Poems by V. Mayakovsky

I immediately smeared the map of daily life, splattering paint from a glass; I depicted the ocean’s cheekbones slanting with jelly on a plate. I read the calls of new lips on the scales of a tin fish. And you use a drainpipe flute to play a nocturne?

1913.

Here you go!

Your flabby fat will flow out of a person in an hour from here to a clean alley; I have unlocked so many poetic boxes for you; I am a waster and a miser of priceless words.

Here you are, dude, sporting a moustache full of cabbage. You look like an oyster made of things’ shells, woman, thickly whitened from somewhere of uneaten, uneaten cabbage soup.

At the butterfly of a poetic heart, you all climb up, soiled, both with and without galoshes. The mob will go crazy, they will rub, and the louse with a hundred heads will twitch its legs.

I am the priceless words of the TRAM and MOT, and if I, a rude Hun, don’t want to sneer in your face today, I will laugh and spit happily in your face.

1913.

Listen!

Pay attention! I mean, if the stars shine, does that mean that someone needs it? It implies that someone desires for them to be? It implies that these spittles are called pearls by someone.

And he strains in the midday dust storm, running to God out of fear that he will be late. Crying, he kisses his sinewy hand and asks, "There must be a star!" — vows — will not put up with this pain without stars! And after walks that are inwardly calm but anxious. "After all, now that you have nothing, what does that mean?" Do not feel fearful? Indeed? Pay attention! I mean, if the stars shine, does that mean that someone needs it? It implies that — is that necessary, so that at least one star lights up over the roofs every evening?

1914.

Lilichka!

Instead of a letter
Tobacco smoke ate the air.
Room —
a chapter in Kruchenykhov"s hell.
Remember —
behind this window
for the first time
your hands, frantic, stroked.
Today you sit here,
heart in iron.
Another day —
you"ll kick me out,
maybe, cursing.
In the murky hallway it won"t fit for long
a hand broken by trembling into a sleeve.
I"ll run out,
I"ll throw my body into the street I.
Wild,
will go mad,
will be consumed with despair.
No need for this,
dear,
good,
let us part now.
Anyway
my love is
a heavy weight —
hangs on you,
wherever you run.
Let me roar in my last cry
the bitterness of offended complaints.
If a bull is tormented by labor —
he will go away,
will lie down in the cold waters.
Except for your love,
I
have no sea,
and you can’t beg your love for rest even with tears.
When a tired elephant wants rest —
the royal one will lie down in the scorched sand.
Except for your love,
I
have no sun,
and I don’t even know where you are or with whom.
If I had tormented a poet like that,
he
would have exchanged his beloved for money and glory,
and for me
not a single joyful ringing,
except for the ringing of your beloved name.
And I won’t throw myself into flight,
and I won’t drink poison,
and I won’t be able to pull the trigger over my temple.
Above me,
except your gaze,
the blade of any knife has no power.
Tomorrow you will forget,
that I crowned you,
that I burned out my blooming soul with love,
and the carnival of vain days, whipped up
will dishevel the pages of my books…
Are my words dry leaves
will make you stop,
breathing greedily?
Let me at least
line with the last tenderness
your departing step.

1916.

Letter to Tatyana Yakovleva

In the kiss of hands,
lips,
in the trembling of the body
of those close to me
red
the color
of my republics
too
must
blaze.
I don’t like
Parisian love:
decorate any female
with silks,
stretching, I’ll doze off,
saying –
tubo –
dogs
of wild passion.
You alone
measuring,
stand next to
with eyebrow eyebrows,
let
about this
important evening
tell
in human terms.
Five o"clock,
and from now on
poems
people
dense forest,
died out
a populated city,
I hear only
the whistle dispute
of trains to Barcelona.
In the black sky
the tread of lightning,
thunder
of quarrels
in the heavenly drama,-
not a thunderstorm,
but this
simply
jealousy moves mountains.
Stupid words
don"t trust raw materials,
don"t be afraid
of this shaking,-
I will bridle,
I will humble
feelings
of the offspring of the nobility.
the measles of passions
will do scab,
but joy
inexhaustible,
I will be for a long time,
I will simply
talk in verse I.
Jealousy,
wives,
tears…
to hell with them!-
milestones will swell,
it"s time for Viy.
I"m not myself,
but I
jealous
for Soviet Russia.
I saw
patches on the shoulders,
their
consumption
licks with a sigh.
Well,
it"s not our fault –
a hundred million
felt bad.
We
now
are gentle with such –
sports
you can"t straighten out many,-
you and we
in Moscow need,
not enough
long-legged.
It"s not for you,
in the snow
and in typhus
who walked
with these legs,
here
for caresses
give them
to dinners
with oil workers.
You don"t think,
just squinting
from under straightened arcs.
Come here,
go to the crossroads
of my big
and clumsy hands.
Don"t want?
Stay and winter,
and this
insult
we"ll lower the total.
I"ll take everything differently
you
someday –
alone
or together with Paris.

1928

Cloud in pants. Poem

I will tease a shred about a bleeding heart, your thought, dreaming of a softened brain, like a surviving footman on a greasy couch: SOW IS AND IS AND IS AND IS MOUNDING, impudent and caustic.

Senior tenderness is not in my soul, and I do not have a gray hair in it! I am twenty years old, beautiful, and the world is burning with the power of my voice.

Gentle! When you play the violin, you LOVE LOVE LOVE. Love is harsh on the Litaurs. And unlike me, you are unable to turn away and have only lips that are solid!

If you want, I’ll be crazy about meat and change tone like the sky. If you want, I’ll be flawlessly delicate and not at all like a man, but more like a cloud in pants!

I don’t think that flower is there. Nice! Men as scruffy as a hospital and women as weary as a proverb praise me once more.

Now, they wouldn’t recognize me: a sinewy colossus that writhes and moans. What could a lump like that want? And the lump has big desires!

Ultimately, the fact that the heart is made of cold iron and is bronze is inconsequential to it. I want to hide my ringing at night in something soft and feminine.

And so, enormous, I bend down in front of the window and use my forehead to melt the glass. Will love exist or not? Which is it, big or tiny? Such a body can’t grow large; it must be small, sweetheart. She avoids areas with loud car horns. adores little horses’ bells.

As if chimeras were howling Notre Dame Cathedral, raindrops in the glass gray howled and grimaced.

Accused! That won’t be sufficient, then? My mouth is going to be ripped apart by screaming soon. I hear: softly, like someone ill emerging from a bed, a nerve snapped. Thus, he walked very slowly at first, then charged in with clarity and excitement. He’s now running around in a desperate tap dance with the new two.

Recall? You mentioned Jack London, wealth, love, and passion, but I noticed something else: you resemble the Mona Lisa, which needs to be taken!

Once more, I’ll go out and play, igniting the furrow between my brows. What? And occasionally, vagrants living on the streets reside in the burned-out house!

Tease? "You have emeralds of madness, less than a beggar’s pennies." Recall! When Vesuvius was teased, Pompeii fell!

Hi there! Gentlemen, a word! Lovers of crimes, slaughterhouses, sacrilege, and—worst of all—my face, in moments of total calmness?

Hello! Who is saying this? Mom? Mom! Your son’s illness is amazing! Mom! His heart is on fire. Inform Olya and Lyuda, the sisters, that he is stuck somewhere. Like a nude prostitute from a flaming brothel, he spews out every word—including jokes—from his burning mouth.

People inhale—fried smell! They managed to catch up with a few. dazzling wearing helmets! Take off your boots! Inform the firemen: They ascend into tender embraces on the flaming heart. Me alone. My eyes will roll out like barrels of tears. Give me your ribs to lean on. I’ll leap out! I’ll leap out! I’ll leap out! I’ll leap out! crumbled. Your heart won’t let you jump!

Burning symbols of letters and numbers protruded from the skull, resembling kids escaping a burning structure. Thus, fear grasped the burning hands of the "Lusitania" raised to the sky.

A glow with a hundred eyes emerges from the pier, sending people shuddering into the apartment’s silence. The final cry, moan for centuries, at least about the fact that I’m burning!

I had previously considered the following: The poet arrived, opened his mouth with ease, and started singing a simpleton that was full of inspiration: Please! And as it happens, it ravages from fermentation for a while before it begins to eat and then silently sinks in the heart-wrenching SUPELABLE VOBLA of imagination. Street is staring agitatedly since she has nothing to cry out or say while boiling, sawing rhymes from love and nightingales some sort of brew.

Flour spilled silently into the street. A scream protruded from the throat. Chest walked quickly, plump taxis and bony carriages stuck across the throat and busted. The consumption is more level.

And it was thought: in the choirs of the Archangel choral God, robbed, goes to punish! — when — still! — spit out the crush onto the square, pushing aside the porch that had stepped on the throat!

The city is made up of the Krupps and the Kruppiks. The menacing brow furrow, and the decaying corpse of lifeless words in the mouth Just two remain, getting fatter: "scoundrel" and another person who seems like a "borscht."

Ruffling their hair, poets rushed from the street, their faces drenched in tears and sobs, asking, "How can two of them sing and a young lady, and love, and a flower under the dew?"

Instead of listening, we healthy people with a step of fathoms should rip them apart and apply a free application to every double bed!

Whether they sincerely plead, "Help me!" Ask for a hymn and an oratorio in prayer! The noise of the factory and laboratory is the burning hymn that we ourselves create.

What’s the big deal with Faust, this spectacular show of rockets gliding on the celestial parquet with Mephistopheles? I am aware that the nail in my boot is scarier than any dream that Goethe ever had!

The tiniest particle of life is more valuable than everything I have done and will do, I tell you, golden-tongued one whose every word gives birth to the soul and celebrates the body!

Pay attention! Speaking, hurling, and moaning, this day’s lip-biting Zarathustra! We, the condemned of a leper city where gold and dirt have ulcerated leprosy, with a face like a sleepy sheet and lips drooping like a chandelier, are purer than Venetian azure, seas and suns washed simultaneously!

I could care less if there are no Homers or Ovids, just regular people like us, from smallpox to soot. I am aware that when we saw the golden placers in our souls, the sun would go down!

Muscles and veins are more dependable than prayers. Do we have to plead for time’s favors? We all have the world’s drive belts in our palms!

The audiences in Petrograd, Moscow, Odessa, and Kyiv were brought to Golgotha by this, and not a single one of them did not scream, "Crucify, crucify him!" However, you are closer to and dearer to me than anyone, including the people you offended.

Embarrassed by the tribe of today, I see myself strolling through the mountains of time that no one sees, like a protracted offensive joke.

The sixteenth year is approaching in the crown of thorns of revolutions, where the eye of people breaks off stubby, head of hungry hordes.

And I am its precursor; I am – everywhere there is suffering; on every teardrop that falls, I have died on the cross. Nothing is left to be pardoned. I burned out the souls that fostered compassion. It is more difficult than taking a thousand Bastille!

When you emerge to the savior, his arrival proclaiming the rebellion, I will drag your soul out, tramp, so that a big!, and I will give it to you bloody, like a banner.

And he was ripped to pieces through his eye, screaming as Burliuk, furious, climbed, just like when a dreadnought dies from a choking spasm they rush into the gaping hatch. After nearly spilling blood on his scrutinized eyelids, he got out, got to his feet, and then, in an unexpected act of gentleness for a large man, took and said, "Good!"

When the soul is clad in a yellow sweater from exams, it feels good! Alright, yell, "Drink Van Houten’s cocoa!" when a scaffold is thrown into your teeth.

Gray, you chirp like a quail and call yourself a poet! How dare you! Today, we have to chop the world in half with our brass knuckles!

You’re worried about whether you’re dancing gracefully, but look at how funny I am—a street pimp and card sharpener.

I will leave you, who were drenched in love and whose tears flowed for centuries, and I will put a monocle into an open eye to look directly at the sun.

After dressing extravagantly, I will walk the earth, aiming to win people over and burn them. Up ahead, I’ll lead like a pug on Napoleon’s chain. Things will come to life and their lips will begin to coo, "tsatsa, tsatsa, tsatsa!" The entire earth will lie down like a woman and fidget with its flesh despite surrendering.

Abruptly, a tremendous pitching was raised in the sky by clouds and other cloudy things, giving the impression that white laborers were leaving the sky in protest.

Behind the cloud, thunder erupted into a wild crawl, its enormous nostrils playfully blowing out its nose, and for a moment the face of the sky twisted like the grimace of an iron Bismarck.

Someone then reached out to the cafe, appearing to be a woman, a tender person, or a gun carriage, after becoming entangled in the hazy fetters.

You know, like this sun caresses the cafe on the cheek? This is to fire on the rebels once more. There will be a general Galife soon!

Get your hands out of your pants, you walking person! Grab a stone, a knife, or a bomb, and if he doesn’t have any hands, come hit him in the forehead!

Proceed! Let’s paint with blood on Mondays and Tuesdays during the holidays! Let the earth recall, beneath the blades, whom she wished to dehumanize!

So that like every good holiday, the flags flutter in the heat of the gunfire and rise higher, lampposts and the bloody corpses of meadowsweets.

You see, with a few stars gnawed by betrayal, the sky is once again Judas? She arrived. Reversed on the city, feasting on Mamai. With eyes as dark as Azef’s, we are unable to break this night!

I cringe as I throw myself into the corners of the tavern, pour wine over my soul and the tablecloth, and notice that the Mother of God’s round eyes are eating into my heart in the corner.

Why give the crowd in the tavern what the brightly painted template dictates! You see, they once more favor Barabbas over the spitting-upon Calvary?

Maybe I did it on purpose to blend in with no one who was newer. Perhaps the most attractive of all your sons is me.

Give them the swift death of time, moldy with joy, so that they grow up to be boys and girls who become fathers and pregnant women.

And allow the newborn to develop the curious gray hair of the Magi, for they will arrive and baptize children using the titles of my poetry.

Maybe just a little, in the most commonplace Gospel of the thirteenth apostle, I sing the praises of the machine and England.

And perhaps even Jesus Christ smells the forget-me-nots in my soul when my voice obscenely hoots from hour to hour, all day long.

Maria! Maria! Maria! Maria, let me! On the streets, I can’t! You’d prefer not to? When the cheeks form a bland dimple that everyone can taste, I will arrive and mumble, without teeth, that I am "surprisingly honest" today.

People in the streets will pierce the fat in four-story goiters, stick out their eyes that have been worn down from forty years of drag, and giggle about what’s in their teeth once more—that stale loaf from yesterday’s caress.

Yes, on the gray eyelashes of frosty icicles, tears from the eyes of lowered drainpipes, and on the sidewalks, a crook squeezed by puddles, wet, licking the corpse of the streets clogged with cobblestones, were all evidenced by the rain’s cry.

Rain sucked all the pedestrians away, and an athlete sleekly followed a fat athlete in the carriages; people burst, having eaten themselves to the bone, and fat seeped through the gaps; a muddy river flowed out of the carriages, carrying with it the gummy matter of old cutlets and the dried-out bun.

Maria! How can I get a quiet word into their ear that is so fat? Bird sings and begs, hungry and ringing, and I am a man, Maria, simple, spitting out into Presnya’s unclean hand on a consumptive night.

Sweetheart! Don’t be scared that sweaty-bellied women sit on my ox-like neck like a wet mountain; I drag this through life with millions of great, pure loves and millions of tiny, dirty loves. Do not fear that I will once more cling to thousands of beautiful faces during a treacherous time, calling myself "loving Mayakovsky." However, this is a dynasty based on the lunacy of the ascended queens.

My heart and I have never lived to see May; in your life, only the hundredth April is. In your bare shamelessness, in your terrified trembling, or, but give me the everlasting charm of your lips.

Maria! The poet performs sonnets to Tiana and me, asking for your body in the same way that Christians do: "give us this day, our daily bread." We are both meat and human.

Maria! Like a poet afraid to forget a word born in the agony of the night and equal in grandeur to God, I am afraid I will forget your name.

I will treasure and love your body as much as I would a soldier whose only leg is protected by a war, needless, and nobody else’s.

Then, once more in the dark and despair, I will take the heart and, while sobbing, carry it like a dog carrying a paw run over by a train that it goes to the kennel.

I paint the road happy with the blood of my heart; flowers cling to the jacket’s dust. The earth’s goddess Herodias, the head of the Baptist, will dance with the sun a thousand times.

— Pay attention, God Almighty! Don’t you get tired of dipping your big eyes every day in the foggy jelly? Let’s build a carousel on the study of good and evil tree, you know!

You will be everywhere, in every cabinet, and we will set such wines on the table, making you want to visit the gloomy, ki-ka-pu Peter the Apostle. And we will resolve the Evochki once more in paradise: command, — tonight I will drag you the most gorgeous girls from all the boulevards.

Shaggy, you give a headshake? You lift one of your gray eyebrows? You believe that this, winged behind you, understands what love is?

Gazing into the eye of a sugar lamb, I too am an angel, and I once was one, but I don’t want to give mares any more vases carved from Serbian flour. Almighty, you created a pair of hands and the fact that everyone has a head; why didn’t you create something to end suffering and give everyone a kiss?

I thought to myself, You are a tiny, half-educated god, and you are all-powerful. Look, I reach down and pull a shoe knife out from behind the boot. Feathered rascals! Give a hug in paradise! Shake your feathers in a scared manner! I’m going to open you up to the scent of incense all the way to Alaska!

The poems of Vladimir Mayakovsky are notable for their strong social commentary and audacious, rhythmic language, which make them both readable and thought-provoking. His writings are relevant to readers of all ages because they frequently deal with themes of revolution, love, and the struggles of common people. Even now, audiences are still enthralled and inspired by Mayakovsky’s distinct, passionate, and energetic style.

You’re not going to stop me. You may be correct—I’m lying—but I just can’t seem to stop. Look! The sky was filled with bloody carnage and the stars had been decapitated once more!

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