In the previous publication we suggested to you, but now let’s take a closer look at the autumn brother months. It is some adults who think that autumn is equally gray and slushy, but in fact - everything autumn months different and attractive in their own way!
Let's teach kids to see the world as amazing in any season, and let's relearn this ourselves!

We read poems about September, October, November with the children!

Poems about September

S. Marshak

Clear morning in September
The villages thresh bread,
Birds are flying across the seas -
And the school opened.

Let's start, as always, with the classics - poems from Marshakov's "Round the Year" and, of course, from the first month of autumn - September! It can be rainy and thoughtful, cool and a little sad - but still September is so green, warm, often sunny, like summer!

N. Firefly

September has arrived with colors,
Touched the leaves tenderly
And the tree is simple
Suddenly it turned golden.

Yulietta

Autumn boat in cozy grayness
Guides with a silent oar,
Only the tree glows festively
Outside the cold autumn window.

Still turning green stubbornly,
Only this maple didn’t want to wait:
Blazed like the sun, but early
He flew south like a firebird.

N. Yazeva

In September, in September
Lots of leaves on the ground
Yellow and red!
Everyone is so different!

September apricot

Yulietta

The mornings are piercingly cold.
It's autumn, and already in earnest.
But there is no need to worry about that,
So said the September apricot.

This is how cicadas sing on a warm evening,
After all, like in summer, the night is shorter than the day.
The rains are in no hurry to meet us,
Just like the birds are catching up with summer.

Summer did not close, like doors,
Behind you is a distant horizon.
And believe me, all is not lost yet,
It's not time to spread your umbrella yet.

In September, like a summer lover,
Because he waves a branch at me
Apricot, summer green,
All playing in the solar fire.

A. Metzger

***
The yellow leaf flies like a bird,
Foxy hurries to class.
New backpack on my back
Satchel with the forest alphabet.

September. The bell rang
The baby is starting first grade.
And a tangle of yellow leaves,
The breeze moves across the sky.

Poems about October

S. Marshak

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.

But in October, autumn is already in earnest... But still, there is no need to worry, although sometimes it’s good to be a little sad about summer... And then wake up - and rush into heaps of golden leaves - rustling, fragrant, magical!

Yulietta

For some reason we dreamed of summer,
Even though it’s already autumn in reality,
And the wind shook the trees all night,
Picking off wet leaves.

The sunny maples have thinned out,
You can see the blue through the crowns.
And the trees stand in surprise,
And they drop the gold into the grass.

Maybe they also dreamed of summer...
Only really - autumn is real
Scatters generously, like coins,
Golden feet of foliage.

The trees are surprised with all the colors in October, when the Autumn artist, who timidly tried her new colors in September, is already in full swing and painting the world in warm, sunny, fiery tones! As if specifically to make us warmer amid the rains and fogs.

Bonfire tree

Yulietta

On the edge of the fog
the tree is standing.
With a crimson torch
the tree is on fire.

You won’t touch the crown:
it seems, touch it a little -
Will burn your palms
tree-fire.

Washed the paint off the trees
rain... but still
Doesn't go out in the rain
tree-bonfire!

O. Alenkina

The hedgehog will soon go into hibernation,
The grove will shed its outfit,
In the meantime, along all the paths
The bright leaves are swirling.

October smiles,
And my nose is already tickling
On a school morning,
Early in the morning
The smallest
Freezing.

I. Demyanov

October is approaching.
But the forest day is bright.
And autumn smiles
Blue skies,

Silent lakes
That they spread their blue,
And pink dawns
In the birch land!

Here are moss-gray laces
On an old boulder
And the yellow leaf is spinning,
The other one is already on the stump!..

And nearby, under the vines,
Under their thick canopy,
The boletus climbed up -
And the hat is askew.

But everything in the forest is sadder:
I couldn't find a flower
How the pendulum swings
Aspen leaf.

The trees have long shadows...
And the rays are colder.
And there are cranes in the sky
Murmuring streams!

Poems about November

S. Marshak

The seventh day of November -
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!

“You see, the music goes where the trams went” - I remember this line from childhood! And although now not everyone and not everywhere celebrates the “red day of the calendar,” I like the poem!

A.S. Pushkin

The sky was already breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
She stripped herself naked with a sad noise.
Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.

L. Lukanova

The rain is pouring down like buckets,
The kids are sitting at home.
The whole November is gloomy,
It's cold outside.

T. Kersten

Apple and plum trees stand bare.
Our autumn garden looks sad.
Outside the window it’s either raining or cold snow.
Everyone’s soul is gloomy and uncomfortable.
The sun drowned in the puddles of November.
But let's not be angry with him in vain.
Let's prepare skis, sleds and skates.
Winter days await us very soon.

And although the autumn sadness is becoming more and more distinct in the November poems, I think that its thick fogs are surprisingly cozy! Go out for a walk in the evening, when the red light of the lanterns softly dissipates in thousands of tiny raindrops.

Winter is coming... But this is great! This means the first snow, New Year, pleasant surprises, new meetings and joys!

In the meantime... Let's make friends with Autumn and wait for the new Summer together!

Yulietta

***
Summer ends today
And the rain doesn't stop in the morning...
We are warmly and colorfully dressed,
But it was hot yesterday!..

How quickly summer ended!
We've been waiting for him for a whole year -
It flashed like a comet,
And autumn is coming to us again.

Summer suddenly ended...
It sped off across the seas
And disappeared behind the clouds somewhere,
Leaving us with the rain of September...

Well, summer is over...
But we have our warm Home.
We'll be warm all winter
Cozy home warmth.

Well, summer is over,
But don't be sad about him.
We know that it is somewhere
And we are waiting for him to come back again!

(Read 1 time, 3 visits today)

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 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 morning in September
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 strikes
Fireworks - twelve times.

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.

It curls like a snake on the ground

Light drifting snow.

Rising, they rush into the distance

Aircraft flights.

It celebrates February

Army birth

March

The sun is higher in March

Its rays are hot.

Soon the roof will be dripping,

The rooks will scream in the garden

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 very holiday, 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

September

Clear morning in September

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

Day of the Seventh of November -

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 the warmth of home,

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 strikes

Fireworks - twelve times!

JANUARY
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 morning in September
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 strikes
Fireworks - twelve times.

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.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "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.