Vladimir Mayakovsky - Backbone Flute: Selected Poetry Of Vladimir Mayakovsky (English and Russian Edition)

Backbone Flute : Selected Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky Translated by Andrey Kneller
Copyrigh t Kneller, Boston, 2008 All rights reserved

Marina Tsvetaeva
Table of Contents Poems A Cloud in Trousers Backbone Flute I Love , ; . - : , , . 1913 About Petersburg From rooftops , tears seeped into pipes and to the rivers arm drew streaks, while lips, suspended from the skies, continued sucking on stone teats. The sky, relaxed, could now see clearly: along the sea's resplendent channel, the sweating cameleer drove wearily The Nevas lazy, two-humped camel. 1913 ! ! , - - - ? - - , ? - - ? , , , , , , , - ! - - ! , . , , , - : " ?" " ?" - , , : ", , !" - , , - : "!", : " , ? : - !" : " ! ! !" - ! - . " , ? - ! ?" 1914 A Violin - a Little Nervous The violin was panicking, imploring
and suddenly burst into tears,
so child-like and pesky
that the drum couldn't stand it: "All right, all right, all right!"
It got weary, couldn't wait till the violin finished,
slipped out onto the gleaming Kuznetsky
and took flight. " , ? - ! ?" 1914 A Violin - a Little Nervous The violin was panicking, imploring
and suddenly burst into tears,
so child-like and pesky
that the drum couldn't stand it: "All right, all right, all right!"
It got weary, couldn't wait till the violin finished,
slipped out onto the gleaming Kuznetsky
and took flight.

The curious orchestra looked on as the violin wept itself out without words or cadence and only the nearby seate d foolish cymbals kept banging: What is it? Who did it? And when the helicon, brass-faced and covered with sweat, shouted: Stupid, crybaby, get some sense! Across the notes, I staggered ahead over the horror-struck music stands. For some reason, I cried out: God! and reached for its wooden face: Violin, we are similar dont you see that? I also shout a lot and like wise I cant prove my case! The musicians laugh: Hes been caught by a wooden girl - what could be better?! Hes mad ! But I dont care what they say Im a good guy Hey, violin, you know what? Lets live together i nstead? 1914 ! ( ) . - . - , , . , . . , . , , . , , , . - - , . . - , . , , . - . , , , . , , , . , , . , , . , , , ... , ? . 1916 Lilichka! (Instead of a letter) Tobacco smoke eats the air away. 1916 Lilichka! (Instead of a letter) Tobacco smoke eats the air away.

The room - a chapter from Kruchenykhs Inferno. Recall - by the window that day, I caressed you ecstatically, with fervor. Here you sit now, with your heart in iron armor. In a day, youll scold me perhaps and tell me to leave. Frenzied, the trembling arm in the gloomy parlor will hardly be able to fit the sleeve. Ill rush out and hurl my body into the street - distraught, lashed by despair and sadness.

Theres no need for this, my darling, my sweet. Lets part tonight and end this madness. Either way, my love is an arduous weight, hanging on you wherever you flee. Let me bellow out in a final complaint all of my heartbroken misery. A laboring bull, if he had enough, will leave and find cool water to lie in. But for me, theres no sea except for your love - from which even tears wont earn me some quiet.

If an elephant wants to relax, hell lie, pompous , outside in the sun-baked dune. Except for your love, theres no sun in the sky and I dont even know where you are and with whom. If you thus tormented another poet, he would trade in his love for money and fame. But nothing sounds as precious to me as the ringing sound of your darling name. I wont drink poison or jump to demise or pull the trigger to take my own life. Except for your eyes, no blade can control me, no sharpened knife.

Tomorrow youll forget that it was I who crowned you, who burned out the blossoming soul with love and the days will form a whirling carnival that will ruffle my manuscripts and lift them above Will the dry autumn leaves of my sentences cause you to pause, breathing hard? Let me pave a path with the final tenderness for your footsteps as you depart. 1916 . . . , , . 1916 Moonlit Night The moon is emerging.

It going to be here soon. Now, it hangs in the air, full and stark. That is probably God, with a divine silver spoon digging in the fish-soup of stars. 1916 . , . , , ? ? , ,- , . , , ? ! , ! ! ? . . , ! ! ! - : , . , , ,- , . ,- , . - , , ! ! , . , - ? 1916 To His Own Beloved Self the Aut hor Dedicates These Lines Six. , - ? 1916 To His Own Beloved Self the Aut hor Dedicates These Lines Six.

As heavy as a blow. Render unto God render unto Caesar But where is someone like me to go? What refuge or shelter is there? If only I were shallow, like the Pacific Ocean, - Id rise on the tiptoes of waves to caress the moon with the tide. Where shall I find a love of my own proportions? Shed never fit beneath the miniature sky! Oh, if only I were poor! like a millionaire! Whats cash for the soul? - a thief driven by greed. The gold of all californias, I swear, isnt enough for the ravenous hordes of my needs. Oh, if only I were tongue-tied like Dante or Petrarch! Id ignite my soul for a single love! and with poetry, I'd set her ablaze! If my words and my love were a triumphal arch: the inamoratas of all the ages, would pass through it gallantly, leaving no trace. Oh, if only I were quiet, like thunder, - Id moan and the earth would tremble, languished.

If I allow my vast voice to rumble, - the comets, wringing their burning arms, would plunge in anguish. I would gnaw the nights with the rays of eyes, - if I were as dim as the sun, Id shine! Why should I feed the earths scrawny bosom with my brilliant, radiant light?! I shall go on, dragging behind me my loves huge clod. In that remarkable night, - delirious, feverish and haunted, - by what Goliaths was I begot, so enormous and so unwanted? 1916 . : - . . .- , , . , , , , ! - ! - !- . . ... , -... - , ... - . ", . , - , ? , , - ". , - - , , , , , . . . , . - , , . 1918 Kindness to Horses The hooves stomped faster, singing as they trod: -Grip. Grab. Rob. Grub. - Wind-fostered, ice-shod, the street skidded. - Wind-fostered, ice-shod, the street skidded.

Onto its side, a horse toppled and immediately, the loafers gathered, as crowds of trousers assembled up close on the Kuznetsky and laughter snickered and spluttered. --A horse tumbled! --It tumbled - that horse! The Kuznetsky cackled, and only I did not mix my voice with the hooting. I came up and looked into the horses eye... The street, up-turned, continued moving. I came up and saw her tears, - huge and passionate, rolling down her face, vanishing in her coat... and some kind of a universal, animal anguish spilled out of me and splashing, it flowed.

Horse, theres no need for this! Horse, listen, - look at th em all, - who has it worse? Child, we are all to some extent horses, - everyone here is a bit of a horse. Perhaps she was old and didnt want to be nursed, or maybe, she took in my speech with a scoff, but the horse, out of nowhere, suddenly burst, heaved to her feet, a nd neighing walked off. Wiggling her tail, with her mane shinning gold, she returned to the stall, full of joyful feelings. She imagined once more that she was a colt and that work was worth doing and that life was worth living. 1918 - ?- , , , , , , : " - , . 1920 Attitude to a Lady This evening was to decide were we to fall in love passionately? - its dark, no one would see us. 1920 Attitude to a Lady This evening was to decide were we to fall in love passionately? - its dark, no one would see us.