
Spring is in full bloom!
You may still see snow,
But there is no trace of winter.
Maybe he’ll snap back
Leaving, she is frosty,
Throws handfuls of snow flakes,
But all this is laughter, not tears.
After all, the rivers have already swollen,
Rivers and streams opened up,
The grass is timidly turning green,
The days have become longer.
Flocks came from the south,
Meet migratory birds.
April the prankster passed his watch,
The month of May is coming.
Red umbrella
Henriette Wütherich
It's April again.
The birds flocked
Because of the blue mountains.
The rain will rush
Watering the yard.
Mom bought a red umbrella.
I want it never
The sun didn't shine in the sky,
And the water flowed all day.
Here I will open a red umbrella,
I will run with him through the puddle.
What a beautiful day
I'll pick a deeper puddle.
Mom was very surprised
When I came from a walk,
Because it appeared
The puddle on the floor is like a sponge.
In the April forest
Georgy Ladonshchikov
It's good in the forest in April:
Smells like leafy leaves,
Different birds sing,
They build nests in trees;
Lungwort in the clearings
He strives to go out to the sun,
Morels between the herbs
Raise the caps;
The buds of the branches swell,
The leaves are breaking through,
Start to ant
Fix your palaces.
April day
Denis Dune 1
April is shining in the yard
The drop rings loudly.
Warmth for the joy of children
Calls them loudly to go for a walk.
They are a cheerful crowd
They play in the street
And a soccer ball, painted,
They're racing around the yard.
Old men sitting on a bench
Chatting carefree
And they talk about everything there,
What to discuss willingly.
And the day flies by,
Father came home from work
And mom calls for dinner
Leaving all worries behind.
Then I played with dad
In toys from a pencil case,
So that dad doesn't get bored at home,
And mom was resting.
In bed late, under the moon
They read me a fairy tale.
I found myself in a wonderful dream,
And my eyes were sleeping.
April
E. Kulakovskaya
Having abandoned the snow towers,
It's winter again in the northern region
She flew away, flapping her wings,
Immediately everything around came to life.
Throwing off your icy shell,
And washing the shores with a wave,
The stormy river flowed
Full of water and cheerful.
The sun's rays warm,
Rooks on the wet ground,
That they returned to their lands,
They walk as important as princes.
Where was Spring?
Elena Yaryshevskaya
Throughout March there were frosts and snowstorms...
Spring has arrived, but only... in April!
Spring I asked: “Well, where have you been?
Were you sick? Were things serious?"
Vesna, blushing, began to apologize:
“I couldn’t tear myself away from the book!
I read avidly, without lunch or sleep
A novel called "Spring is Missing!"
How does ice drift begin?
Irina Alexandrova
April left the house.
I took a drill out of the shed.
Drilled through the ice on the river,
And there was an ice drift.
Overcrowded winter
Irina Gurina
Winter sat in the snow
And howled like a blizzard:
- I can still stay here,
Three months is not enough for me.
The sun growled from above:
- Obsession is not in fashion.
Come on, winter, bye-bye!
Let nature bloom!
Dripping drops on my nose
And she boldly insisted:
- What are you, winter? It's already April!
Everyone here is tired of you!
Take your snowdrifts
And ice and snowfall.
And go to a distant land.
You will be welcome there!
Winter creaks: - Yes, I see
You've done it! Sorry,
If I'm staying busy, I'm leaving.
If you miss us, call us!
April
Irina Schastneva
It's April outside,
Drops are ringing outside the window.
After the winter cold
Puddles appeared.
I'm flying outside
I want to let streams flow.
Boots on my feet -
Your feet won't get wet!
Leonid Chernakov
April
Lyubov Samoilenko
April rustled with streams,
It's light again in the evenings.
The sun's bright rays
Laughed. Come to life...
Oh, what a miracle it is
Watch a spring day!
Kids are running around everywhere
All laziness has disappeared.
April
Lyudmila Gromova 1
Liveliness everywhere
The streams are ringing
Spring rays
They want to keep everyone warm.
The birds are returning
Nests are made in the forest.
He got out, looked around,
Badger from the hole.
And in Mishkina’s den
It flowed from above
He wet his pants
No luck!
There are thawed patches on the ground,
There is very little snow
At the sideways bunny
The fur coat turned gray.
Tender ones swell
There are buds on the trees,
Snowdrops bloomed -
The first flowers.
Under the murmur of spring
And to the sound of a drop
Virgin Annunciation
We celebrate in April.
For Palm Sunday
The willow will bloom
And already victorious
Easter is coming to us.
Joy, cheerfulness
The whole earth is full:
Bright Resurrection
Death has been defeated!
April
Mikhail Sadovsky
In the forest
April cleaning:
panicles
Willow makes crafts,
Snowdrop first,
Like a five
Stands a little shyly.
And the clouds are already
Like a pile
And this means:
Wait soon -
The first thunder strikes like a miracle -
Will usher in the summer rains!
April
Natalia Svetlyachok
Ding - ding - ding sings drops
On forest paths.
Through thawed patches in April
Stomps in boots.
The boot barely touches
There are hummocks in the clearing -
The snow will sing like a stream,
Flowers will bloom.
April is a rebel
Nikolay Kazakov
April got excited
The sun is hot,
And cheerful drops
Briskly falls from the roofs.
The sparrow chirped
More joyful and louder
From the radiance of spring days
The song became louder.
In a forest clearing
A snowdrop peeked through.
On the side, dear
April is rushing - the rebel.
Angel
Oksana Shkolnik
Will arrive with the warmth of spring,
gentle wind mischievous.
With a romantic mood
pouring rain will pour down.
Young disheveled angel,
beads sparkle in the eyes.
Will sketch the azure vault
a rainbow in the sky.
Restless, like titmouses,
the young man's tread is light.
And they look from under the eyelashes
two mischievous lights.
He will spread his wings
in blooming gardens.
Will add gentle brightness
in the first herbs and flowers.
The green buds will unfurl,
believe it or not.
But the angel laughs
with a gentle name - April...
Winter tears
Olga Borisova 5
Zimushka is crying bitterly
What hurts Zimushka?
The ringing drops are pouring
It's April outside!
Streams and puddles all around
No more snow needed!
Don't be angry, Winter, don't cry,
We want to play ball
The birds sing joyfully
They invite us to go for a walk in the yard
The sun is getting warmer every day
Go away, Winter, quickly!
Naughty April
Olga Borisova 5
He's funny and mischievous
Spring came to visit us
Smiled at passers-by
On a walk on a fine day
I illuminated their eyes with a beam,
Threw blue paint into the sky
He became friendly with the warm sun
And splashed with him through the puddles.
Moved the roofs on one side,
Sprinkled merrily drops,
Melted the snow of the colossus,
Ice floes grumbled in the rivers,
I opened the buds on the birch trees.
And flowers for snowdrops
And along the forest path,
Then I ran with Vesna.
All year round mystery 4
Regina Novikova
He will come - everything will shine,
The snow will settle and melt.
Will gather in streams
And he will rush to the mother river.
Birds will return from warm countries,
The sap will flow in the trees.
And in the forest, from the snowy soil,
A small snowdrop will come out.
The drops are ringing all day long...
This came to us... (April)
April! April!
Samuel Marshak
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 thick dead wood.
The birds began to sing songs
And the snowdrop blossomed.
April sun
Svetlana Semyonova
The sun is burning -
Golden bottom:
"Wake up, kidneys,
Herbs and bugs!
The ants woke up -
Sweetly stretched:
“Let’s not get our feet wet -
The streams have dried up! »
And on the tubercle
The flowers have sprouted.
We were surprised
Important rooks!
And from each kidney
We looked at the leaves.
They are kissed tenderly
Warm rays...
April
Tatiana Voilokova
The sun is shining through the window.
He waves his warm hand:
Go out for a walk quickly
It's already April.
Thin icicles cry:
We are tiny today.
It's getting warmer, we're melting
Goodbye, see you winter.
April
Tatiana Kersten
The rain will generously water the earth,
Grass will grow in the field.
The vernal forest no longer sleeps:
Foliage appears.
All the animals wake up
That they were dozing under the snow.
Open the doors for them, April!
Everything is upside down from the holes!
Why are the drops ringing?
Yu. Dulepina
Why are the drops ringing?
And the icicles melt?
The blizzard is no longer heard -
The sun is shining.
In forest thawed areas
A harbinger of warm days,
The gift of spring has appeared -
Primrose - snowdrop.
Gentle, wonderful, unearthly,
Without a ray it will warm you,
I'll admire you
I don't dare touch it.
Apparently you were born in a fairy tale,
It blossomed in the fairy's fields,
Dressed up in white silk
And he brought spring with him.
Why do icicles melt?
And there are drops on the streets?
Because it's coming
The joyful month is April.
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 knowing 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.
– Don’t write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The 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.
MARSHAK, SAMUIL YAKOVLEVICH (1887–1964) - Soviet poet, translator, playwright, literary critic, editor.
Born on October 22 (November 3), 1887 in Voronezh in the family of a technician-master at chemical plants. From early childhood he wrote poetry. In 1902, he moved with his family to St. Petersburg, where chance helped him meet V.V. Stasov, and through that with F.I. Chaliapin and M. Gorky, who took an active part in the fate of the talented boy. Thanks to Stasov’s efforts, Marshak, the son of a Jew from the Pale of Settlement, was assigned to a gymnasium; Subsequently, Gorky settled him with his wife, E.P. Peshkova, in Yalta (1904–1906), where Marshak continued his studies at the expense of Gorky and Chaliapin. In 1907, having returned to St. Petersburg, he began speaking in one of the most popular magazines of the Silver Age, Satyricon. In 1912–1915 he lived in England, attended lectures at the Faculty of Philology of the University of London (1913–1914); in 1915–1917, in the magazines “Northern Notes”, “Russian Thought” and other publications, he published his first translations (poems by R. Burns, W. Blake, W. Wordsworth, English and Scottish folk ballads). Returning to Russia, he participated in organizing assistance to young orphans and refugees - victims of the First World War. In the summer of 1917, in Ekaterinodar (Krasnodar), he organized and headed the “Children's Town” - a complex of children's institutions (school, library, workshops, etc.), which included one of the first Soviet theaters for young spectators. For him, Marshak and the poetess E.I. Vasilyeva (Dmitrieva; pseudonym - Cherubina de Gabriak) wrote fairy tale plays (joint collection. Theater for Children, 1922).
In 1922 he moved to Petrograd, where he became the head of the literary and repertoire department of the Theater for Young Spectators, and soon Marshak’s books of poetry began to be published, which instantly won the love of young readers: Children in a Cage, Fire, The Tale of a Stupid Mouse (all 1923), Circus, Ice Cream, Yesterday and today (all 1925), Baggage (1926), Poodle, Mail (both 1927), That's how absent-minded (1930), etc. Into the toy world of pre-revolutionary children's literature Marshak (like K.I. Chukovsky and D.I. Kharms) introduced lively and recognizable, charming and funny, fantasy and instructive images of people, adults and children, animals, birds, things that find themselves in a wide variety of situations, causing laughter, sympathy, understanding, mistrust - a whole range of feelings, based on which the writer unobtrusively and subtly lays down edification, instructing without coercion or boredom.
The genre diversity of Marshak's poetry (small poetic short story, ballad, riddle, sketch, song, fairy tale and saying, counting rhyme) was combined with amazing lightness, organic grace, masterly simplicity of verse, definiteness of composition, clarity of musical rhythm, semantic richness of the text, wise for adults and understandable to children. It is no coincidence that many of Marshak’s lines—poems, in Chukovsky’s words, of “diamond chasing”—entered Russian cultural life as proverbs, sayings, and aphorisms.
In 1924–1925 - editor of the magazine “New Robinson”, in which B.S. Zhitkov, M. Ilyin (Marshak’s brother), V.V. Bianki, E.L. Shvarts and other future classics of Russian children’s literature first began to publish . In 1924–1934, heading the Children's Department of the State Publishing House, Marshak introduced no less brilliant L. Panteleev, G. G. Belykh, Kharms, A. I. Vvedensky and others into children's literature. Gorky deservedly named Marshak in the early 1930s "the founder of children's literature in our country."
In 1937 he moved to Moscow, continuing to write poetry for children and translate English poetry into Russian. In his “children’s” works, the poet is not afraid to touch on production, ideological, and serious moral and psychological (“If you are / Polite / And to your conscience / Not deaf, / You will / Without protest / Give in / to the Old Woman. / If you are / Polite / In the soul, and not for show, / Into the trolleybus / You will help / Climb / a disabled person..."), and political problems, skillfully, witty, even cheerfully expanding the boundaries of the world of young readers (Master-Lomaster, War with the Dnieper, Mister Twister, Tale of an Unknown Hero, etc.).
During the Great Patriotic War, Marshak appeared with satirical texts on newspaper pages (Young Fritz, or the Exam for the Certificate of “Bestiality”; based on it - the film script Young Fritz, or Sentimental Education, 1942–1943; film of the same name by G.A. Kozintsev), in front-line leaflets and propaganda posters (including writing captions for Kukryniksy’s drawings, for example, “During the day, the fascist said to the peasants: / “Off with your hat!” / At night, he gave the partisans / Helmet with your head”). At the same time, in Marshak’s poems of the war and post-war years, the lyrical principle intensifies, the psychologism deepens, the landscape appears - without losing the bright, cheerful, “childish” attitude (collections Military Post, 1944; Multi-colored book, Fable-tale, both 1947; All year round , 1948; Quiet Fairy Tale 1956; Vaksa-Klyaksa, Ugomon, both 1958; encyclopedia in verse A Merry Journey from A to Z, 1953, etc.) This is especially noticeable in Marshak’s “adult” poems. these years, and in his translations (except for the above-mentioned authors, J. G. Byron, D. Keats, R. Kipling, R. Stevenson, R. Browning, E. Lira, G. Heine, J. Rodari, etc., in incl. Ukrainian, Belarusian, Armenian and other foreign language poets).
An era in Russian literature was made up of his translations of 154 sonnets by W. Shakespeare (including the famous 66th sonnet: “I call death. I cannot bear to see / Dignity that asks for alms, / A mocking lie at simplicity, / Insignificance in luxurious attire ... / And directness, which is considered stupidity, / And stupidity in the mask of a sage, a prophet, / And inspiration, a clamped mouth, / And righteousness in the service of vice...").
In 1962, the book of Marshak’s Selected Lyrics was published (Lenin Prize, 1963), which included, among other things, “lyrical epigrams,” as the poet himself called them - aphoristic quatrains and couplets, accumulating deep, ironic, life-loving wisdom in minted and melodic stanzas their author.
Masterpieces of Marshak’s multifaceted creativity - both his lyrical epigrams (“A lot of books have been published by me, / But they all flew away like birds. / And I remained the author of one / The last, unfinished page,” 1964), and philosophical reflections (“All those who breathes on the earth, / With all their conceit - / Only reflections in the glass, / No more, no less...”, 1964), and messages (T.G - “You gave all the best for nothing, / Shared happiness and spiritual heat , / An unexpected treasure that I found myself, / The play of a living, quick mind...”, early 1960s), and elegy (“The flowers on the grave are quietly swaying / From a light stream of air. / And in every sway of stiff lilies / I see your movements...", 1958), and landscape lyrics ("In the semi-darkness I saw: standing / Outside the window, where a blizzard was swirling, / As if just from a winter ball, / A spruce tree dressed in ermine...", 1957 ), and thoughts about poetic creativity (“It used to be that a regiment of poems marched, / The ranks walked measuredly and in step, / Rhymed, sonorous words / Timpani rang all the way ...”). Long-term fame was brought to Marshak by his fairy tale plays (which still do not leave the theater stage, the radio microphone, or the television and film screens (Koshkin House, 1922; Twelve Months, 1943, 2nd ed. 1962; To be afraid of grief is not to be happy) apparently, 1922, 1954; Smart Things, 1940, 1964).
An important aspect of Marshak’s work was his memoirs and literary criticism (the autobiographical story At the Beginning of Life. Pages of Memories, 1960; a collection of articles on literary craftsmanship, notes and memoirs, Education with Words, 1961), as well as constant communication with colleagues in the poetry workshop, including h. beginners (Marshak was not only friendly with them, but also extremely frank, calling, according to eyewitnesses, bad poetry “bad deeds”).
A generally recognized, widely read and beloved classic of Russian literature of the 20th century, Marshak was awarded the highest awards (except Lenin, State Prizes 1942, 1946, 1949, 1951). Evidence of the breadth and power of his talent was the heather wreath sent to his funeral from Scotland, the homeland of Burns, whose fresh and natural lyrics the poet made a fact of Russian literature. Marshak's own poems have been translated into many languages of the world.
