a rare and fascinating historical source- a radio interview with shostakovich from 1972 on his time collaborating with mayakovsky on "the bedbug" (russian language only; transcript available as pdf on website)
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Простыни вод под брюхом были.
Их рвал на волны белый зуб.
Был вой трубы — как будто лили
любовь и похоть медью труб.
Прижались лодки в люльках входов
к сосцам железных матерей.
В ушах оглохших пароходов
горели серьги якорей.
Bed sheets of water beneath a belly.
A white tooth ripped them into waves.
The howl of a funnel—as if were pouring
love and lust through the funnel's copper.
In the cradles of inlets boats nestled
against the breasts of their iron mothers.
In the ears of deaf steamships
burned the earrings of anchors.
—"The Port," 1912
(translated by @suresne)
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Vladimir Mayakovsky, Back Home (1925).
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Vladimir Mayakovsky, My Soviet Passport (1929).
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made a collage based on Mayakovsky's poem «Послушайте!»
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— Vladimir Mayakovsky, Cloud in Trousers
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Are these your translations or can I find them somewhere in full? I want to read Письмо товарищу Кострову из Парижа о сущности любви ...
The translations posted here are from various authors. I would recommend Max Hayward and George Reavey’s “The Bedbug and Selected Poetry.” I can’t recall if “To Comrade Kostrov…” is included in that collection, however.
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“A Cloud In Trousers” by Vladimir Mayakovsky (1925)
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Vladimir Mayakovsky in Moscow in 1929 (postcard, 1963)
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sketch studies of russian poet vladimir mayakovsky (aka my current historical crush) 💖💖💖
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What About You?, Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1913
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Vladimir Mayakovsky, A Letter written to his sister Ludmila, 1905
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О, если б был я
тихий,
как гром,-
ныл бы,
дрожью объял бы земли одряхлевший скит.
Я если всей его мощью
выреву голос огромный,-
кометы заломят горящие руки,
бросаясь вниз с тоски.
В.В. Маяковский, из ст. “Себе, любимому, посвящает эти строки автор”
“O, if only i were
quiet,
like thunder,—
i’d whine,
with a shudder i would embrace the decrepit monastery of the earth.
If, with all its force,
i rip out my gigantic voice,—
comets will wring their burning hands,
throwing themselves down from despair.”
V.V. Mayakovsky,
“To his beloved self the author dedicates these lines”
(via literatuer)
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Mayakovsky shaving.
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Shall my end be a crown?
Or Saint
Helena?
Now that the storm of life I’ve tackled,
I’m an equal candidate
for the throne of the universe
and the convict’s shackles.
If I’m destined to become a tsar here,–
my men will be told
to imprint your darling face,
my dear,
onto the nation’s gold.
but, if I end up there,
where the tundra swallows the plains,–
where the North Wind with the river bargains,–
I will scratch Lily’s name all over the chains
and kiss them, laboring in the darkness.
Listen you, who forgot the color of the sky above,
hairy,
like animals, wallowing in the slush!
in this world, this is perhaps,
the final love
revealing itself in the consumptive’s flush.
Vladimir Mayakovsky, Backbone Flute, 1915 (via adidassler)
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Your young hands didn’t rest,
And the scaffold you built was terrifying.
Everything you touched
Seemed transformed,
Whatever you wanted to destroy—collapsed,
A life or death sentence in every word.
Anna Akhmatova, “Mayakovsky in 1913” (1940), Tr. Jenny Wade (via ardora)
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