They fly away, they fly away...
poem
White snowstorms coming soon
The snow will rise from the ground.
They fly away, they fly away,
the cranes flew away.
Don't hear the cuckoos in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
It flies away, it flies away!
Leaf swaying patterned
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden, along the ridge.
They crumbled and turned yellow
Rare rays of the sun.
They fly away, they fly away,
The rooks also flew away.
Elena Aleksandrovna Blaginina
(1903-1989)
Children's poetess, translator - a native of the Oryol village. The daughter of a baggage cashier at the Kursk-I station, the granddaughter of a priest was going to become a teacher. Every day, in any weather, in homemade shoes with rope soles (the time was difficult: the twenties), she walked seven kilometers from home to the Kursk Pedagogical Institute. But the desire to write turned out to be stronger, and then - 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, headed by the poet Valery Bryusov. Elena Alexandrovna came to children's literature in the early 30s. It was then that a new name appeared on the pages of the magazine “Murzilka”, where such poets as Marshak, Barto, Mikhalkov were published - E. Blaginina. Elena Alexandrovna lived a long life and worked constantly. She wrote poems sparkling with humor, “teasers,” “counting books,” “tongue twisters,” songs, and fairy tales. But most of all her poems are lyrical. She also worked on translations, introducing the children to the poetry of Taras Shevchenko, Maria Konopnitskaya, Yulian Tuvim, Lev Kvitko.
The best of everything created by Elena Blaginina was included in the collections “Zhuravushka” (1973, 1983, 1988), “Fly away and fly away” (1983), “Burn and burn clearly!” (1990). The last collection appeared when Elena Alexandrovna was no longer alive; she died in 1989.
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.
They fly away, they fly away...
poem
White snowstorms coming soon
The snow will rise from the ground.
They fly away, they fly away,
the cranes flew away.
Don't hear the cuckoos in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
It flies away, it flies away!
Leaf swaying patterned
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden, along the ridge.
They crumbled and turned yellow
Rare rays of the sun.
They fly away, they fly away,
The rooks also flew away.
Elena Aleksandrovna Blaginina
(1903-1989)
Children's poetess, translator - a native of the Oryol village. The daughter of a baggage cashier at the Kursk-I station, the granddaughter of a priest was going to become a teacher. Every day, in any weather, in homemade shoes with rope soles (the time was difficult: the twenties), she walked seven kilometers from home to the Kursk Pedagogical Institute. But the desire to write turned out to be stronger, and then - 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, headed by the poet Valery Bryusov. Elena Alexandrovna came to children's literature in the early 30s. It was then that a new name appeared on the pages of the magazine “Murzilka”, where such poets as Marshak, Barto, Mikhalkov were published - E. Blaginina. Elena Alexandrovna lived a long life and worked constantly. She wrote poems sparkling with humor, “teasers,” “counting books,” “tongue twisters,” songs, and fairy tales. But most of all her poems are lyrical. She also worked on translations, introducing the children to the poetry of Taras Shevchenko, Maria Konopnitskaya, Yulian Tuvim, Lev Kvitko.
The best of everything created by Elena Blaginina was included in the collections “Zhuravushka” (1973, 1983, 1988), “Fly away and fly away” (1983), “Burn and 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
