Violin was torn to pieces begging,
And then broke out in tears
That Drum couldn't handle it any longer,
Heavy as a blow.
'Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's- to God what is God's.'
I will sew myself black trousers
from the velvet of my voice.
And from three yards of sunset, a yellow blouse.
dreaming on a softened brain,
like an over-fed lackey on a greasy settee,
with my heart's bloody tatters I'll mock again;
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
Tobacco smoke has consumed the air.
is a chapter in Kruchenykh's inferno.
You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
I promptly smeared the map of daily
With splashing paint in one quick motion
I have displayed on a tray of jelly
I blurred at once the chart of trite routine
by splashing paint with one swift motion.
I showed upon a plate of brawny glutin
A hundred suns the sunset fired,
into July summer shunted,
it was so hot,
even heat perspired-
I suddenly smeared the weekday map
splashing paint from a glass;
On a plate of aspic
Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
For me the great are no match.
Upon every achievement
I stamp nihil
Maria! Maria! Maria!
Let me in, Maria!
I can't suffer the streets!
Ah, wherefrom this,
how explain this
brandishing of dirty fists
at bright joy!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky (Влади́мир Влади́мирович Маяко́вский) (July 19 [O.S. July 7] 1893 – April 14, 1930) was a Russian and Soviet poet and playwright, among the foremost representatives of early-20th century Russian Futurism. The 1912 Futurist publication A Slap in the Face of Public Tastecontained Mayakovsky's first published poems: Night and Morning]. Because of their political activities, Burlyuk and Mayakovsky were expelled from the Moscow Art School in 1914. Image from Mayakovsky's ("How to Make Poetry").His work continued in the Futurist vein until 1914. His artistic development then shifted increasingly in the direction of narrative and it was this work, published during the period immediately preceding the Russian Revolution, which was to establish his reputation as a poet in Russia and abroad. A Cloud in Trousers (1915) was Mayakovsky's first major poem of appreciable length and it depicted the heated subjects of love, revolution, religion and art, written from the vantage point of a spurned lover. The language of the work was the language of the streets, and Mayakovsky went to considerable lengths to debunk idealistic and romanticised notions of poetry and poets. In the summer of 1915, Mayakovsky fell in love with a married woman, Lilya Brik, and it is to her that the poem "The Backbone Flute" (1916) was dedicated; unfortunately for Mayakovsky, she was the wife of his publisher, Osip Brik. The love affair, as well as his impressions of war and revolution, strongly influenced his works of these years. The poem "War and the World" (1916) addressed the horrors of WWI and "Man" (1917) is a poem dealing with the anguish of love. Mayakovsky was rejected as a volunteer at the beginning of WWI, and during 1915-1917 worked at the Petrograd Military Automobile School as a draftsman. At the onset of the Russian Revolution, Mayakovsky was in Smolny, Petrograd. There he witnessed the October Revolution. He started reciting poems such as "Left March! For the Red Marines: 1918" ,1918) at naval theatres, with sailors as an audience. His satirical play Mystery-Bouffe was staged in 1918, and again, more successfully, in 1921.)
Past One O'Clock
She loves me-loves me not.
My hands I pick
and having broken my fingers
So the first daisy-heads
one happens to flick
scattered into May.
Let a cut and shave
reveal my grey hairs.
Let the silver of the years
ring out endlessly !
Shameful common sense -
I hope, I swear -
Will never come
It's already two.
No doubt, you've gone to sleep.
In the night
The Milky Way
with silver filigrees.
I don't hurry,
and there is no point in me
waking and disturbing you
with express telegrams.
The sea goes to weep.
The sea goes to sleep.
As they say,
the incident has petered out.
The love boat of life
has crashed on philistine reefs
You and I
No need to reiterate
In the world what a quiet sleeps.
Night tributes the sky
with silver constellations.
In such an hour as this,
one rises and speaks
and world creation.
I know the power of words, I know words' tocsin.
They're not the kind applauded by the boxes.
From words like these coffins burst from the earth
and on their own four oaken legs stride forth.
It happens they reject you, unpublished, unprinted.
But saddle-girths tightening words gallop ahead.
See how the centuries ring and trains crawl
to lick poetry's calloused hands.
I know the power of words. Seeming trifles that fall
like petals beneath the heel-taps of dance.
But man with his soul, his lips, his bones.