. .: .

"": [] [] [] [] [] [] []
Peaa:
' .Wuxia' Amazon
Author.Today

--20
Peaa
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    . . (-)

Vladimir Mayakovsky

Translated by Alec Vagapov, 1968 -2014

 

 

 

1.     

2.     

3.     

4.      ,

5.      !

6.     

7.      , ...

 

 

 

 

1.      The Poem of the Soviet Passport

2.      Left March

3.      The Parisian Woman

4.      Comrade Nette, the Man and The Ship

5.      Build the Material Base!

6.      The Beauties

7.      Eat grouse, chew pineapples...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

The Poem of the Soviet Passport

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

.

.

.

...

.

,

.

-

.

-

.

, ,

.

,

,

,

,

.

-

,

.

-

-

, ,

?

,

,

,

.

,

,

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.

-

,

-

,

,

,

20

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,

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,

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,

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...

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,

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-

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1929

 

 

I'd root out

bureaucracy

once and for ever.

I have no respect

for formalities.

May every paper

go to the devil

But for this...

 

 

A courteous official

passes through

The maze of compartments

and halls.

They hand in passports,

And I,

too,

Hand in

my red-skinned pass.

 

Some passports

arouse an obliging smile

While others

are treated as mud.

Say, passports

picturing

the British Lion

Are taken

with special regard.

 

 

A burly guy

from the USA

Is met

with an exorbitant honor,

They take his passport

as if they

Were taking

a gift of money.

 

The Polish passport

makes them stare

Like a sheep might stare

at a Christmas tree:

Where does it come from,

this silly and queer

Geographical

discovery?

 

Without trying

to use their brains,

Entirely dead

to all feelings,

They take

quite coldly

passports from Danes

And other sorts of

aliens.

 

Suddenly,

as if he had burnt

his mouth,

The official

stood

stock-still:

It's my red passport

fall this bound

Into the hands

of his majesty.

 

 

He takes my pass,

as if it were

A bomb,

a blade

or those sorts of things,

He takes it

with extraordinary

caution and scare

As if it were a snake

with dozens of stings.

 

The porter

meaningly

bats his eyes

Ready to serve me

for free.

The detective

looks at the cop

in surprise,

The cop

looks at him

inquiringly.

 

I know

I'd be fiercely slashed and hanged

By this

gendarmerie caste

Only because

I have got in my hand

This

hammer-and-sickle pass.

 

 

I'd root out bureaucracy

once and for ever.

I have no respect

for formalities.

May every paper

go to the devil

But for this...

 

 

This little thing,

so dear to me,

I withdraw

from my loose pantaloons,

Read it and envy me:

I happen to be

A citizen

of the Soviet Union.

 

1929

 

 




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

LEFT MARCH

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

!

.

, !

,

.

,

.

.

!

!

!

, !

!

!

?!

,

,

.

.

!

!

!

.

!

,

, -

.

!

!

!

?

?

!

!

!

?

!

!

!

About turn! March!

Away with a talk-show.

Silence, you speakers!

Comrade mauser,

you

have the floor.

Down with the law which for us

Adam and Eve have left.

We'll ruin the jade of the past.

Left!

Left!

Left!

Hey, bluejackets!

Be gone!

Sail away! Overseas!

Or is there anything wrong

with the keels

of your battleships?

May

the vigorous British Lion

Keep howling, frenzied and chafed.

The commune shall not resign.

Left!

Left!

Left!

There

o'er the hills of sorrow

There's a land of the rising sun...

For hunger,

for the sea of horror,

millions, march one by one!

May them gang up against us,

To all their threats we"ll be deaf,

The Entente shall never suppress us.

Left!

Left!

Left!

Can the eagle ever get blind?

Can they make us swing off the road?

Hold

your proletarian hand

tight on the world's throat!

Deck out the sky with drape!

March boldly ahead , don"t be late!

Who's marching out of step?

Left!

Left!

Left!

 

 

 

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

THE PARISIAN WOMAN

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

 

,

...

!

- -

.

 

,

,

,

.

-

"-".

 

.

-

,

.

 

,

,

 

,

,

.

,

,

(

).

 

,

,

:

 

- ,

,

, .

?

,

,

,

.

 

,

 

... ?

 

 

? -

 

,

,

,

.

,

,

.

 

, ,

,

,

,

.

 

What is your idea

of a Parisian woman?

A jeweled beauty

with a gemmed hand?

Don't try to fancy!

Life is more gloomy!

The Parisian I know

is nothing of the kind.

 

I don't know

whether she is old

or young,

In a gloss of finery

impaired by wear

She works

at the toilet of a restaurant

A little restaurant

called

Grande Chamiere.

After having a drop

one may have a desire

To refresh oneself

by taking the air.

The woman"s job

is to help with a towel,

And she is a conjurer

in this affair.

 

You sit at the mirror

in the toilet-room

Watching your pimples

while she,

with a smile,

Will powder your face

and put some perfume,

Wipe up the pool

and give you a towel.

 

To please the gluttons

she sticks around

In the somber lavatory

all day long.

For fifty centimes!

(Which is around

Four kopecks

for every good turn).

 

I go to the washstand

to wash my hands

Inhaling the marvel

of perfumery smell,

Her wretched plainness

puzzling my fancy

I want to say

to the mademoiselle:

 

Your appearance

is far from being pleasing.

Why should you spent your life

in a toilet?

I must have thought

too much

of Parisians

Or

you are not

a Parisian at all.

 

Your manners are languid

and you look unhealthy.

The stockings you wear

aren't silk but plain.

 

 

Why don't

the moneyed messieurs

present you

With bunches of violets

now and then?

 

She didn't reply.

The air being rent

By a loud street noise

falling

on us

That was the noise

of the carnival merriment

Of young Parisians

in Monte Parnasse.

 

I am sorry

for a rigorous poem like this,

For having mentioned

a dirty pool,

But it's hard

for a woman to live

in Paris

If she has to work, -

not to sell her soul.

 

 

 

 

 

,

Vladimir Mayakovsky

Comrade Nette,
the Man and The Ship

 

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

. He .

, ,

"

".


-- . .

- .

-- , ! ,

, .


! ?

, , ...

, , --

-?


. .

,

, .

 

. ...

-- !

,

-- .

 

. !

, .

, .

 

.

" !"

-- ""

.

 

, .

-- , :

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.



-- , .

,

, ,

, .



, .

-- --

, .

 

1926

 

I startled. Then I saw that it was not a dream.

Nor was it the fancy of a poet.

The "Theodor Nette" turned about to steam

Into the port.


I have recognized him. He arrived

Wearing round spectacles of safety buoys.

Hello, Nette! I'm so glad that you're alive,

A smoky life of funnels, hooks and coils.


Now come here. How's everything?

You must have traveled, boiling, very far...

You remember, when a human being,

Having tea with me in a sleeping car?


People snored while you sat up till morn.

Squinting at the sealing-wax with half closed eyes.

You would talk about Rommie Yakobson

And amuse yourself by learning rhymes.


You'd fall asleep at dawn, revolver at the ready.

Was there anybody going to pry?

Could I think that in a year's time already

As a ship you would appear to my eye ?


Big and bright is the moon that shines in your rear,

The vast is divided in two by its light.

As if you were dragging the trace of a hero

From the scene of a severe naval fight.


We don't believe in communism from the books we read

There is a lot of rubbish in them as a rule.

But this is something that turns all "fibs" to real

And reveals the gist of the idea to the full.


We are living bound by an iron oath,

And we might as well be hanged and crushed

For we want this world to be a common earth

Without Latvias and without Russias.



We have blood, not water flowing in our body.

We are marching through the pistol din

So that consequently we might be embodied

In a ship, a poem or some other lasting thing.



I would go on living following my bent.

And the only wish that I would dare venture

Is that I could meet my latter end

Just like comrade Nette met his last adventure.

.

 

 

 

!

Vladimir Mayakovsky



BUILD THE MATERIAL BASE!

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

  ,

                      ,

 

         .

 ,

    ,

                     ,

  .

 

 ", ,

                   -

 

       .

 , ,

                

  ,

           .

  , ,

                 

                         ,

 

      

                   .

 , ,

               ,

 

              .

 , ,

               ,

 

      

              .

  , ,

                     ,

 

          

                    .

 , ,

              

                         -

 

       ,

                   ?!

 , -

           -,

                       -,

                                 -, -

 

       .

 

 

                       -

  -

             !

 

             

  :

                  "

                        

                           ".

 

            

                       . -

 , ?!

                         !

 ,

           

                   .

  -

          !

 ,

          

                  

 

             ".

 

  ,

                      ,

 

        .

 ,

    ,

                     ,

 

               .

 

 [1929]

 


 Let poets grumble,
                   and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

like vipers.

With a pure heart,

I shout

about

What socialism can"t do without.


"The floor I live on

doesn"t matter, I should say, -

conveniences

is what I need.

I want, dear comrades,

to live the way

the bourgeois

and masters did.

I"m not a thrush for you,

comrades,

nor a tit,

I have got

things to do,

a whole mass.
I want to rise

high up in life, indeed,   

as it befits

the ruling class.

I come from lowest class,

I"ve had enough.

I hate

to beg in dirt,

like all of us.

Comrades, I"d rather live
      high up above,

right near

the Solar

Prominence.
We are neither horses,

 comrades,
                        nor children, really,
 Riding a horse

with load,

you bet?!

 In short, -
            you, firstly,
                  secondly

                         and thirdly -
provide me

with a lift instead.

 

Instead of lift,

  somehow I"ve got

to hop and jump -

they"d better wait!
 On the white wall

somebody wrote
                 

In scrawls: " The lift
          WON"T

operate!"
Likewise,

a lot of thing
  are just disgusting.

Say, primus stoves!
  Make way to gas!
 And after work

get washed

at once.
Run, lift,

run, master of deception!

Let's build
                 material base,

taking a chance,
 for brand-new
           socialist relations".
 
  Let poets grumble,
                   and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

like vipers.

With a pure heart,

I shout

about

What socialism

can"t do without.

               
  [ 1929 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



( Grand Opera)

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

 

THE BEAUTIES

( Meditation on the opening of Opera House)

 

Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

,
                            .

          
                      .


        -
                        .
-
                        
                                   .
-
        .
-
        .

.
-
        .
.

     
.

        ,

   
         .

        
                  , .
-
          .
-

            


            .
-
        .
               .
 
                

          ,

       .
-  ...
                 !-

          .
,
  
...
             .

1929

 

 

Slipped into dinner jacket,
                             perfectly shaved,
I am

at Opera House,

like a grandee.

During the interval

I see

a lot of beauties. Great!

My disposition melted,

I like it here,

really.

The waists

are cups,

The nails

are glossy,

The painted lips,

are Houbigant rosy.

 The retouch

shadows

the blue of the eyes.

The backs are

the blossom of salmon,

so nice.

Dropping
         from height,
the trains

sweep

the floor.

Keep off, poets,

such beauty,

for you it"s a bore.

As she turns her rear

you"ll see diamonds in her ear.

As she playfully stirs,

on the breast

chinchilla reveals

white

purls.

The dress

is like fluff.

You won"t breathe, I bet.

Even old

walrus is seen

dressed in faille

and crêpe de Chine.

Only the cloud

is crêpe Georgette,

The brooches glitter ...
                  now there you are!..-
from half-naked dress

you get.
But it would be best

if, along with the dress,

she had also

a head.


1929

 

 

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

 

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

***

, ,

, .

 

1917

 

 

***

Eat grouse, chew pineapples, bourgeois,

You are coming to your final day, you are.

 

1917

 

 

 

 

!

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky



BUILD THE MATERIAL BASE!

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

 

  ,

                      ,

 

         .

 ,

    ,

                     ,

  .

 

 ", ,

                   -

 

       .

 , ,

                

  ,

           .

  , ,

                 

                         ,

 

      

                   .

 , ,

               ,

 

              .

 , ,

               ,

 

      

              .

 

  , ,

                     ,

 

          

                    .

 

 

 

 , ,

              

                         -

 

       ,

                   ?!

 , -

           -,

                       -,

                                 -, -

 

       .

 

 

                       -

  -

             !

 

             

  :

                  "

                        

                           ".

 

            

                       . -

 , ?!

                         !

 ,

           

                   .

  -

          !

 ,

          

                  

 

             ".

 

  ,

                      ,

 

        .

 ,

    ,

                     ,

 

               .

 

 [1929]

 

 


 Let poets grumble,
                   and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

like vipers.

With a pure heart,

I shout

about

What socialism can"t do without.


"The floor I live on

doesn"t matter, I should say, -

conveniences

is what I need.

I want, dear comrades,

to live the way

the bourgeois

and masters did.

I"m not a thrush for you,

comrades,

nor a tit,

I have got

things to do,

a whole mass.
I want to rise

high up in life, indeed,   

as it befits

the ruling class.

I come from lowest class,

I"ve had enough.

I hate

to beg in dirt,

like all of us.

 

Comrades, I"d rather live
      high up above,

right by the side of

Solar

Prominence.

 

 


We are neither horses,

 comrades,
                        nor children, really,
 Riding a horse

with load,

you said?!

 In short, -
            you"d better firstly,
                  secondly

                         and thirdly, -
provide me

with a lift instead.

 

Instead of lift,

  somehow I"ve got

to hop and jump -

they"d better wait!
 On the white wall

somebody wrote
                 

In scrawls: " The lift
          WON"T

operate!"
Likewise,

a lot of thing
  are just disgusting.

Say, primus stoves!
  Make way to gas!
 And after work

get washed

at once.
Run, lift,

run, master of deception!

Let's build
                 material base,

taking a chance,
 for brand-new
           socialist relations".
 
  Let poets grumble,
                   and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

like vipers.

With a pure heart,

I shout

about

What socialism

can"t do without.

               
  [ 1929 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



( Grand Opera)

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

 

BEAUTIES

( Meditation on the opening of Opera House)

Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

,
                            .

           
                       .


        -
                        .
-
                        
                                   .
-
         .
-
          .

.
-
         .
.

      
.

        ,

   
         .

        
                  , .
-
          .
-

            


            .
-
        .
               .
 
                

          ,

       .
-  ...
                 !-

          .
,
  
...
             .

1929

Slipped into dinner jacket,
                             perfectly shaved,
I am

at Opera House,

like a grandee.

During the interval

I see

a lot of beauties. Great!

My disposition melted,

I like it here,

really.

The waists

are cups,

The nails

are glossy,

The painted lips,

are Houbigant rosy.

 The retouch

shadows

the blue of the eyes,

the backs are

the blossom of salmon,

so nice.

Dropping
         from height,
the trains

sweep

the floor.

Keep off, poets,

such beauty,

for you it"s a bore.

As she turns her rear

you"ll see diamonds in her ear.

As she playfully stirs,

on the breast

chinchilla

reveals

white purls.

The dress

is like fluff.

You won"t breathe, I bet.

Even old walrus

is seen

dressed up in faille

and crêpe de Chine.

Only the cloud

is crêpe Georgette.

The brooches glitter ...
                  now there you are! -

from half-naked dress

you get.
But it would be best

if, along with the dress,

she had also

a head.


1929

 


  • © Copyright . . (alik-vagapov@rambler.ru)
  • : 27/02/2014, : 27/02/2014. 149k. .
  • :
: 4.58*6   :

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.

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