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Mayakovsky: To His Own Beloved Self

 
 
Reply Sat 11 Aug, 2007 12:03 am
My most favorite poet of all times (I don't like poetry all that much. He plays not only with words (gotta read it in Russian), but also with the layout. THat unfortunately won't work on a2k, which likes to align everything on the left, but oh well.

To his Own Beloved Self
The Author Dedicates
These Lines

Vladimir Mayakovsky (1916)

Six.
Ponderous. The chimes of a clock.
"Render unto Caesar ... render unto God..."
But where's
someone like me to dock?
Where'11 I find a lair?

Were I
like the ocean of oceans little,
on the tiptoes of waves I'd rise,
I'd strain, a tide, to caress the moon.
Where to find someone to love
of my size,
the sky too small for her to fit in?

Were I poor
as a multimillionaire,
it'd still be tough.
What's money for the soul? -
thief insatiable.
The gold
of all the Californias isn't enough
for my desires' riotous horde.

I wish I were tongue-tied,
like Dante or Petrarch,
able to fire a woman's heart,
reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages!
My words
and my love
form a triumphal arch:
through it, in all their splendour,
leaving no trace, will pass
the inamoratas of all the ages!

Were I
as quiet as thunder,
how I'd wail and whine!
One groan of mine
would start the world's crumbling cloister shivering.
And if
I'd end up by roaring
with all of its power of lungs and more -
the comets, distressed, would wring their hands
and from the sky's roof
leap in a fever.

If I were dim as the sun,
night I'd drill
with the rays of my eyes,
and also
all by my lonesome,
radiant self
build up the earth's shriveled bosom.

On I'll pass,
dragging my huge love behind me.
On what
feverish night, deliria-ridden,
by what Goliaths was I begot -
I, so big
and by no one needed?
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dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Sat 11 Aug, 2007 12:05 am
Call to Account!(1917)

The drum of war thunders and thunders.
It calls: thrust iron into the living.
From every country
slave after slave
are thrown onto bayonet steel.
For the sake of what?
The earth shivers
hungry
and stripped.
Mankind is vapourised in a blood bath
only so
someone
somewhere
can get hold of Albania.
Human gangs bound in malice,
blow after blow strikes the world
only for
someone's vessels
to pass without charge
through the Bosporus.
Soon
the world
won't have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out.
And trampled down
only for someone,
to lay
their hands on
Mesopotamia.
Why does
a boot
crush the Earth ?- fissured and rough?
What is above the battles' sky -
Freedom?
God?
Money!
When will you stand to your full height,
you,
giving them your life?
When will you hurl a question to their faces:
Why are we fighting?
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Sat 11 Aug, 2007 12:17 am
Cover for his collection Pro Eto (translated as About That, although it really should be For That) dedicated to Lily Brik, with whom he had a long affair (1915-1928). Lily is on the poster. I have it on a t-shirt, weeee.

http://max.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/images/Mayakovksy/maxipro.jpg
0 Replies
 
Quincy
 
  1  
Reply Sun 12 Aug, 2007 07:23 am
God I want to learn Russian, if it wasn't so difficult!
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Sun 12 Aug, 2007 11:39 pm
it's really not that difficult. at least it's easier than chinese or japanese. or even hindi. it's only a few letters that are written differently, no big deal. otherwise it's pretty close to polish or slovak or czech... real simple. :wink:

Listen!


Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.

And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand
that starless ordeal.

Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.

And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'

Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

1914
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Mon 13 Aug, 2007 05:38 pm
Handsome devil he was, too.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f7/Vladimir_mayakovsky.jpg

Part of an epilogue to Mayakovsky's suicide note (1930)

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
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Mon 13 Aug, 2007 06:33 pm
Well, time for the Cloud in Trousers... it's about loneliness, and that's fitting....seeing that I am posting here for myself, and I seem to be the only one producing any hits here, too. "What?" "Ha! Who said that?" "Nah, it's just you, ole Dagz." "Eh, pulling pranks, are we..."


A Cloud in Trousers [Part 1]

You think malaria makes me delirious?

It happened.
In Odessa it happened.

"I'll come at four," Maria promised.

Eight.
Nine.
Ten.

Then the evening
turned its back on the windows
and plunged into grim night,
scowling
Decemberish.

At my decrepit back
the candelabras guffawed and whinnied.

You would not recognise me now:
a bulging bulk of sinews,
groaning,
and writhing,
What can such a clod desire?
Though a clod, many things!

The self does not care
whether one is cast of bronze
or the heart has an iron lining.
At night the self only desires
to steep its clangour in softness,
in woman.

And thus,
enormous,
I stood hunched by the window,
and my brow melted the glass.
What will it be: love or no-love?
And what kind of love:
big or minute?
How could a body like this have a big love?
It should be teeny-weeny,
humble, little love;
a love that shies at the hooting of cars,
that adores the bells of horse-trams.

Again and again
nuzzling against the rain,
my face pressed against its pitted face,
I wait,
splashed by the city's thundering surf.

Then midnight, amok with a knife,
caught up,
cut him down -
out with him!

The stroke of twelve fell
like a head from a block.

On the windowpanes, grey raindrops
howled together,
piling on a grimace
as though the gargoyles
of Notre Dame were howling.

Damn you!
Isn't that enough?
Screams will soon claw my mouth apart.

Then I heard,
softly,
a nerve leap
like a sick man from his bed.
Then,
barely moving,
at first,
it soon scampered about,
agitated,
distinct.
Now, with a couple more,
it darted about in a desperate dance.

The plaster on the ground floor crashed.

Nerves,
big nerves,
tiny nerves,
many nerves! -
galloped madly
till soon
their legs gave way.

But night oozed and oozed through the room -
and the eye, weighed down, could not slither out of
the slime.

The doors suddenly banged ta-ra-bang,
as though the hotel's teeth
chattered.

You swept in abruptly
like "take it or leave it!"
Mauling your suede gloves,
you declared:
"D'you know,
I'm getting married."

All right, marry then.
So what,
I can take it.
As you see, I'm calm!
Like the pulse
of a corpse.

Do you remember
how you used to talk?
"Jack London,
money,
love,
passion."
But I saw one thing only:
you, a Gioconda,
had to be stolen!

And you were stolen.

In love, I shall gamble again,
the arch of my brows ablaze.
What of it!
Homeless tramps often find
shelter in a burnt-out house!

You're teasing me now?
"You have fewer emeralds of madness
than a beggar has kopeks!"
But remember!
When they teased Vesuvius,
Pompeii perished!

Hey!
Gentlemen!
Amateurs
of sacrilege,
crime,
and carnage,
have you seen
the terror of terrors -
my face
when
I
am absolutely calm?

I feel
my "I"
is much too small for me.
Stubbornly a body pushes out of me.

Hello!
Who's speaking?
Mamma?
Mamma!
Your son is gloriously ill!
Mamma!
His heart is on fire.
Tell his sisters, Lyuda and Olya,
he has no nook to hide in.

Each word,
each joke,
which his scorching mouth spews,
jumps like a naked prostitute
from a burning brothel.

People sniff
the smell of burnt flesh!
A brigade of men drive up.
A glittering brigade.
In bright helmets.
But no jackboots here!
Tell the firemen
to climb lovingly when a heart's on fire.
Leave it to me.
I'll pump barrels of tears from my eyes.
I'll brace myself against my ribs.
I'll leap out! Out! Out!
They've collapsed.
You can't leap out of a heart!

From the cracks of the lips
upon a smouldering face
a cinder of a kiss rises to leap.

Mamma!
I cannot sing.
In the heart's chapel the choir loft catches fire!

The scorched figurines of words and numbers
scurry from the skull
like children from a flaming building.
Thus fear,
in its effort to grasp at the sky,
lifted high
the flaming arms of the Lusitania.

Into the calm of the apartment
where people quake,
a hundred-eye blaze bursts from the docks.
Moan
into the centuries,
if you can, a last scream: I'm on fire!
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Tue 14 Aug, 2007 01:21 pm
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky (July 19 [O.S. July 7] 1893 - April 14, 1930) was a Russian poet, among the foremost representatives of early-20th century Futurism.

Early life

He was born the last of three children in Baghdati, Georgia where his father worked as a forest ranger. His father was of Cossacks and Russian descent while his mother was of Ukrainian descent. Although Mayakovsky spoke Georgian at school and with friends, his family spoke primarily Russian at home. At the age of 14 Mayakovsky took part in socialist demonstrations at the town of Kutaisi, where he attended the local grammar school. After the sudden and premature death of his father in 1906, the family ?- Mayakovsky, his mother, and his two sisters ?- moved to Moscow, where he attended School No. 5.

In Moscow, Mayakovsky developed a passion for Marxist literature and took part in numerous activities of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party; he was to later become an RSDLP (Bolshevik) member. In 1908, he was dismissed from the Grammar School because his mother was no longer able to afford the tuition fees.

Around this time, Mayakovsky was imprisoned on three occasions for subversive political activities, but being underage, he avoided transportation. During a period of solitary confinement in Butyrka prison in 1909, he began to write poetry, but his poems were confiscated. On his release from prison, he continued working within the socialist movement, and in 1911 he joined the Moscow Art School where he became acquainted with members of the Russian Futurist movement. He became a leading spokesman for the group Gileas, and a close friend of David Burlyuk, whom he saw as his mentor.

Literary Life

The 1912 Futurist publication, A Slap in the Face of Public Taste, contained 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"
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a2/Mayakovsky-kak-delat-stixi.png

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.

Your thoughts,

dreaming on a softened brain,
like an over-fed lackey on a greasy settee,
with my heart's bloody tatters I'll mock again;
impudent and caustic, I'll jeer to superfluity.

Of Grandfatherly gentleness I'm devoid,
there's not a single grey hair in my soul!
Thundering the world with the might of my voice,
I go by -- handsome,
twenty-two-year-old.

(From the prologue of A Cloud in Trousers. source: [1])

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" at naval theatres, with sailors as an audience.

After moving back to Moscow, Mayakovsky worked for the Russian State Telegraph Agency (ROSTA) creating ?- both graphic and text ?- satirical Agitprop posters. In 1919, he published his first collection of poems Collected Works 1909-1919. In the cultural climate of the early Soviet Union, his popularity grew rapidly. During 1922-1928, Mayakovsky was a prominent member of the Left Art Front and went on to define his work as 'Communist futurism'. He edited, along with Sergei Tretyakov and Osip Brik, the journal LEF.

As one of the few Soviet writers who were allowed to travel freely, his voyages to Latvia, Britain, Germany, the United States, Mexico and Cuba influenced works like My Discovery of America. He also travelled extensively throughout the Soviet Union.

On a lecture tour in the United States, Mayakovsky met Elli Jones, who later gave birth to his daughter, an event which Mayakovsky only came to know in 1929, when the couple met clandestinely in the south of France, as the relationship was kept secret. In the late 1920s, Mayakovsky fell in love with Tatiana Yakovleva and to her he dedicated the poem "A Letter to Tatiana Yakovleva" (1928).

The relevance of Mayakovsky cannot be limited to Soviet poetry. While over years, he was considered the Soviet poet par excellence, he also changed the perceptions of poetry in wider 20th Century culture. His political activism as a propagandistic agitator was rarely understood and often looked upon unfavourably by contemporaries, even close friends like Boris Pasternak. Near the end of the 1920s, Mayakovsky became increasingly disillusioned with Bolshevism and propaganda; his satirical plays The Bedbug, 1929) and The Bathhouse (1930), dealing with the Soviet philistinism and bureaucracy, illustrates this development. His final months were marked by poor health and political as well as private disappointment.

On the evening of April 14, 1930, Mayakovsky shot himself. The unfinished poem in his suicide note read, in part:

The love boat has crashed against the daily routine. You and I, we are quits, and there is no point in listing mutual pains, sorrows, and hurts.

Mayakovsky was interred at the Moscow Novodevichy Cemetery. In 1930, his birthplace of Bagdadi in Georgia was renamed Mayakovsky in his honour. Following Stalin's death, rumours arose that Mayakovsky did not commit suicide but was in fact murdered at the behest of Stalin. During the 1990s, while KGB files were being declassified, there was hope that new evidence would come to light on this question, but none has been found and the hypothesis remains unproven.

After his death, Mayakovsky was attacked in the Soviet press as a "formalist" and a "fellow-traveller" (as opposed to officially recognised "proletarian poets", such as Demyan Bedny). When, in 1935, Lilya Brik wrote to Stalin about this, Stalin wrote a comment on Brik's letter:

"Comrade Yezhov, please take charge of Brik's letter. Mayakovsky is still the best and the most talented poet of our Soviet epoch. Indifference to his cultural heritage is a crime. Brik's complaints are, in my opinion, justified..." (Source: Memoirs by Vasily Katanyan (L.Yu.Brik's stepson) p.112)

These words became a cliché and officially canonized Mayakovsky but, as Boris Pasternak noted [2], it "dealt him the second death" in some circles.

Poetically, Mayakovsky had no followers among Russian poets, his style was never properly analysed or further developed. Mayakovsky, however, was the most influential futurist in Lithuania and his poetry helped to form The Four Winds movement [3]
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 12:27 am
USUALLY SO

Any man born is entitled to love,
but what with jobs,
incomes,
and other such things,
the heart's core grows harder
from day to day.
The heart wears a body;
the body - a shirt.
Even that's not enough!
Someone-
the idiot!-
manufactured stiff cuffs
and clamped starch on the chest.
Aging, people suddenly have second thoughts.
Women rub in powder and rouge.
Men do cartwheels according to Muller's system.
But it's too late.
The skin proliferates in wrinkles.
Love flowers,
and flowers
and then withers and shrinks.
0 Replies
 
Amigo
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 12:33 am
I'll have too read throught his whole thread.
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 12:51 am
one day i will read it to you in russian-ish. that is in english, but conveying all that doesn't get translated. there should be a program for that. simple translation from russian into english just doesn't cut it.
0 Replies
 
Amigo
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 12:58 am
russian-ish? What the hell is that? Is that like spanglish?

You speak Russian?

Will you feed me grapes while you read it to me?
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 01:13 am
yep, i speak russian. that's why i say the english translation does not compare. can't even stand in the shadow of the original writing in russian.

i'll feed you grapes if you want. i'll have a steak though. medium-rare.
0 Replies
 
Amigo
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 01:18 am
That is quite an Image.

A Slovak Woman reading a Mexican russian who doesn't speak russian while feeding him grapes while he feed her rare steak.

I think I had a dream like that once except there was a midget involved

and he had a hood on.
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 01:28 am
medium-rare, Mister.
0 Replies
 
Amigo
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 01:46 am
GO TO SLEEP!
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 06:51 am
I DID!
0 Replies
 
Amigo
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 05:40 pm
NOW WAKE UP!
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 05:50 pm
I'M UP!
0 Replies
 
dagmaraka
 
  1  
Reply Wed 15 Aug, 2007 05:54 pm
Mayakovsky: "Art is not a mirror to reflect the world, but a hammer with which to shape it"
0 Replies
 
 

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