Suddenly, some terrible beast opens the door with its paw. My puppy

My puppy

I'm off my feet today
My puppy is missing.
Called him for two hours
Waited two hours for him
Didn't sit down for lessons
And I couldn't have lunch.

This morning
Very early
Puppy jumped off the couch
Started walking around the room
Jump, bark
Wake everyone up.

He saw a blanket -
There was nothing to cover.

He looked into the pantry -
With honey, the jug turned over.

He tore papa's poems
Fell down the stairs to the floor.

I climbed into the glue with my front paw,
Just got out and disappeared...

Maybe it was stolen
Taken away on a rope
They called it a new name
Were you forced to guard the house?

Maybe he is in the dense forest
Under the bush sits prickly,

got lost
Looking for a home
Wet, poor thing, in the rain?

I didn't know what to do.
Mother said: - Wait.
I mourned for two hours
Didn't pick up books
Didn't draw anything
Everyone sat and waited.

Suddenly
some scary beast
Opens the door with a paw
Jumping over the threshold...
Who is this?
My puppy

What happened if immediately
Did I recognize the puppy?
The nose is swollen, the eyes are not visible,
twisted cheek,
And piercing like a needle
A bee buzzes on its tail.
Mother said: - Shut the door! A swarm of bees is flying towards us.

all wrapped up,
In the bed
My puppy lies flat
And barely wags
Bandaged tail.
I do not run to the doctor - I treat him myself.

This morning
Very early
Puppy jumped off the couch
Started walking around the rooms
Jump,
Bark,
Wake everyone up.

Sergei Mikhalkov, fig. V. Suteeva

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own idiosyncratic beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe 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. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. 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 yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a 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 critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds 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 but pure poetry that has rejected the word.