You can’t travel around the country of “October” lightly. You need strong boots, warm and waterproof clothing.
In October, forests and fields are empty. No human voices, no bird calls. The most audible thing in October is the wind. The wind whistles through the hard stubble in the fields and through the bare branches in the forest. The wind drives clouds across the sky and waves across the water. The wind tears the last leaves from the trees and drives the last flocks south migratory birds. The wind is humming in the wires, drumming on the windows. Wind, wind everywhere. Rampant wind-leaf!
It's good in this weather for those who have a roof over their heads and supplies in the pantry. What do people care about: they have houses, shops, central heating. They even only listen to the weather report on Sunday: they are not afraid of snow or rain.
But the inhabitants of forests and fields get it in October!
The wind blows cold from the north, and with the cold comes hunger. And they have no houses, no shops, no stoves. And no one warns about the weather. And therefore everyone arranges himself as best he can. Hamsters, field and forest mice store grains in their burrows for the winter. Squirrels, martens, and foxes changed into warm winter coats. Ermines, weasels, snowshoe hares and partridges ordered white camouflage robes ahead of time so that they would not be visible in the snow. Badgers and bears have chosen secluded dens and burrows. Beavers cut down aspen trees and store succulent branches for the winter.
It’s a little tough in October for insectivorous birds too: the insects are hiding! You have to become a vegetarian: blackbirds for rowan trees, woodpeckers for cones. The tits are knocking on the windows: “Put out the feeders for us!”
Forest and field roads have become soggy: you can’t walk or drive! The wind alone travels everywhere - it rushes straight and roars in a terrible voice. It fills forest dwellers with fear and cold.
Magpie and Bullfinch
- Hey, dumbass, what's your name? Where did the red-breasted one come from to our forest? Why are you silent, have you taken some water into your mouth?
- No, not water, rowan trees. I was speechless with pleasure!
WIND AND COLD
- Wind, come to your senses! Why are you tearing off the last petals from the last daisy!
- And I’m guessing, guessing, guessing! Does Chamomile love you or not? Loves, doesn't love, loves, doesn't love. . . Doesn't like it! No-no!
KOSACH YOUNG AND KOSACH OLD
“All I hear is: winter is coming soon, there will be snow on your head soon, frost on your nose!” What is winter, Kosach?
- Do you, Kosachok, know summer?
- I know! How could you not know?
- So winter is summer in reverse.
- What is frost?
- Do you know how hot it is?
- So frost is heat in reverse.
- What does it mean to “winter through the winter”?
- Do you know a good and carefree life?
- I wouldn’t know!
- So this is the opposite!
MAGIE AND THE HARE
- If only you had some fox teeth, Hare!
- Uh, Soroka, it’s still bad. . .
- If only you had wolf legs, gray one!
- Uh, Soroka, happiness is not great. . .
- I wish you had lynx claws, scythe!
- Uh, Soroka, what do I need fangs and claws? My soul is still like a hare...
WOLF AND OWL
- You and I, Owl, are the same in everything: you are gray, and I am gray, you have claws, and I have claws, you are a predator, and I am a predator. Why do people greet us differently? They praise and praise you, they curse and curse me.
- And you, Wolf, what are you eating?
- Yes, there are more and more fat lambs, and kids, and calves. ..
- Well, you see! And I'm all about harmful mice. You and I are similar in clothes, but different in business!
HARE AND BEAR
— The squirrel stores mushrooms for the winter, the chipmunk stores nuts. And you, Bear, are still staggering around with nothing to do. When the snow starts to cover the ground, what are you going to do to shovel?
- You, oblique, don’t worry about me. I, brother, am a Samoyed. I eat myself in winter. Ha-ko, feel how much fat I have stored under the skin - enough for the whole winter. It’s not for nothing that I wander around the forest, I save up lard. I advise you to do the same, squint.
- Uh, Bear, what kind of lard is there. .. We, hares, have no time for fat in the forest, if only we were alive!
MAGIE AND THE BEAR
Hey Bear, what are you doing during the day?
- Me? Yes, I eat.
- And at night?
- And I eat at night.
- And in the morning?
- And in the morning.
- And in the evening?
- And I eat in the evening.
- When do you not eat then?
- When I’m full.
- When are you full?
- Never...
SPARROW AND WOODPECKER
- Hey, Woodpecker, all the birds are adapting to winter: some flew south, some moved to the backyard. You're the only one knocking in the same place. Look, you'll get away with it!
- And that’s all I need, Sparrow! With my nose I will gouge out a pine cone, and crush the dead wood, and scatter the dry leaves, and hollow out a hollow for the night. I just wish I could stay with my nose!
KEEP OUT THE WELL-WISHERS!
Guard! Stop those who are excessively compassionate and thoughtlessly love us!
Winter is just around the corner, and they decided to let us out of our cages for the winter. “Fly, poor slaves, to freedom!”
What should we, summer birds, do now in this freedom? There is snow and frost all around. What do you want to eat and drink? Where to hide from the cold? After all, we are spoiled in cages... Be patient with your pity until the summer! Then we will have our full pleasure.
I, Cranberry, am offended by the guys. My mood is completely sour. Of course! I tried to bloom, I tried to grow, warmed my sides in the sun, filled myself with juices. I became large, red, and full of vitamins. What's the point? Look how many of my berries are left in the swamps! And who likes to be left unchecked and unfinished? Do you get wet in the autumn rains?
Don't forget about me even in the spring. I, Snow Cranberry, am good in the spring! Don’t forget, otherwise I’ll become limp with grief!
CRANBERRY
Anglers don't make us very happy, let alone us! It’s not so bad when they slip a worm with a hook under your nose. Here, at least it’s fair: if you want, grab the worm, if you want, don’t grab it. But what did they come up with? The water is now cold and clear. At night they light a tar fire on the bow of the boat and quietly float along the shore - looking in the water where we sleep. They'll see you and they'll stab you in the back! Who will be killed, who will be maimed!
It’s not fair, fellow fishermen: at night, on the sly, during sleep... But it’s not allowed: it’s prohibited!
Read it. Write by inserting the missing letters, first words with a zero ending. Then highlight all endings in the remaining words. Wind, October, yellow, tractor, Yab Loko, weather, village, wheat, Moscow, holiday, lunch, deadline, Monday, berry, shop, cucumber, apple, tomatoes, dinner
Answers:
Wind, October, tractor, holiday, lunch, Monday, shop, cucumber, dinner - zero ending. yellow, apple, weather, village, wheat, Moscow, Magpies, berries, apples, tomato.
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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 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.
Open the calendar
January begins.
In January, in January
There is a lot of snow in the yard.
Snow - on the roof, on the porch.
The sun is in the blue sky.
The stoves are heated in our house.
Smoke rises into the sky in a column.
FEBRUARY
The winds blow in February
The pipes howl loudly.
Like a snake rushes along the ground
Light drifting snow.
Rising, they rush into the distance
Aircraft flights.
It celebrates February
The birth of the army.
MARCH
The loose snow darkens in March.
The ice on the window is melting.
Bunny running around the desk
And on the map
On the wall.
APRIL
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 the dead wood.
The birds began to sing songs,
And the snowdrop blossomed.
MAY
The lily of the valley bloomed in May
On the holiday itself - on the first day.
Seeing off May with flowers,
The lilac is blooming.
JUNE
June has arrived.
"June! June!"
Birds are chirping in the garden...
Just blow on a dandelion
And it will all fly apart.
JULY
Haymaking is in July
Somewhere thunder grumbles sometimes.
And ready to leave the hive
Young bee swarm.
AUGUST
We collect in August
Fruit harvest.
Lots of joy for people
After all the work.
The sun over the spacious
Nivami is worth it.
And sunflower grains
Black
Stuffed.
SEPTEMBER
Clear September morning
The villages thresh bread,
Birds fly across the seas
And the school opened.
OCTOBER
In October, in October
Frequent rain outside.
The grass in the meadows is dead,
The grasshopper fell silent.
Firewood has been prepared
For the winter for stoves.
NOVEMBER
November seventh day
Red calendar day.
Look out your window:
Everything on the street is red.
Flags flutter at the gates,
Blazing with flames.
See, the music is on
Where the trams were.
All the people - both young and old
Celebrates freedom.
And my red ball flies
Straight to the sky!
DECEMBER
In December, in December
All trees are in silver.
Our river, like in a fairy tale,
The frost paved the way overnight,
Updated skates, sleds,
I brought a Christmas tree from the forest.
The tree cried at first
From home warmth.
In the morning I stopped crying,
She breathed and came to life.
Its needles tremble a little,
The lights lit up on the branches.
Like a ladder, like a Christmas tree
The lights shoot up.
Firecrackers sparkle with gold.
I lit a star with silver
Reached the top
The bravest light.
A year has passed like yesterday.
Above Moscow at this hour
The clock of the Kremlin tower is striking
Fireworks - twelve times.
