»
Archives
»
Open Poetry #17
»
Backbone Flute
| Open Poetry #17 |
|
Backbone Flute |
|
|
Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA 
|
*This is my translation of a poem by a Russian poet, Vladimir Mayakovsky (1897-1930). THE BACKBONE FLUTE Prologue For all of you, Whom I’ve admired or still am admiring, Hidden like icons in the cave of the soul, Like a goblet of wine at a festive gathering, I shall raise my heavy, verse-brimming skull. More and more often, I’m wondering— 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. From eye to eye, pour mirth into all of them. Light up the night with the by-gone festivity. From body to body, pour the joyous mood. Let no man forget this night. Listen to me, I will play the flute. On my backbone tonight. I I crumble miles of streets with extended strides. Bearing this hell, where can I stray thus?! What heavenly Hoffman alone at night Thought of your likeness, accursed and heinous?! The streets are too narrow for the joyful storm. Dressed up, the people disperse, enthralled. I ponder. Like blood clots, sticky and warm, My thoughts are slithering out of my skull. I, The creator of all that’s festive and mirthful, Always go to the feast on my own, all alone. Watch me now as I jump down, doleful, And splatter my head on the Nevsky stones! I blasphemed, I swore and denied God’s existence, But God pulled such a woman out of the infernal bowel, That the mountains trembled seeing her in the distance. He brought her to me and commanded: Love her! God is content. On a crag, under the sky A lonesome man turns wild, grows thinner. God watches him die. God is thinking: You, watch out Vladimir! It was He! it was He, from the onset,— So no one would know who you were— It was He, who decided to give you a husband And placed human notes on the piano board. If I could tiptoe pass the bedroom door And make the sign of the cross over your bed, It would smell of smoldering wool,-- I know,-- And the fumes of the devil would rise overhead. Instead, until morning, frenzied and nervous, Thinking that you ran away with a lover, I rushed all around, Engraving my cries into verses Like some madman, - a crazed diamond-cutter. Oh, to play some cards! To dip in the wine The sighed-out heart, and to let it soak! I don’t need you! I don’t! And besides, in some time, I know I will surely croak. 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, Then 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. Listen, All-highest inquisitor! I’ll shut my mouth. Not a single wail Will escape my hard-bitten lips. Bind me to comets as to horses’ tails, And gallop me, Tearing my flesh at the stars’ bits. Or When the soul drops the body, decides to leave it, And comes to your judgment, Dully flinching, Then, Over the Milky Way put up the gibbet, And like a criminal, seize me and lynch me. Do what You will, Quarter me! and let me remain thus. I myself will wash Your hands clean! I allow it. Only do this for me- Take away that heinous, Whom You’ve made my only beloved! I crumble miles of streets with extended strides. Bearing this hell, where can I stray thus?! What heavenly Hoffman alone at night Thought of your likeness, accursed and heinous?! II Both, the sky, Which in smoke, forgets that it’s blue above, And the clouds, which like ragged refugees rush, I’ll illumine with the dawn of my final love Shinning bright like the consumptive’s flush. With happiness, I’ll muffle the roar Of the hoard, Who have forgotten both, home and comfort. Listen, People! Climb out of the trenches, up to the front, You can fight it out after. Even if, Stumbling and wavering, in blood, like Bacchus, A drunken battle goes on, -- Even then the words of love aren’t outmoded. Dear Germans! I know Goethe’s Gretchen must On your quivering lips be encoded. A Frenchman Dies, smiling, on a bayonet; A shot-down pilot crashes with ardor, If they’re able to recollect The kiss of your lips, Traviata. But as for me, I simply don’t have the time For the rosy pulp that the centuries chew on. Come and embrace new legs tonight! A redhead, In makeup,-- I am singing of you now. Perhaps, from these days, Horrifying like the bayonet’s edge, When the centuries bleach my beard silver, Only you Shall remain unchanged, And I, -- Running after you from city to city. You will be wedded beyond the sea, In the lair of the darkness, you’ll hide-- Through the London fog, I will kiss tenderly With the fiery lips of the streetlamps at night. If your caravan stops in the deserts’ expanse, Where the lions are keen and quick-- Beneath you, Under the wind-blown sands, I will place my Sahara-like burning cheek. Wearing a smile, you will see a fine toreador on the ground! Suddenly I, Will fling my jealousy into the crowd With the bull’s dying eye. If you carry your faltering steps to a bridge, And wonder, How good it would be beneath-- It is I, The Seine flowing under, Who beckons you, Baring my rotten teeth. If with another, with the sparks of the hooves, You light up the Strelka or the Sokol’niki, Then it is I, tempting you with the moon, Climbing up higher, naked and calling you. In the war, they will need someone strong, like me- they’ll command me: get killed, cold-blooded! The last thing I utter-- Your name shall be On my shrapnel-torn lip, blood-clotted. 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. III 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! Today, just upon walking in,-- Something was wrong in the house,-- I sensed. In your silky dress, you had something concealed And the room smelled strongly of incense. Are you glad to see me? A very cold “very.” Confusion overtook reason and began to fill me. Burning and feverish, I began despairing. Listen, Either way, You can’t hide a corpse. A terrible lie is lava on the head. Whatever you do, Each sinew of yours Into the megaphone Trumpets: I’m dead! dead! dead! No, Answer me. No more lies! (Where can I go now, disgraced?) Like two empty graves, your eyes Excavate two hollows upon your face. The graves grow deeper. No bottom at all. It seems, I will plunge headfirst from the scaffold. Like a tightrope, I’ve stretched out my soul And juggling words, I totter there, baffled. I know That his love is worn out and dull. Boredom holds you in its captivity. Reyouth yourself inside my soul And invite the heart to the body’s festivity. I know For a woman, every man must pay. For a while, I will have to dress you into the gray Of tobacco smoke, Instead of the fresh, Parisian style. My love, Like an apostle in the time long past, I’ll carry down a thousand thousands roads. In the ages, a crown for you is cast And in that crown, In the rainbow of shudders, shine my words. As elephants, with hundredweight games, assiduous, Completed the victory of Pyrrhus, I packed your brain with the tread of a genius All in vain. Nothing could bind us. Rejoice, Rejoice, My anguish Is now too great! You have finished me off! All I can do is to run to the nearest strait And thrust my head into the water’s maw. You gave me your lips. So lifeless they were that my passion ceased. I froze and pulled back. It felt as though, repentant, I kissed A monastery hacked from a frigid rock. Doors Banged. He entered, Entwined in the streets’ delight. I, Split in a wail, overflowing with spite. Cried out to him: “All right, I’ll go, All right! Let her remain. Dress her up in fine rags, Shy wings will swell in silk, of course. Watch out or she’ll float away. Around her neck, like the weight of a rock, Tie a necklace of priceless pearls!” Oh, what a Night! I myself tightened the noose of despair. Seeing me change from somber to jovial, The face of the room wrenched from the scare. A redoubling phantom of your likeness arose; Your eyes illumined the carpet it lied on. As if a new Byalik had composed A blinding Queen of the Hebrew Zion. In anguish, Before her, whom I had relinquished, I dropped to my knees, overwhelmingly. Having surrendered, King Albert, diminished, Was a gift-laden birthday boy compared to me. Flowers and grasses, turn gold in the sun! Turn vernal and lively, o universe! I desire one poison, just one— To keep drinking and drinking this verse. You, the thief of my heart, Who has robbed it of everything, Into delirium, you’ve tortured my soul. This gift, my dear, do not disregard— Perhaps, after this, I’ll write nothing at all. Convert into a holiday this precious date! O, crucifixion-like magic, Create and create now! As you see— With the nails of words, today, I am nailed to paper. NOTES ON THE POEM 1. This poem was written in the fall of 1915 with the title Verses To Her. Later renamed, the poem was dedicated to Lily Brik, whom Mayakovsky had recently met with her husband, the editor Osip Brik. The first public reading of The Backbone Flute, in 1915, before a group of thirty-six people, including Gorky, was a miserable flop. Mayakovsky required a larger audience; his thundering voice and dramatic delivery were unsuited to intimate gatherings. Some people tittered during Mayakovsky’s recitation. Close to tears, the poet fumbled his lines, then fled the podium. Gorky, however, was much impressed. “After all, there’s nothing much to futurism,” he said. “There is only Mayakovsky. A poet. A great poet.” In February 1916 Osip Brik published The Backbone Flute in an edition of six hundred poems. 2. Hoffmann: E. T. A. Hoffmann’s fantastic, ghostly tales were extremely popular in Russia. 3. Nevsky: Nevsky Prospect, the main thoroughfare of St. Petersburg. 4. On a crag: In these lines, Mayakovsky is evidently comparing his fate to that of Prometheus, who was chained to a mountain in Mayakovsky’s native Caucasus. 5. Bacchus: Greek God of Wine and Drinking 6. Traviata—(“The Wayward Woman”) an opera by Giuseppi Verdi, composed in 1853 7. Strelka: An island resort on the Gulf of Finland, near St. Petersburg, which was popular meeting-place for the Petersburg upper classes. Sokolniki: This park is a favorite promenade of Muscovites. 8. St. Helena: an island in the Medeterrian Sea, where Napoleon was detained after he had lost the war. 9. Lily: Mayakovsky means Lily Brik. 10. Byalik: Chaim Nachman Byalik (1873-1934), the Hebrew poet, who was a native of the Ukraine. His best-known work in Russian translation was concerned with ancient Jewish lore. 11. Albert: King of Belgium during World War I, when Belgium was almost entirely occupied by the Germans. Check out my poetry here: |
||
| © Copyright 2001 Andrey Kneller - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Startime Member Ascendant
since 2000-10-03
Posts 5918Canada |
This is absolutely stunning. Thank you, so much, for sharing it with me. **hugs**   Love I leave with you whether it is in your life now or yet the essense of your dreams. |
||
|
Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA |
You're welcome... glad u liked it! |
||
Mistletoe Angel 
since 2000-12-17
Posts 32816Portland, Oregon |
 BRAVO!!! Oh my gosh, what a wonderful view of powerful expression through his words from your golden pen!!! I love it, sweet Andrey, this is fantastic! (big hugggsssss) You have such a beautiful heart, sweet Andrey, thank you for sharing it!  May love and light always shine upon you! Love, Noah Eaton |
||
|
Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA |
Thank you for such a warm "Thank you"! I"m glad you liked it. I only wish more people would read this! |
||
Marge Tindal
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
Master~ What beauty from another you've shared with us~ I particularly enjoyed the 'history' of the piece~ You do these well ... now that Mayakovsky was quite the wordy fellow, eh ? Thank you for sharing~ *Hugs* ~*Marge*~ ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~ |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
