Poems about September. Ostroukhov I. S. "Golden Autumn". E. Volkov "Forest Lake"

Poems about September are some of the most beautiful. Nature is especially beautiful this month. Golden and crimson leaves, warm days of Indian summer create a special atmosphere.

In September
(L. Kim)

The breeze plays in September
It's beautiful with fallen leaves,
Accompanying you to school for class,
It tangles our hair playfully.
Autumn will swirl in the falling leaves,

Golden autumn rushes to us,

(L. Zubanenko)

A playful bird in September in the forest
Throws a rowan into the thick dew,
Shakes the heads of withered flowers,
I painted the tops of the bushes purple,
Cold showers shade the garden,
He doesn't like the green outfit
And rushes south in a fast flock,
Carrying away heat from snowstorms and blizzards.
Every moment he sends us landscapes
And he sings a song about autumn life.

In September
(L. Kim)

The breeze plays in September
It's beautiful with fallen leaves,
Accompanying you to school for class,
It tangles our hair playfully.

Autumn will swirl in the falling leaves,
Paint the leaves yellow.
Golden autumn is rushing to us,
And he won’t ask whether we are waiting for her or not.

In September
(N. Yazeva)

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

"Golden September"

(Iris Review)

Golden September.
Enveloped in haze
Dozing under the moon,
Our familiar garden

The leaves are flying around,
The stream does not gurgle,
And not visible in the field
Proboscis rooks.

"September"

(Iris Review)
Summer whispered: “I’m running away,
I'll take the flowers and paints,
I invite you to visit September,
You’ll have to bring him to court.”

September will give you gold,
He will reward you with rich bread,
In the morning it will beckon you into a wonderful forest,
You will be surprised by the gifts of the forest.

"Sad September"

(Iris Review)
Sad September
Continuous rains
The huge clouds have no end in sight,
The rowan and willow trees have already drooped,
They nod quietly at the porch.

"September"

(Iris Review)
September. No sun.
The day has become shorter
Hung in the sky
An alarming shadow.

I can't hear the robin,
Only the winds
They sing mournfully
A song in the morning.

"September. The tops of the birches are turning yellow"

(Iris Review)
September. The tops of the birches are turning yellow,
The aspen trembles anxiously,
The web flies, knows no boundaries,
But still waters do not shine.

September has arrived
(N. Firefly)

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

September brought umbrellas,
It rained on the grove
And grew up on a hummock
Waves and breasts...

Asked the children to care
Walk through puddles in boots.
And sadly, good friend
Sent the birds south

In September
(S. Tsokur)

It's not sad yet in September:
Warm afternoon, everything is in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They keep up in the fields.

In the mornings, of course, it’s chilly,
But there is no frost yet.
And also a green hat
The tired forest will dress up.

The bird noise does not stop,
But it's cool time
Reminds me of myself
Boring rain in the morning.

September saddens us with tears of rain
(O. Kukharenko)

September saddens us with tears of rain...
Already, grasses have been hidden under silver more than once,
There are transparent frames on the puddles in the morning,
The rowan tree under the window began to glow like a child...
The river runs and hurries, trying to avoid
Tormenting sleep and long captivity...
And the maple whispers to the birch with inspiration,
How can he wait patiently...

In September in the forest
(Z. Pisman)

The yellow leaf circles and curls,
The rain drips and pours,
The rowan trees have already turned red,
Threads of cobwebs hang.

The wind flies and swirls
And the birds sing softly,
A ray of sunshine melts in the clouds,
The day is running away faster.

The forest is filled with mushrooms
Leaf, needles underfoot.
Dewdrops are melting on the grass,
Mushroom pickers are invited to the forest.

The squirrel is looking for a nut,
Her fur fluffed up.
The hedgehog walks, not in a hurry,
And there is a mushroom on the back.

The bunny jumps, loops,
He is collecting cabbage.
The mole is preparing the bins,
Winter is not scary for him.

September
(A. Metzger)

September. The bell rang

And a tangle of yellow leaves,
The breeze moves across the sky.

Here it is September
(T. Kersten)

The sun is hiding, the sky is gloomy.
So September is guarding at the gates.
The grass has wilted, the bushes are empty.
A bird's "goodbye" flies towards us from above.

Summer ended quickly... What a pity!
The leaves on the maple trees are trembling timidly...
But don't be sad about the summer day:
Make an autumn bouquet from leaves.

September
(A. Metzger)

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

Beautiful children's poems about September:

N. Firefly

September brought umbrellas,
It rained on the grove
And grew up on a hummock
Waves and breasts...
Asked the children to care
Walk through puddles in boots.
And sadly, good friend
Sent the birds south

Read also:

N. Yazeva

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

S. Marshak

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

L. Lukanova

It's still warm, but school is coming soon,
And the old backpack is no longer useful.
The baby has grown stronger and grown over the summer,
September good guy nearby, somewhere.

A. Metzger

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

T. Kersten

The sun is hiding, the sky is gloomy.
That's September guards at the gate.
The grass has wilted, the bushes are empty.
A bird's "farewell" flies towards us from above.
Summer ended quickly... What a pity!
The leaves on the maple trees are trembling timidly...
But don't be sad about the summer day:
Make an autumn bouquet from leaves.

L. Kim

IN September the breeze plays
It's beautiful with fallen leaves,
Accompanying you to school for class,
It tangles our hair playfully.
Autumn will swirl in the falling leaves,
Paint the leaves yellow.
Golden autumn is rushing to us,
And he won’t ask whether we are waiting for her or not.

S. Tsokur

IN September not sad yet:
Warm afternoon, everything is in flowers.
Tomatoes and cabbage
They keep up in the fields.
In the mornings, of course, it’s chilly,
But there is no frost yet.
And also a green hat
The tired forest will dress up.
The bird noise does not stop,
But it's cool time
Reminds me of myself
Boring rain in the morning.

Z. Pisman. In September in the forest.

The yellow leaf circles and curls,
The rain drips and pours,
The rowan trees have already turned red,
Threads of cobwebs hang.
The wind flies and swirls
And the birds sing softly,
A ray of sunshine melts in the clouds,
The day is running away faster.
The forest is filled with mushrooms
Leaf, needles underfoot.
Dewdrops are melting on the grass,
Mushroom pickers are invited to the forest.
The squirrel is looking for a nut,
Her fur fluffed up.
The hedgehog walks, not in a hurry,
And there is a mushroom on the back.
The bunny jumps, loops,
He is collecting cabbage.
The mole is preparing the bins,
Winter is not scary for him.

E. Zikh

The leaves are circling September.
It's autumn and it's just around the corner.
The whole birch tree flew around,
And a tear glistens on the branch.
Murka is huddling closer to the stove,
The rolls smell delicious.
Good to learn lessons
Even the youngest baby.

T. Pogorelova

Summer with a scarlet path
Disappeared somewhere across the river.
Potatoes are baked in the fields,
The air is tart, and what a tart one!
Gossamer airplane
It will fly with spiders,
The sun is like a sleepy cat,
He purrs and goes back to sleep.
And across the river is our school
Expecting children.
This is where the path is heading -
On a date, to September!

L. Zubanenko

A playful bird September In the woods
Throws a rowan into the thick dew,
Shakes the heads of withered flowers,
I painted the tops of the bushes purple,
Cold showers shade the garden,
He doesn't like the green outfit
And rushes south in a fast flock,
Carrying away heat from snowstorms and blizzards.
Every moment he sends us landscapes
And he sings a song about autumn life.

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.

In the previous publication we suggested to you, but now let’s take a closer look at the autumn brother months. Some adults think that autumn is equally gray and slushy, but in fact, all autumn months are 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 September morning
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 " All year round"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

***
A 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 all night the wind shook the trees,
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
WITH sad noise naked.
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

The apple and plum trees are 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 again autumn is coming to us.

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!

(1 read, 1 visit today)

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.