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Poèmes #1
Backbone Flute: Selected Poetry
Vladimir Mayakovsky (July 19, 1893 - April 14, 1930) is one of the most recognized and celebrated poets of the Russian canon. One of the leaders of the Russian Futurism movement, which sought to capture the wonder of the fast-paced modern world and renounced the static art of the past, Mayakovsky completely bent the boundaries of language and introduced an entirely different style of poetry. His irregular line-breaks, his use of internal rhyme, his control of meter and his sense of rhythm combined together to form his unique style. His imagery is overflowing with allusions, metaphors and hyperboles. His major works, "A Cloud in Trousers," "Backbone Flute," and "I Love," sparkle with wit, wisdom and originality. This quality of his work is what also makes it incredibly difficult to translate.
In this dual-language selection of Mayakovsky's poetry, Andrey Kneller attempts to capture not only the general meaning, but also the lyrical quality of the poetry that makes Mayakovsky a truly unique writer.
In this dual-language selection of Mayakovsky's poetry, Andrey Kneller attempts to capture not only the general meaning, but also the lyrical quality of the poetry that makes Mayakovsky a truly unique writer.
147 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1915
48 people are currently reading
562 people want to read
About the author
Vladimir Mayakovsky
504 books628 followersVladimir Mayakovsky (Владимир Владимирович Маяковский) was born the last of three children in Baghdati, Russian Empire (now in Georgia) where his father worked as a forest ranger. His father was of Ukrainian Cossack descent and 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 (Гилея), and a close friend of David Burlyuk, whom he saw as his mentor.
The 1912 Futurist publication A Slap in the Face of Public Taste (Пощёчина общественному вкусу) contained Mayakovsky's first published poems: Night (Ночь) and Morning (Утро). Because of their political activities, Burlyuk and Mayakovsky were expelled from the Moscow Art School in 1914.
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.
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.
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 (Все сочиненное Владимиром Маяковским). In the cultural climate of the early Soviet Union, his popularity grew rapidly. 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 (Мое открытие Америки, 1925). He also travelled extensively throughout the Soviet Union.
The relevance of Mayakovsky's influence cannot be limited to Soviet poetry. While for 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 the course the Soviet Union was taking under Joseph Stalin: his satirical plays The Bedbug (Клоп, 1929) and The Bathhouse (Баня, 1930), which deal with the Soviet philistinism and bureaucracy, illustrate this development.
On the evening of April 14, 1930, Mayakovsky shot himself.
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 (Гилея), and a close friend of David Burlyuk, whom he saw as his mentor.
The 1912 Futurist publication A Slap in the Face of Public Taste (Пощёчина общественному вкусу) contained Mayakovsky's first published poems: Night (Ночь) and Morning (Утро). Because of their political activities, Burlyuk and Mayakovsky were expelled from the Moscow Art School in 1914.
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.
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.
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 (Все сочиненное Владимиром Маяковским). In the cultural climate of the early Soviet Union, his popularity grew rapidly. 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 (Мое открытие Америки, 1925). He also travelled extensively throughout the Soviet Union.
The relevance of Mayakovsky's influence cannot be limited to Soviet poetry. While for 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 the course the Soviet Union was taking under Joseph Stalin: his satirical plays The Bedbug (Клоп, 1929) and The Bathhouse (Баня, 1930), which deal with the Soviet philistinism and bureaucracy, illustrate this development.
On the evening of April 14, 1930, Mayakovsky shot himself.
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July 20, 2021
Listen!
If the stars are lit,
then someone must need them, of course?
—Vladimir Mayakovsky, Listen!
This book includes the selected poems of Vladimir Mayakovsky, a Russian poet, playwright, artist and even actor—many occupations for a man who only lived 36 years. A quick look at his biography shows that his short-lived existence was intense; it burned out loudly—a final shot and years of controversy.
Mayakovsky was born in 1893 when Russia was still an empire. As a teenager, he developed an interest in socialism and participated in diverse activities. He then enrolled in the Moscow Art School, where he saw the first signs of the Russian Futurist movement—its love for speed and modernization would influence his poetry significantly.
Politics, love and religion are predominant themes in his poetry, just as in his turbulent life. This collection contains lesser-known poems and his most important works:
* A Cloud in Trousers, a poem written in 1914 and divided into four parts in which the poet discusses love, revolution, art and religion.
Prologue
…
Come and learn -
you, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues!
Step up of those cambric drawing-rooms
And the one who is calmly leafing her lips
like a cook leafs the pages of her recipe books.
If you wish--
I’ll rage on raw meat like a vandal
or change into hues that the sunrise arouses,
If you wish--
I can be irreproachably gentle,
not a man—but a cloud in trousers.
I refuse to believe in Nice blossoming!
I will glorify you regardless, -
men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals,
and women, battered like overused proverbs.
4
…
Almighty, You created two hands,
and with care,
made a head, and went down the list, -
but why did you make it
so that it pained
when one had to kiss, kiss, kiss?!
* Backbone Flute, another poem written and published in 1915 where art imitates life. In it, Mayakovsky discusses passionate love and the rejection in favour of a comfortable life; religion, death and suicide—a word that became part of his tragic routine.
If you do exist,
...
Goodness,
my Savior,
if it’s You who have woven the carpet of stars,
if this pain,
that’s increasing daily,
is an ordeal that You’ve sent down to us,
wear the chain of a judge, I pray.
Believe me, I will shortly visit you.
I am punctual
and will not delay for a day.
* I Love, a poetry collection published in 1922 that contains some lovely and poignant lines, not as loud as machinery and the future, but piercing as the love that cannot be and the present.
Usually so
To every infant love is given, -
but between work,
profits
and other stuff,
from evening to evening,
the crust of the heart grows rough.
...
For Mayakovsky’s pen, there seemed to be no boundaries of language. According to the translator—whose works I’ve read previously, as listed below, and thoroughly enjoyed—his irregular line-breaks, his use of internal rhyme, his control of meter and his sense of rhythm combined together to form his unique style. However, nothing is perfect: this singularity makes these poems difficult to translate, leaving them in the shadows of the West.
Adulthood
…
My jacket’s wide open,
with my heart on my sleeve -
I’ve opened myself to the sun and the street.
Enter with passion,
climb into my soul!
My heart is now free! I’ve lost all control!
In others, I know where the heart had been placed.
Everyone knows - it beats in the chest.
But even anatomy
is absurd in my case -
one massive heart
and no room for the rest.
In the last twenty years,
how many springs there
in my sizzling body have gathered?
Their weight, still unused, is too much to bear
and not just
in verse,
but in reality, rather.
I enjoyed this collection, and I think it was enough. I leave Mayakovsky celebrating modernization and industries, singing to all shades of love, igniting revolutions, slaughtering the heavens, rejecting the past and academies, rushing the future. Memories of Álvaro de Campos come to mind—my least favourite heteronym.
July 8, 2021
* Later on my blog.
** Other works I've read translated by Andrey Kneller:
Evening
My Poems...: Selected Poetry
White Flock
Wondrous Moment: Selected Poetry
The Stranger: Selected Poetry
October 28, 2016
I won’t 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 you’ll 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.
----
This evening was to decide
were we to fall in love passionately? - it’s dark,
no one would see us.
I leaned over her actually
and actually,
while
I was leaning,
I said to her
like a kind father:
“Emotions are steep like cliffs,
please, step away farther.
Farther step away, please."
----
And I feel-
“I”
is too small to fit me.
Someone inside of me is getting smothered.
----
Fleets! Even fleets rush to the port.
The train - even the train speeds to the station.
But I’m being pulled to you all the more
since I love you! -
without reservations.
Pushkin’s knight goes down into his vault
to marvel and joyfully gape at it all.
It is thus,
I return to you,
my beloved.
To stare at my heart,
for I know that you’ll have it.
When people come home,
they feel happy and free
to wash the dirt off their hands and shave.
Don’t you know
it’s exactly the same
with me -
when returning to you,
I come home, all the same!
The earthy man is laid into earth.
In the end, we have to return to our ends.
Thus I
reach back for you with all of my verve,
just as soon as we part,
separating our hands.
----
Again in love, I shall start gambling,
with fire illuminating the arch of my eyebrows.
And why not!
Sometimes, the homeless ramblers
will seek to find shelter in a burnt down house!
----
I would gnaw the nights with the rays of eyes, -
if I were as dim as the sun,
I'd shine!
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 you’ll 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.
----
This evening was to decide
were we to fall in love passionately? - it’s dark,
no one would see us.
I leaned over her actually
and actually,
while
I was leaning,
I said to her
like a kind father:
“Emotions are steep like cliffs,
please, step away farther.
Farther step away, please."
----
And I feel-
“I”
is too small to fit me.
Someone inside of me is getting smothered.
----
Fleets! Even fleets rush to the port.
The train - even the train speeds to the station.
But I’m being pulled to you all the more
since I love you! -
without reservations.
Pushkin’s knight goes down into his vault
to marvel and joyfully gape at it all.
It is thus,
I return to you,
my beloved.
To stare at my heart,
for I know that you’ll have it.
When people come home,
they feel happy and free
to wash the dirt off their hands and shave.
Don’t you know
it’s exactly the same
with me -
when returning to you,
I come home, all the same!
The earthy man is laid into earth.
In the end, we have to return to our ends.
Thus I
reach back for you with all of my verve,
just as soon as we part,
separating our hands.
----
Again in love, I shall start gambling,
with fire illuminating the arch of my eyebrows.
And why not!
Sometimes, the homeless ramblers
will seek to find shelter in a burnt down house!
----
I would gnaw the nights with the rays of eyes, -
if I were as dim as the sun,
I'd shine!
May 17, 2020
But where is someone
like me
to go?
What refuge or shelter is there?
If only I were
shallow,
like the Pacific Ocean, -
I'd rise on the tiptoes of waves
to caress the moon with the tide.
Where shall I find a love
of my own proportions?
She'd never fit beneath the miniature sky!
...
Tomorrow you'll 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.
...
The earthy man is laid into earth.
In the end, we have to return to our ends.
Thus I
reach back for you with all of my verve,
just as soon as we part,
separating our hands.
like me
to go?
What refuge or shelter is there?
If only I were
shallow,
like the Pacific Ocean, -
I'd rise on the tiptoes of waves
to caress the moon with the tide.
Where shall I find a love
of my own proportions?
She'd never fit beneath the miniature sky!
...
Tomorrow you'll 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.
...
The earthy man is laid into earth.
In the end, we have to return to our ends.
Thus I
reach back for you with all of my verve,
just as soon as we part,
separating our hands.
January 30, 2017
En realidad leí una edición en pdf que encontré por la red de El Aleph Editores. Basta con googlear.
De leer a Maiakovski no te arrepientes.
Un regalito no incluido en la edición citada:
POEMA INCONCLUSO
Vladimir Maiakovski
Preludio inacabado de un poema, probablemente escrito poco antes del suicidio de Maiakovski en 1930. Una parte de la estrofa III se repite en la nota de suicidio
I
¿Me quiere? ¿No me quiere? Retuerzo las manos
y los dedos
destrozados desperdigo.
Así deshojan al adivinar y esparcen
por mayo
corolas de margaritas del camino.
Aunque las canas descubran el peinado y la barba;
aunque abundantes suenen en plata
los años
espero, confío; que jamás llegue
a mí el vergonzoso buen juicio.
II
Son las dos
estarás en la cama
O tal vez
tú también andes mal.
No hay prisa,
y con urgencias de telegrama
no tengo
por qué
despertarte y molestar
III
El mar se aleja de mí.
El mar se aleja a dormir.
Como dicen, incidente zanjado,
la barca querida varó en lo diario.
Estamos en paz,
y no viene a cuenta un listado
de mutuos dolores, penas y agravios.
IV
Son las dos estarás en la cama.
La Vía Láctea es una Osa de plata estelar.
No hay prisa y con urgencias de telegrama
no tengo porqué despertarte y molestar.
Como dicen, incidente zanjado,
la barca querida embarrancó en lo diario.
Estamos en paz y no viene a cuenta un listado
de mutuos dolores penas y agravios.
Mira en el mundo qué paz;
la noche orló de un tributo de estrellas el cielo.
A estas mismas horas te levantas a hablar
a los siglos, la historia y el universo.
V
Sé de la fuerza de las palabras, sé de las palabras el arrebato.
No son a las que aplauden los palcos.
De palabras tales se desprenden los ataúdes
y sus cuatro patitas de roble sacuden.
A veces la suprimen, no se publica ni imprime,
pero la palabra vuela con las cinchas ceñidas,
tañe los siglos y llegan a rastras los trenes
a lamer las manos encallecidas de la poesía.
Sé de la fuerza de las palabras: parece de memos,
pétalos caídos bajo los tacones de un baile.
Pero el hombre con el alma los labios los huesos…
De leer a Maiakovski no te arrepientes.
Un regalito no incluido en la edición citada:
POEMA INCONCLUSO
Vladimir Maiakovski
Preludio inacabado de un poema, probablemente escrito poco antes del suicidio de Maiakovski en 1930. Una parte de la estrofa III se repite en la nota de suicidio
I
¿Me quiere? ¿No me quiere? Retuerzo las manos
y los dedos
destrozados desperdigo.
Así deshojan al adivinar y esparcen
por mayo
corolas de margaritas del camino.
Aunque las canas descubran el peinado y la barba;
aunque abundantes suenen en plata
los años
espero, confío; que jamás llegue
a mí el vergonzoso buen juicio.
II
Son las dos
estarás en la cama
O tal vez
tú también andes mal.
No hay prisa,
y con urgencias de telegrama
no tengo
por qué
despertarte y molestar
III
El mar se aleja de mí.
El mar se aleja a dormir.
Como dicen, incidente zanjado,
la barca querida varó en lo diario.
Estamos en paz,
y no viene a cuenta un listado
de mutuos dolores, penas y agravios.
IV
Son las dos estarás en la cama.
La Vía Láctea es una Osa de plata estelar.
No hay prisa y con urgencias de telegrama
no tengo porqué despertarte y molestar.
Como dicen, incidente zanjado,
la barca querida embarrancó en lo diario.
Estamos en paz y no viene a cuenta un listado
de mutuos dolores penas y agravios.
Mira en el mundo qué paz;
la noche orló de un tributo de estrellas el cielo.
A estas mismas horas te levantas a hablar
a los siglos, la historia y el universo.
V
Sé de la fuerza de las palabras, sé de las palabras el arrebato.
No son a las que aplauden los palcos.
De palabras tales se desprenden los ataúdes
y sus cuatro patitas de roble sacuden.
A veces la suprimen, no se publica ni imprime,
pero la palabra vuela con las cinchas ceñidas,
tañe los siglos y llegan a rastras los trenes
a lamer las manos encallecidas de la poesía.
Sé de la fuerza de las palabras: parece de memos,
pétalos caídos bajo los tacones de un baile.
Pero el hombre con el alma los labios los huesos…
September 9, 2020
Im Vergleich zu dieser lyrischen Urgewalt ist der deutsche Expressionismus Gänseblümchenlyrik.
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October 27, 2021▪️BACKBONE FLUTE: Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky, translated by Andrey Kneller.
#ReadtheWorld21 📍 Georgia
A small nibble from one of his larger well-known poems "I Love", from the 'Adulthood' stanzas:
"My jacket's wide open
with my heart on my sleeve -
I've opened myself to the sun and the street.
Enter with passion
Climb into my soul!
My heart is now free! I've lost all control!
In others, I know where the heart has been placed.
Everyone knows - it beats in the chest.
But even anatomy
is absurd in my case -
one massive heart
and no room for the rest."
[pg 117]
There's a lot more I want to read up on/research as Mayakovsky was in the "thick of it" with the Futurist iconclast movement, an ardent socialist whose works were still heavily censored and/or banned by the Communist Party, and whose later life is full of all sorts of intriguing tidbits too...
#ReadtheWorld21 📍 Georgia
A small nibble from one of his larger well-known poems "I Love", from the 'Adulthood' stanzas:
"My jacket's wide open
with my heart on my sleeve -
I've opened myself to the sun and the street.
Enter with passion
Climb into my soul!
My heart is now free! I've lost all control!
In others, I know where the heart has been placed.
Everyone knows - it beats in the chest.
But even anatomy
is absurd in my case -
one massive heart
and no room for the rest."
[pg 117]
There's a lot more I want to read up on/research as Mayakovsky was in the "thick of it" with the Futurist iconclast movement, an ardent socialist whose works were still heavily censored and/or banned by the Communist Party, and whose later life is full of all sorts of intriguing tidbits too...
June 5, 2019
"Gentle souls!
You play your love on the violin.
The crude ones play it on the drums violently.
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me and become just two lips entirely?"
I really loved this short collection; the poems read like someone's not so well-hidden diary. There's a certain cry, but for what, the reader never learns and with each poem or stanza one other option is eliminated until you are left with only the cry.
I don't speak Russian so I don't know how accurate the translation was, but it was alive and raw, and I'd like to think Mayakovsky's poetry is just the same in Russian as well, alive and raw.
You play your love on the violin.
The crude ones play it on the drums violently.
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me and become just two lips entirely?"
I really loved this short collection; the poems read like someone's not so well-hidden diary. There's a certain cry, but for what, the reader never learns and with each poem or stanza one other option is eliminated until you are left with only the cry.
I don't speak Russian so I don't know how accurate the translation was, but it was alive and raw, and I'd like to think Mayakovsky's poetry is just the same in Russian as well, alive and raw.
July 29, 2015
The Backbone Flute is my favorite Mayakovsky poem, and Kneller's english rendering is now my favorite translation of it. In any language. I like it even better than my own translation.
August 30, 2025
Jeśli nikt nie będzie mnie wzywać rozlany potokiem ("rozlany sekwannym potokiem,/ wzywam,/ szczerząc pogniłe zęby") ani nie nasyci się mną w niebnych kłębach ("Sycę się Tobą, wchodząc w niebie kłęby/ czekam i, nagi, cierpię księżycem), to po co mi miłość?
March 12, 2022
Look - the stars were beheaded all night long
and the sky is again bloody with slaughter.
and the sky is again bloody with slaughter.
January 30, 2018
Su energía, las referencias que enlaza entre poemas, la forma en que expresa amores desesperados bañados en el ego del poeta, sus exclamaciones. Accesible y emocionante. Política para las masas.
“¡Escuchen!
¿Si las estrellas se encienden,
quiere decir que a alguien les hacen falta?
Por lo tanto es indispensable
que al menos una estrella
se encienda
sobre los techos cada noche?!”
“¡Escuchen!
¿Si las estrellas se encienden,
quiere decir que a alguien les hacen falta?
Por lo tanto es indispensable
que al menos una estrella
se encienda
sobre los techos cada noche?!”
June 17, 2024
Backbone Flute
Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky
Author: Vladimir Mayakovsky
Pages: 131
My Review and Thoughts:
Before I came across this I had no knowledge of this Poet. This was another random poetry buy for me. This is a Russian Poet and his work has been translated to English by Andrey Kneller. What is interesting about this book is on the one page you get the work in the original language and on the opposite page the work in English.
This book truly is a book that can change one’s idea of what great poetry is about.
I have never experienced the amazing one of a kind control that Vladimir has. He takes, a sentence and brings it to life in an emotional roller coaster of changes within moods and emotional appeal. A word to him, comes to life in vibrant colors of personal senses.
Mayakovsky created a living emotionally desired truth, that lingered from page to mind and then into the heart, but most of all the soul. Mayakovsky creates inside his poetry something so bold, so exploratory, that the senses of the one reading, can't help but feel wasted, thoroughly excited, and exhausted. His poetry is truly a unique journey that I have to say in all honesty I am floored I had never heard of him or read any of his wonderful works.
What makes him stand out is his unique and odd reality of writing. Which I gather is the problem in translating most of his work because he used a unique writing style only to him. His work is odd because he did irregular line breaks while writing his poetry that most poets would never dare to do. Sometimes rhyme and non-rhyme that came together in sync and then non-sync. He blasted his work with massive metaphors and descriptions through his personal imagery that made his poetry a one of kind in nature.
His writing gave such power to words. His words in a sense bled. His senses became your senses. You were the actions, emotions, reactions of his words. You become transfixed upon the poems. You became the lover of words displayed in senses. You became the emotional bleeding. You became the desire of colors throughout his writing.
Sadly, he was only 36 years old when he died. I can’t imagine the work that he could have done if he had not killed himself. He truly was a soul that knew writing. He was a soul that became words. He was a soul that created emotionally charged poetry that will stand the test of time. In his suicide note he wrote:
"And so they say – "the incident dissolved" / the love boat smashed up / on the dreary routine. / I'm through with life / and [we] should absolve / from mutual hurts, afflictions and spleen."
Would I Recommended: In a heartbeat. I can’t express enough how important this book of poetry is and how important this poet was. Truly a shame it took me this long to experience this master talent.
Would I Return to: In a heartbeat? I have already started reading it a second time. His work is truly a one of a kind experience and I am happy that I came across this book.
Four Final Words: Brilliant. Perfection. Emotionally Intense.
My Rating: 5 out of 5
Favorite Lines:
Page 19:
oh, if I only were
quiet,
like thunder, -
I’d 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
Page 63
A pimp and a fraud all the while.
From all of you,
Who soaked in love for plain fun,
who spilled
tears into centuries while you cried,
I’ll walk away
and place the monocle of the sun
into my gaping, wide-open eye.
Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky
Author: Vladimir Mayakovsky
Pages: 131
My Review and Thoughts:
Before I came across this I had no knowledge of this Poet. This was another random poetry buy for me. This is a Russian Poet and his work has been translated to English by Andrey Kneller. What is interesting about this book is on the one page you get the work in the original language and on the opposite page the work in English.
This book truly is a book that can change one’s idea of what great poetry is about.
I have never experienced the amazing one of a kind control that Vladimir has. He takes, a sentence and brings it to life in an emotional roller coaster of changes within moods and emotional appeal. A word to him, comes to life in vibrant colors of personal senses.
Mayakovsky created a living emotionally desired truth, that lingered from page to mind and then into the heart, but most of all the soul. Mayakovsky creates inside his poetry something so bold, so exploratory, that the senses of the one reading, can't help but feel wasted, thoroughly excited, and exhausted. His poetry is truly a unique journey that I have to say in all honesty I am floored I had never heard of him or read any of his wonderful works.
What makes him stand out is his unique and odd reality of writing. Which I gather is the problem in translating most of his work because he used a unique writing style only to him. His work is odd because he did irregular line breaks while writing his poetry that most poets would never dare to do. Sometimes rhyme and non-rhyme that came together in sync and then non-sync. He blasted his work with massive metaphors and descriptions through his personal imagery that made his poetry a one of kind in nature.
His writing gave such power to words. His words in a sense bled. His senses became your senses. You were the actions, emotions, reactions of his words. You become transfixed upon the poems. You became the lover of words displayed in senses. You became the emotional bleeding. You became the desire of colors throughout his writing.
Sadly, he was only 36 years old when he died. I can’t imagine the work that he could have done if he had not killed himself. He truly was a soul that knew writing. He was a soul that became words. He was a soul that created emotionally charged poetry that will stand the test of time. In his suicide note he wrote:
"And so they say – "the incident dissolved" / the love boat smashed up / on the dreary routine. / I'm through with life / and [we] should absolve / from mutual hurts, afflictions and spleen."
Would I Recommended: In a heartbeat. I can’t express enough how important this book of poetry is and how important this poet was. Truly a shame it took me this long to experience this master talent.
Would I Return to: In a heartbeat? I have already started reading it a second time. His work is truly a one of a kind experience and I am happy that I came across this book.
Four Final Words: Brilliant. Perfection. Emotionally Intense.
My Rating: 5 out of 5
Favorite Lines:
Page 19:
oh, if I only were
quiet,
like thunder, -
I’d 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
Page 63
A pimp and a fraud all the while.
From all of you,
Who soaked in love for plain fun,
who spilled
tears into centuries while you cried,
I’ll walk away
and place the monocle of the sun
into my gaping, wide-open eye.
March 22, 2015
I am familiar with neither Mayakovsky nor Russian poetry or the language, but I felt this was a well done translation of the work of a great poet. The short bio of the author at the back of this book explains that his use of rhyme and control of meter and rhythm back Mayakovsky's work hard to translate. But since these translations do rhyme while still making sense and without feeling contrived or stretched, I think the translator must have done an excellent job. The imagery is mostly very dark, which is fine although I prefer otherwise. But many of the poems arr very original. My favorites are Moonlit Night, Listen!, About St. Petersburg, Lilichka!, Cloud with Trousers part 1 and Kindness to Horses.
March 15, 2016
Recently I have understood that even though I am madly in love with Mayakovsky, I haven't read almost any of his big poems. Trouble.
So I've felt an extreme need to change the situation.
...And I fell in love for the second (third, hundredth, thousandth) time.
(Picked up the random edition of his poems, because I'm not even sure if his big poems were eveer published as a standalone book)
So I've felt an extreme need to change the situation.
...And I fell in love for the second (third, hundredth, thousandth) time.
(Picked up the random edition of his poems, because I'm not even sure if his big poems were eveer published as a standalone book)
December 2, 2021
A Violin - a Little Nervous
For some reason, I cried out:
“God!”
and reached for its wooden face:
Violin, we are similar
don’t you see that?
I also
shout a lot
and likewise I can’t prove my case!”
The musicians laugh:
“He’s been caught
by a wooden girl - what could be better?!
He’s mad!”
But I don’t care what they say
I’m a good guy…
Hey, violin, you know what?
Let’s live together
instead?
1914
Lilichka!
(Instead of a letter)
I won’t drink poison
or jump to demise
or pull the trigger to take my own life.4
Except for your eyes,
no blade can control me,
no sharpened knife.
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
To His Own Beloved Self the Author Dedicates These Lines
If only I were
shallow,
like the Pacific Ocean, -
Oh, if only I were poor!
like a millionaire!
Oh, if only I were tongue-tied
like Dante
Oh, if only I were
quiet,
like thunder, -
I would gnaw the nights with the rays of eyes, -
if I were as dim as the sun,
I’d shine!
A Cloud in Trousers
If you wish--
I can be irreproachably gentle,
not a man -- but a cloud in trousers.
I come face to face
with the rippling rain,
yet once more,
and wait
And I feel-
“I”
is too small to fit me.
Someone inside of me is getting smothered.
They’ve called the firemen.
In glittering helmets,
they carelessly start intruding.
I know -
a nail in my boot
is more frightening than Goethe’s fantasies!
I am
the most golden-mouthed,
I assure you:
the minutest speck of the living
is worth more than all that I’ll ever produce on this earth!
We,
with lips sagging like a chandelier,
I’ll walk away
and place the monocle of the sun
into my gaping, wide-open eye.
The night will come,
bite into you
and swallow you stale.
The rain wept over the sidewalks, -
that puddle-imprisoned
the eyelashes of icicles
Maria, do you want me?
Maria, take me in, please.
With shivering fingers I’ll squeeze the iron throat of the bell!
Don’t be alarmed,
seeing these women
hanging on my neck like mountains, -
through life, I drag with me
a million of massive, enormous, pure loves
and a million millions of filthy, disgusting lovelets.
Don’t be afraid
My heart and I have never lived until May,
but in my past,
a hundreds of Aprils assembled.
but I -
I’m made of flesh,
I’m a man, -
I ask for your body,
like the Christians pray:
“give us this day
our daily bread.”
Maria, give it to me!
Maria!
I fear to forget your name
as a poet fears to forget under pressure
a word
conceived in a restless night
equal to God in effect.
Your body -
Look -
the stars were beheaded all night long
Silence.
The universe sleeps.
Placing its paw
under the black, star-infested ear.
1914-1915
Backbone Flute
More and more often, I wonder, -
why shouldn’t I place
the period of a bullet at the end of my stanza?
Today,
just in case,
I am giving my final, farewell concert.
Memory!
Gather into the brain’s auditorium
the bottomless lines of those who are dear to me
Listen to me, I will play the flute.
On my backbone tonight.
and gallop me,
tearing my flesh on the stars’ sharp tips.
Or else:
when the soul drops the body, decides to leave it
and comes to your judgment,
dully flinching
I allow it.
As you see, -
with the nails of words, today,
I am nailed to paper.
1915
The heart wears a body,
that body - a shirt.
and that's not all, they're obsessed!
an idiot! -
inventing cufflinks,
I
learned geography with my ribs, -
using the earth
as a mattress
to lie on.
For some reason, I cried out:
“God!”
and reached for its wooden face:
Violin, we are similar
don’t you see that?
I also
shout a lot
and likewise I can’t prove my case!”
The musicians laugh:
“He’s been caught
by a wooden girl - what could be better?!
He’s mad!”
But I don’t care what they say
I’m a good guy…
Hey, violin, you know what?
Let’s live together
instead?
1914
Lilichka!
(Instead of a letter)
I won’t drink poison
or jump to demise
or pull the trigger to take my own life.4
Except for your eyes,
no blade can control me,
no sharpened knife.
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
To His Own Beloved Self the Author Dedicates These Lines
If only I were
shallow,
like the Pacific Ocean, -
Oh, if only I were poor!
like a millionaire!
Oh, if only I were tongue-tied
like Dante
Oh, if only I were
quiet,
like thunder, -
I would gnaw the nights with the rays of eyes, -
if I were as dim as the sun,
I’d shine!
A Cloud in Trousers
If you wish--
I can be irreproachably gentle,
not a man -- but a cloud in trousers.
I come face to face
with the rippling rain,
yet once more,
and wait
And I feel-
“I”
is too small to fit me.
Someone inside of me is getting smothered.
They’ve called the firemen.
In glittering helmets,
they carelessly start intruding.
I know -
a nail in my boot
is more frightening than Goethe’s fantasies!
I am
the most golden-mouthed,
I assure you:
the minutest speck of the living
is worth more than all that I’ll ever produce on this earth!
We,
with lips sagging like a chandelier,
I’ll walk away
and place the monocle of the sun
into my gaping, wide-open eye.
The night will come,
bite into you
and swallow you stale.
The rain wept over the sidewalks, -
that puddle-imprisoned
the eyelashes of icicles
Maria, do you want me?
Maria, take me in, please.
With shivering fingers I’ll squeeze the iron throat of the bell!
Don’t be alarmed,
seeing these women
hanging on my neck like mountains, -
through life, I drag with me
a million of massive, enormous, pure loves
and a million millions of filthy, disgusting lovelets.
Don’t be afraid
My heart and I have never lived until May,
but in my past,
a hundreds of Aprils assembled.
but I -
I’m made of flesh,
I’m a man, -
I ask for your body,
like the Christians pray:
“give us this day
our daily bread.”
Maria, give it to me!
Maria!
I fear to forget your name
as a poet fears to forget under pressure
a word
conceived in a restless night
equal to God in effect.
Your body -
Look -
the stars were beheaded all night long
Silence.
The universe sleeps.
Placing its paw
under the black, star-infested ear.
1914-1915
Backbone Flute
More and more often, I wonder, -
why shouldn’t I place
the period of a bullet at the end of my stanza?
Today,
just in case,
I am giving my final, farewell concert.
Memory!
Gather into the brain’s auditorium
the bottomless lines of those who are dear to me
Listen to me, I will play the flute.
On my backbone tonight.
and gallop me,
tearing my flesh on the stars’ sharp tips.
Or else:
when the soul drops the body, decides to leave it
and comes to your judgment,
dully flinching
I allow it.
As you see, -
with the nails of words, today,
I am nailed to paper.
1915
The heart wears a body,
that body - a shirt.
and that's not all, they're obsessed!
an idiot! -
inventing cufflinks,
I
learned geography with my ribs, -
using the earth
as a mattress
to lie on.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
March 3, 2024
3.5/5
Really really loved some of these poems but felt underwhelmed by others. I’ve really begun to notice how there are poems which stand the test of time and there are others incapable of such. Mayakovsky has many of both in my opinion. I certainly see why he’s considered one of the all time greats, especially of Russia. This copy of the book is cool because it also has the original Russian, but I unfortunately only speak English so it wasn’t much use. My point is I feel like his work is likely much more astounding in Russian than translated to English.
I have much love for “Kindness to Horses,” “Past One O’clock,” and “A Cloud in Trousers,” as well as bits a pieces of other poems throughout. I do love his avant-garde style, and I can see where a lot of Frank O’Hara’s influence came from. It’s like listening to Buddy Rich after years of listening to John Bonham. I think my only gripes are mostly with his love poems. Granted there are a lot, I don’t know, it just feels hard to read a love poem about being lonely and sad without love because these are such ubiquitous topics that if it’s something that doesn’t offer some kind of newness of perspective, I’m kinda checked out.
Okay done rambling there are probably tons of typos and errors here, but it’s one in the morning and I’m going to sleep.
Everyone go read “Kindness to Horses”
Really really loved some of these poems but felt underwhelmed by others. I’ve really begun to notice how there are poems which stand the test of time and there are others incapable of such. Mayakovsky has many of both in my opinion. I certainly see why he’s considered one of the all time greats, especially of Russia. This copy of the book is cool because it also has the original Russian, but I unfortunately only speak English so it wasn’t much use. My point is I feel like his work is likely much more astounding in Russian than translated to English.
I have much love for “Kindness to Horses,” “Past One O’clock,” and “A Cloud in Trousers,” as well as bits a pieces of other poems throughout. I do love his avant-garde style, and I can see where a lot of Frank O’Hara’s influence came from. It’s like listening to Buddy Rich after years of listening to John Bonham. I think my only gripes are mostly with his love poems. Granted there are a lot, I don’t know, it just feels hard to read a love poem about being lonely and sad without love because these are such ubiquitous topics that if it’s something that doesn’t offer some kind of newness of perspective, I’m kinda checked out.
Okay done rambling there are probably tons of typos and errors here, but it’s one in the morning and I’m going to sleep.
Everyone go read “Kindness to Horses”
July 4, 2020
Ever since I've met several lines from this poem in Mayakovsky's museum in Moscow (written randomly on the way as a part of an installation) I couldn't stop constantly rolling them inside my head until I read the entire poem. What I felt after was something like "Jesus!!!". His poetics and huge painful but so appealing drama made me learning huge pieces of the poem by heart.
Real masterpiece.
Real masterpiece.
January 23, 2022
“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.”
- I’m completely enamored by Mayakovsky’s words. Like, are you kidding me? He had such a way of expressing everything in such a structured and straightforward manner . I just would love to read him in Russian to know the cultural meaning behind every reference and word usages , the translation was impeccable nonetheless! Favorite reading so far.
an arduous weight,
hanging on you
wherever you flee.
Let me bellow out in a final complaint
all of my heartbroken misery.”
- I’m completely enamored by Mayakovsky’s words. Like, are you kidding me? He had such a way of expressing everything in such a structured and straightforward manner . I just would love to read him in Russian to know the cultural meaning behind every reference and word usages , the translation was impeccable nonetheless! Favorite reading so far.
January 7, 2025
Fantastic. 🥰
-----------------------------------------------‐-------------
'I ponder.
Like blood clots, sticky and warm,
my thoughts are slithering out of my skull.'
-----------------------------------------------‐-------------
'Empty foreheads ring from too much concentration .
But I
spoke alone
With the buildings at nighttime.'
-----------------------------------------------‐-------------
'I ponder.
Like blood clots, sticky and warm,
my thoughts are slithering out of my skull.'
-----------------------------------------------‐-------------
'Empty foreheads ring from too much concentration .
But I
spoke alone
With the buildings at nighttime.'
March 5, 2020
Delight
Delightful, passionate and at times the spirit of a true jealous lover peeps from these verses. An honest and off break collection of poetry.
Delightful, passionate and at times the spirit of a true jealous lover peeps from these verses. An honest and off break collection of poetry.
August 9, 2022
Hello!
Who’s speaking?
Mother?
Mother!
Your son has a wonderful sickness!
Mother!
His heart has been set alight!
Tell Lydia and Olga, his sisters,
That there’s simply no where to hide.
Every word,
whether funny or crude,
that he spews from his scorching mouth,
jumps like a naked prostitute
from a burning brothel.
June 18, 2017
Belajar menulis puisi dari Mayakovsky.
July 19, 2019
"I’ll forget the year, the day, the date.
With a sheet of paper, I’ll lock
myself up in isolation.
O inhuman magic, create!
through the suffering words,
perform your creation!"
- Backbone Flute
Mayakovsky is yet another poet I haven't known about until recently. A poet I allowed to unhurriedly yet so powerfully deflower me and I was in a state of utter intoxication followed by a peculiar state of comfortable languor and passive sadness coalesced.
Every singles poem I've read, crowned with A Cloud in Trousers and Backbone Flute burst to the seams and beyond with emotions. They all were portrayals of a nudity dressed in dark imagery, a sensitivity ablaze.
He was a man of so many words and he brought them: the words, letters, sentences and split seas with them. Split minds and souls and I often felt so battered by his words that I wanted to reach the nearest chair and sit for few seconds.
I believe there is something about him, something that I wish to wrap my fingers around, something within to unearth and when I open the doors, the pages, I hear a cry of some sort that wants to scream and make itself present. I see blood pooling between hearts, souls, bodies, and a I scent beer and rusty metal. I smell gunpowder, a fresh shot, an open wound and I just stand, at the furthest corner watching... Inundated with sounds, sights, smells, and tumultuous states of being.
If I look out I see that it rains acid yet it feels like spring and the flowers are blooming insanely, lovers are embracing...
Things flourish and die constantly and I think I am somewhere in his mind between those lines and it is far more complex to grasp.
Eventually, I just watch, both enthralled and disturbed and my body quivers for a reason I cannot tell. Ah, what have you done to me, Vladimir.
"My heart’s blood paves the roam I roam,
flowers cling to my jacket, making it dusty.
The sun will dance a thousand times round the earth, like Salome
danced around the head of the Baptist."
- A Cloud in Trousers
With a sheet of paper, I’ll lock
myself up in isolation.
O inhuman magic, create!
through the suffering words,
perform your creation!"
- Backbone Flute
Mayakovsky is yet another poet I haven't known about until recently. A poet I allowed to unhurriedly yet so powerfully deflower me and I was in a state of utter intoxication followed by a peculiar state of comfortable languor and passive sadness coalesced.
Every singles poem I've read, crowned with A Cloud in Trousers and Backbone Flute burst to the seams and beyond with emotions. They all were portrayals of a nudity dressed in dark imagery, a sensitivity ablaze.
He was a man of so many words and he brought them: the words, letters, sentences and split seas with them. Split minds and souls and I often felt so battered by his words that I wanted to reach the nearest chair and sit for few seconds.
I believe there is something about him, something that I wish to wrap my fingers around, something within to unearth and when I open the doors, the pages, I hear a cry of some sort that wants to scream and make itself present. I see blood pooling between hearts, souls, bodies, and a I scent beer and rusty metal. I smell gunpowder, a fresh shot, an open wound and I just stand, at the furthest corner watching... Inundated with sounds, sights, smells, and tumultuous states of being.
If I look out I see that it rains acid yet it feels like spring and the flowers are blooming insanely, lovers are embracing...
Things flourish and die constantly and I think I am somewhere in his mind between those lines and it is far more complex to grasp.
Eventually, I just watch, both enthralled and disturbed and my body quivers for a reason I cannot tell. Ah, what have you done to me, Vladimir.
"My heart’s blood paves the roam I roam,
flowers cling to my jacket, making it dusty.
The sun will dance a thousand times round the earth, like Salome
danced around the head of the Baptist."
- A Cloud in Trousers
July 16, 2016
I noticed that many poems has its own structure and strength , including words and metaphor , like when talking about love and using light words filled with beauty , that getting more intense and less poetic when talk about other subjects
He is hesitated by certain words as i see , you can see them repeatedly : lips , clouds , stars , sky ,
Reading maykovsky is not that easy , his poetry getting crossed with history of him and of his time , i have seen before some interpretations in elsa triolet book about mayakovsky , you can't get it clearly by your own
He is hesitated by certain words as i see , you can see them repeatedly : lips , clouds , stars , sky ,
Reading maykovsky is not that easy , his poetry getting crossed with history of him and of his time , i have seen before some interpretations in elsa triolet book about mayakovsky , you can't get it clearly by your own
April 29, 2017
(La edición es de elaleph.com)
Este año empecé a leer a los rusos, y esta es mi primera vez leyendo a alguno de sus poetas. Todos los poemas reunidos en esta selección son impecables. Maiacovski es uno de esos poetas que se deben releer varias veces, tan rica y vívida se siente su voz.
Este año empecé a leer a los rusos, y esta es mi primera vez leyendo a alguno de sus poetas. Todos los poemas reunidos en esta selección son impecables. Maiacovski es uno de esos poetas que se deben releer varias veces, tan rica y vívida se siente su voz.
Yo quiero beber un veneno,- "La flauta espinazo"
Beber y beber versos.
"Si alguien me tocara el pecho,- " El hombre"
Bajo la lana de mi chaleco,
Palpita un puño extraordinario.
January 17, 2019
"..μα πώς να ξεφύγω, που η κόλαση μέσα μου μένει;"
January 3, 2017
I was introduced to Mayakovsky in an Art History class. I knew a little bit about him -- that he had a commanding presence when he read his poetry and that he was a tortured soul involved with a married woman, among others. When I had the opportunity to find a book of poems lovingly translated from the Russian (which I am disappointed I don't speak or read because I understand the original work is more brilliant than I am able to comprehend in the English version), I jumped.
My goodness, what a swoon-worthy fellow on so many levels. It is possible to ache while reading. The one about the violin that annoyed the other instruments captured my imagination and I love that he ran out to the orchestra to comfort the violin and tell it that they were the same. It's a shame he removed himself from the world so soon. I mourn for the work that would have come with age and further experience.
I have chosen this book for the category of "written between 1900 and 1950", for the original poems.
My goodness, what a swoon-worthy fellow on so many levels. It is possible to ache while reading. The one about the violin that annoyed the other instruments captured my imagination and I love that he ran out to the orchestra to comfort the violin and tell it that they were the same. It's a shame he removed himself from the world so soon. I mourn for the work that would have come with age and further experience.
I have chosen this book for the category of "written between 1900 and 1950", for the original poems.
Read
April 10, 2022“my love is
an arduous weight,
hanging on you
wherever you flee.”
“Where shall I find a love
of my own proportions?”
“Gentle souls!
You play your love on the violin.
The crude ones play it on the drums violently.
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me
and become just two lips entirely?”
“You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior:
a bulk of sinews
moaning,
fidgeting.
What can such a clod desire?
But this clod desires many things.”
“And I feel-
“I”
is too small to fit me.
Someone inside of me is getting smothered.”
his writing is so unbelievably smart i don’t really know how to even begin to talk about it
an arduous weight,
hanging on you
wherever you flee.”
“Where shall I find a love
of my own proportions?”
“Gentle souls!
You play your love on the violin.
The crude ones play it on the drums violently.
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me
and become just two lips entirely?”
“You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior:
a bulk of sinews
moaning,
fidgeting.
What can such a clod desire?
But this clod desires many things.”
“And I feel-
“I”
is too small to fit me.
Someone inside of me is getting smothered.”
his writing is so unbelievably smart i don’t really know how to even begin to talk about it
September 11, 2020
Although Mayakovsky won't seem too groundbreaking now, he was definitely a pioneer for his time and place. The translation, good as it may be, also doesn't help his case.
More than the actual prose, I'm impressed by the character and energy that seems to pour through it. A combination of masculine and feminine, of toughness and sensitivity, and a love for Lilya matched only by his love for a better future, Mayakovsky must have been a man worthy of his name.
More than the actual prose, I'm impressed by the character and energy that seems to pour through it. A combination of masculine and feminine, of toughness and sensitivity, and a love for Lilya matched only by his love for a better future, Mayakovsky must have been a man worthy of his name.
Displaying 1 - 29 of 45 reviews