By Vladimir Mayakovsky
English and Russian Edition
Vladimir Mayakovsky (July 19, 1893 - April 14, 1930) is among the such a lot famous and celebrated poets of the Russian canon. one of many leaders of the Russian Futurism flow, which sought to trap the sweetness of the fast moving sleek global and renounced the static paintings of the prior, Mayakovsky thoroughly bent the limits of language and brought a completely diversified variety of poetry. His abnormal line-breaks, his use of inner rhyme, his keep watch over of meter and his feel of rhythm mixed jointly to shape his precise type. His imagery is overflowing with allusions, metaphors and hyperboles. His significant works, "A Cloud in Trousers," "Backbone Flute," and "I Love," sparkle with wit, knowledge and originality. This caliber of his paintings is what additionally makes it particularly tough to translate. during this dual-language choice of Mayakovsky's poetry, Andrey Kneller makes an attempt to seize not just the overall which means, but additionally the lyrical caliber of the poetry that makes Mayakovsky a very distinctive writer.
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Additional resources for Backbone Flute: Selected Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky
Unfortunately, Ruth is in lockup. It’s a good thing Carlyle knows the way. Ruth! he hisses. – You?! – He cuts her loose, and by the hand, they’re out the window. ❖ rabble of bird, dour disorder – Then he pops me on the chin and tries his knees – unequivocally – Testing. testing. one two three four – looks at me, directly suggests: let’s jump – ❖ effusient floresce – everything’s tender, bruisable – wet – ❖ Black cows & bare branches against the green, blue – like a painting, still wet, which suggests nonetheless something beyond itself, and so indeed a crow appears & flaps – and then, rising from behind it, a plume of smoke: somebody – perhaps it is Carlyle – burning (and as he feeds his little dome of flowers, flames nearly invisible in the bright sun, he hums).
Already, Carlyle is scarred enough & bears it. ❖ One day it’s Carlyle this Carlyle that – until he grabs my mouth in his hand & squeezes – with a thumb in one cheeksocket and a fuck-me finger in the other – shakes until my marbles begin to roll a little bit and I can feel all that blood, stoppered up in my head. You – somebody shouts – what’s going ON up there? I know a thick plume spouts, and then, briefly, a vague perfume, with something like kerosene at the bottom of it. Hush Sonatina, Carlyle soothes – (for this is my assumed, the second name I wrote in public at the ball, in my tux, earlier, wearing my eyes) (I was belle & penchant; I was ravishing) .
Then the boy throws a look, whereupon Carlyle does more than surrender, he dives. ) – that’s a good time to call. He’ll be sitting there on the edge of his bed, rubbing the bare soles of his feet together – furiouser & furiouser – Furtively he glances at the window to see, is the ghoul still there. ) What Carlyle can’t decide is whether or not – the light – because of the light, he thinks – beating against the glass, incessantly – it keeps. What Carlyle can’t decide in his mind which won’t rest easy, which can (or cannot, quite) imagine what the ghoul might do – what Carlyle can’t decide about are the consequences, whether or not his chances might have improved.
Backbone Flute: Selected Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky by Vladimir Mayakovsky