Russian literature

Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930)

But could you?

I blurred at once the chart of trite routine
by splashing paint with one swift motion.
I showed upon a plate of brawny glutin
the slanting cheekbones of the ocean
Upon the scales of tinny fishes new lips summoned, though yet mute.
But could you
play
right to the finish
a nocturne on a drainpipe flute?

Listen!

Listen, if stars are lit
it means – there is someone who needs it.
It means – someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.
And overwrought, in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand that starless ordeal.
Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'
Listen, if stars are lit,
it means – there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

To His Own Beloved Self The Author Dedicates These Lines

Six.
Ponderous. The chimes of a clock.
“Render unto Ceasar… render unto God…”
But where's
someone like me to dock?
Where to find waiting – a lair?
Were I like the ocean of ocean little,
on the tiptoes of waves I'd rise,
I'd strain, a tide, to caress the moon.
Where to find someone to love
of my size,
the sky too small for her to fit in?
Were I poor
as a multimillionaire,
it'd still be tough.
What's money for the soul? –
Thief insatiable.
The gold of all Californias isn't enough
for my desires' riotous horde.
I wish I were tongue-tied,
like Dante
or Petrarch,
able to fire a woman's heart,
reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages!
My words
and my love
form a triumphal arch:
through it in all their splendour,
leaving no trace, will pass
the inamoratas of all the ages.
Were I
As quiet as thunder,
how I'd wail and whine!
One groan of mine
would start world's crumbling cloister shivering.
And if I'd end up by roaring
with all of its power of lungs and more –
the comets, distressed, would wring their hands
and from the sky's roof leap in fever.
If I were dim as the sun,
night I'd drill
with the rays of my eyes,
and also
all by my lonesome,
radiant self
build up the earth's shivering bosom.
On I'll pass,
dragging my huge love behind me.
On what feverish night, deliria-ridden,
by what Goliaths was I begot –
I, so big
and so no one needen?

The Violin – A Little Bit Nervous

The violin got all worked up, imploring
then suddenly burst into sobs,
so child-like
that the drum couldn't stand it:
“All right, all right, all right!”
But then he got tired,
couldn't wait till the violin ended,
slipped out on the burning Kuznetsky
and took flight.
The orchestra looked on, chilly,
while the violin wept itself out
without reason
or rhyme,
and only somewhere,
a cymbal, silly,
kept clashing:
“What is it,
what's all the racket about?”
And when the helicon,
brass-faced,
sweaty,
hollared:
“Crazy!
Crybaby!
Be still!”
I staggered,
on to my feet getting,
and lumbered over the horror-stuck music stands,
yelling,
“Good God”
why, I myself couldn't tell;
then dashed, my arms round the wooden neck to fling:
“You know what, violin,
we're awfully alike;
I too always yell,
but can't prove a thing!”
The musicains commented,
contemptuously smiling:
“Look at him –
come to his wooden-bride-
tee-hee!”
But I don't care –
I'm a good guy –
“You know, what, violin,
let's live together,
eh?”.