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A Cloud in Trousers (long)
| Open Poetry #21 |
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A Cloud in Trousers (long) |
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Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA 
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*This is a translation from Russian of a poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky. I've put together a book of translations that I'm trying to publish now, and this is one of translations. I know that it's long, but it's worth it.. give it a chance. I hope you like it... I welcome suggestions and/or critique! Thanks A Cloud in Trousers Prologue Your thought, Fantasizing on a sodden brain, Like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch sprawling, -- With my heart’s bloody tatters, I’ll mock it again. Until I’m contempt, I’ll be ruthless and galling. There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me, There are no gray hairs in my soul! Shaking the world with my voice and grinning, I pass you by, -- handsome, Twentytwoyearold. 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? Come and learn-- You, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues! Step out of those cambric drawing-rooms And you, who can leaf your lips Like a cook turns 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. Part I You think I’m delirious with malaria? This happened. In Odessa, this happened. “I’ll come at four,” promised Maria. Eight... Nine... Ten. Soon after, The evening, Frowning, And Decemberish, Left the windows And vanished in dire darkness. Behind me, I hear the neighing and laughter Of candelabras. You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior: A bulk of sinews Moaning, Fidgeting. What can such a clod desire? But a clod desires many things. Because for oneself it doesn’t matter Whether you’re cast of copper Or whether the heart is cold metal. At night, you want to wrap your clamor In something feminine, Gentle. And thus, Enormous, I hunch in the frame, And with my forehead, I melt the window glass. Will this love be tremendous or lame? Will it sustain or pass? A big one wouldn’t fit a body like this: It must be a little love, -- a baby, sort of, It shies away when the cars honk and hiss, But adores the bells on the horse-tram. I come face to face With the rippling rain, Yet once more, And wait Splashed by the city surf’s thundering roar. Running amok with a knife outside, The night caught up to him And stabbed him, Unseen. The stroke of midnight Fell like a head from a guillotine. The silver raindrops on the windowpane Were piling a grimace And yelling. It was as if the gargoyles of Notre Dame Started yelping. Damn you! Haven’t you had enough yet? Cries will soon cut my throat all around. I heard: Softly, Like a patient out of his bed, A nerve leapt Down. At first, He barely moved. Then, apprehensive And distinct, He started prancing. And now, he and another two, Darted about, step-dancing. On the ground floor, the plaster was falling fast. Nerves, Big ones Little ones,-- Various! -- Galloped madly Until, at last, Their legs wouldn’t carry them. The night oozed through the room and sank. Stuck in slime, the eye couldn’t slither out of it. Suddenly the doors started to bang As if the hotel’s teeth were chattering. You entered, Abrupt like “Take it!”, Mauling suede gloves, you tarried, And said: “You know,-- I’m soon getting married.” Get married then. It’s all right, I can handle it. You see -- I’m calm, of course! Like the pulse Of a corpse. Remember? You used to say: “Jack London, Money, Love and ardor,”-- I saw one thing only: You were La Gioconda, Which had to be stolen! And someone stole you. 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! You’re mocking me? “You’ve fewer emeralds of madness than a beggar kopecks, there’s no disproving this!” But remember Pompeii came to end thus When somebody teased Vesuvius! Hey! Gentlemen! You care for Sacrilege, Crime And war. But have you seen The frightening terror Of my face When It’s Perfectly calm? And I feel- “I” Is too small to fit me. Someone inside me is getting smothered. 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. People sniff-- Something’s burned down. They call the firemen. In glittering helmets, They carelessly start intruding. Hey, tell the firemen: No boots allowed! With a sizzling heart one has to be prudent. I’ll do it! I’ll pump my watery eyes into containers. Just let me push off my ribs and I’ll start. I’ll leap out! I’ll leap out! You can’t restrain me! They’ve collapsed. You can’t leap out of the heart! From the cracks of the lips, A cindering kiss springs, Running away from the smoldering face. Mother! I can’t sing. In the heart’s chapel, the choir was set ablaze! The figurines of words and numbers From the skull, Like kids from a burning building, scurry. Thus fear, Reaching up to the sky, called And raised Lusitania’s fiery arms with worry. A hundred-eyed blaze looked into the peace Of apartments, where the people perspired. With a final outcry, Will you moan, at least, To report to the centuries that I’m on fire? Part II Glorify me! The great ones are no match for me! Upon everything that’s been done I stamp the word “naught.” As of now, I have no desire to read. Novels? So what! This is how books are made, I used to think: -- Along comes a poet, And opens his lips with ease. Inspired, the fool simply begins to sing -- Oh please! It turns out: Before they can sing with elation, On their calloused feet they tramp for some time, While the brainless fishes of imagination Are splashing and wallowing in the heart’s slime. And while, hissing with rhymes, they boil All the loves and the nightingales in a broth-like liquid, The tongueless street merely squirms and coils -- It has nothing to yell or even speak with. In our pride, we work all day with goodwill And the city towers of Babel are again restored. But God Grinds These cites into empty fields, Stirring the word. In silence, the street dragged on the ordeal. A scream stood erect on the gullet’s road. While fat taxies and cabs were bristling still, Wedged in the throat. As if from consumption, The trodden chest gasped for air. The city, with gloom, blocked the road rather fast. And when -- Nevertheless! -- The street coughed up the strain onto the square And pushed the portico off its throat, at last, It seemed as if, Accompanied by the choirs of an archangel’s chorus, Recently robbed, God would show us His heat! But the street squatted down and yelled out coarsely: “Let’s go eat!” The Krupps and the Krupplets gather around To paint menacing brows on the city, While in the gorge Corpses of words are scatted about,-- Two live and thrive,-- “Swine” And another one,-- I believe “borsch”. And poets, soaking in sobs and complaining, Run from the street, resentful and sour: “With those two words there’s no way to portray now A beautiful lady, Or love Or a dew-covered flower.” And after the poets, Thousands of others stampeded: Students, Prostitutes, Salesmen. Gentlemen, Stop! You are not the needy; So how dare you to beg them, gentlemen! Covering yards with each stride, We are healthy and ardent! Don’t listen to them, but thrash them instead! Them, Who are stuck like a free add-on To each double bed! Are we to ask them humbly: “Help us, please!” Imploring them for hymns And oratorios? We are the creators with the burning hymns To the hum of the mills and laboratories. Why should I care about Faust? In a fairy display of the fireworks’ loot, He’s gliding with Mephistopheles on the parquet of galaxies! I know-- A nail in my boot Is more frightening than Goethe’s fantasies! I am The most golden-mouthed, With every word I am giving The body a name-day, And the soul a rebirth, I assure you: The minutest speck of the living Is worth more than all that I’ll ever do on this earth! Listen! The present-day Zarathustra, Wet with sweat, Is dashing around you and preaching here. We, With faces crumpled like a bed spread, With lips sagging like a chandelier, We, The Leprous City detainees, Where, from filth and gold, lepers’ sores were raised, We are purer than the Venetian azure seas, Washed by the sunshine’s balmy rays. I spit on the fact That Homer and Ovid didn’t create Soot-covered with pox, Men like us all, But at the same time, I know That the sun would fade If it looked at the golden fields of our souls. Muscles are surer than prayers to us! We won’t pray for aid any more! We-- Each one of us-- Holds in his grasp The driving reins of the world! This led to Golgotha in the auditoriums Of Petrograd, Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, And there wasn’t one of you Who wasn’t imploring thus: “Crucify him!” Teach him a lesson!” But to me,-- People, Even those of you who were mean,-- To me, you are dear and I love you with passion. Haven’t you seen A dog licking the hand that it’s being thrashed by? I am laughed at By the present-day tribe. They’ve made A scabrous joke out of me. But I can see crossing the mountains of time, Him, whom the others can’t see. Where men’s sight falls short, Wearing the revolutions’ thorny crown, Leading at the head of the hungry horde, The year 1916 is coming around. Among you, his precursor, Wherever there’s pain, I’ll be near. I have nailed myself to the cross there, On every single drop of a tear. There’s nothing left to pardon now! In souls that bred pity, I burnt out the fields. That is much harder than Taking a thousand thousands of Bastilles. And when His advent announcing, Joyful and proud, You’ll step up to greet the savior-- I will drag My soul outside, And trample it Until it spreads out! And give it to you, red in blood, as a flag. Part III Ah, how and wherefrom Did it come to this That the dirty fists of madness Against the luminous joy were raised in the air? She came,-- The thought of a madhouse And curtained my head with despair. And As in the Dreadnought’s downfall With chocking spasms The men jumped into the hatch, before the ship died, The crazed Burlyuk crawled on, passing Through the screaming gaps of his eye. Almost bloodying his eyelids, He emerged on his knees, Stood up and walked And in the passionate mood, With tenderness, unexpected from one so obese, He simply said: “Good!” It’s good when from scrutiny a yellow sweater Hides the soul! It’s good when On the gibbet, in the face of terror, You shout: “Drink Cocoa -- Van Houten!” This moment, Like a Bengal light, Crackling from the blast, I wouldn’t exchange for anything, Not for any money. Clouded by cigar smoke, And stretching like a liquor glass, One could make out the drunken face of Severyanin. How dare you call yourself a poet And gray, like a quail, twitter away your soul! When With brass knuckles This very moment You have to split the world’s skull! You, With one thought alone in your head, “Am I dancing with style?” Look how happy I am Instead, I,-- 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. I’ll wear colorful clothes, the most outlandish And roam the earth To please and scorch the public, And in front of me, On a metal leash, Napoleon will run like a little puppy. Like a woman, quivering, the earth will lie down, Wanting to give in, she will slowly slump. Things will come alive And from all around, Their lips will lisp: “Yum-yum-yum-yum-yum!” Suddenly, The clouds And other stuff in the air Stirred in some astonishing commotion, As if the workers in white, up there, Declared a strike, all bitter and emotional. The savage thunder peeked out of the cloud, irate. Snorting from huge nostrils, it howled And for a moment, the face of the sky bent out of shape, Resembling the iron Bismarck’s scowl. And someone, Entangled in the clouds’ maze, To the café, stretched out his hand now: Both, tender somehow, And with a womanly face, And at once, like a firing cannon. You think That’s the sun above the attics Gently stretching to caress the cheeks of the café? No, advancing again to slaughter the radicals It’s General Galliffet! Take your hands out of your pockets, wanderers - Pick up a bomb, a knife or a stone And if one happens to be armless, Let him come to fight with his forehead alone! Go on, starving, Servile And abused ones, In this flea-swarming filth, do not rot! Go on! We’ll turn Mondays and Tuesdays Into holidays, painting them with blood! Remind the earth whom it tried to debase! With your knives be rough! The earth Has grown fat like the mistress’ face, Whom Rothschild had over-loved! May the flags flutter in the line of fire As they do on holidays, with a flare! Hey, street-lamps, raise the traders up higher, Let their carcasses hang in the air. I cursed, Stabbed And hit in the face, Crawled after somebody, Biting into their ribs. In the sky, red like La Marseillaise, The sunset gasped with its shuddering lips. It’s insanity! Not a thing will remain from the war. The night will come, Bite into you And swallow you stale. Look-- Is the sky playing Judas once more, With a handful of stars that were soaked in betrayal? The night, Like Mamai, feasted with delight, Crushing the city with its bottom’s heft. Our eyes won’t be able break through this night, As black as Azef! Slumped in the corner of the saloon, I sit, Spilling wine on my soul and the floor, And I see: In the corner, round eyes are lit And with them, Madonna bites the heart’s core. Why bestow such radiance on this drunken mass? What do they have to offer? You see – once again, They prefer Barabbas Over the Man of Golgotha? Maybe, deliberately, In the human mash, not once Do I wear a fresh-looking face. I am, Perhaps, The handsomest of your sons In the whole human race. Give them, The ones molded with delight, A quick death already, So that their children may grow up right; Boys -- into fathers Girls -- into pregnant ladies. Like the wise men, let the new born babes Grow gray with insight and thought And they’ll come To baptize the infants with names Of the poems I wrote. I praise the machine and the industrial Britain. In some ordinary, common gospel, It may perhaps, be written That I’m the thirteenth apostle. And when my voice rumbles bawdily, Every evening, For hours and hours, awaiting my call, Jesus, Himself, may be sniffling The forget-me-nots of my soul. Part IV Maria! Maria! Let me in, Maria! Don’t leave me out on the street! You can’t? My cheeks cave in, But you wait ruthlessly. Soon, sampled by everyone, Stale and pallid, I’ll come out And mumble toothlessly That today I’m “Remarkably candid.” Maria, You see-- My shoulders are drooping again. In the streets, the men Prick the fat in their four-story craws. They show their eyes, Worn out in the forty years of despair, and restless- They snicker because In my teeth, Again, I hold the hardened crust of last night’s caresses. The rain wept over the sidewalks, -- That puddle-imprisoned fraudster. The corpse of the street, clobbered by cobbles, soaked in its cries. But the gray lashes-- Yes! -- The eyelashes of icicles became frosted With tears from the eyes-- Yes! -- From the drainpipes’ overcast eyes. Every pedestrian was licked by the rain’s snout: Athletes glistened in the carriages on the street. People burst Overstuffed, And their fat oozed out. Like a muddy river, it streamed on the ground, Together with juices from A cud of old meat. Maria! How can I fit a tender word into bulging ears? A bird Sings for alms With a hungry voice Rather well, But I am a man, Maria, Coughed up by the ailing night into Presnya’s filthy palms. Maria, do you want me? Maria, take me in, please. With shivering fingers I’ll squeeze the iron throat of the bell! Maria! The pastures of streets turn wild and loud! They’re squeezing my neck and I’m almost collapsing. Open! I’m hurt! Look - my eyes are pricked out By the common womanly hatpins! You’ve opened the door. My child! Oh, don’t be alarmed! You see 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 If betraying the vow Of honesty, Seeing a thousand pretty faces, I’ll throw myself at them, -- “Those, who love Mayakovsky!”- Please, understand that that is the dynasty Of the queens, who have mounted the heart of a madman. Maria, closer! Whether naked and shameless, Or shivering in dismay, Yield the wonder of your lips, so gentle: My heart and I have never lived until May, But in my past, A hundreds of Aprils assembled. Maria! A poet sings praises to Tiana all day, 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 He conceived in a restless night, Equal to God in effect. Your body I shall continue to love and treasure As a soldier Amputated by war, Alone And unwanted, Cherishes his remaining leg. Maria, -- You won’t have me? You won’t! Ha! Then gloomy and dismal, Once more, I shall carry My tear-stained heart Forward, Like a dog, Limping, Carries the paw That the speeding train had ran over. With the blood from the heart I cheer the road that 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. And when my years, at their very end, Will finish their dance and wrinkle, A million bloodstains will spread The path to my Father’s kingdom. I’ll climb out Filthy (sleeping in gullies all night), And into his ears, I’ll whisper While I stand At his side: “Mister God, listen! Isn’t it tedious To dip your generous eyes into clouds Every day, every evening? Let’s, instead, Start a festive merry-go-round On the tree of knowledge of good and evil! Omnipresent, you’ll be all around us! From the wine, all the fun will ensue And Apostle Peter, who’s always been frowning, Will perform the fast-paced dance -- ki-ka-pu. We’ll bring all the Eves back into Eden: Order me And I’ll go-- From the boulevards, I’ll pick up all the pretty girls needed And bring them to you! Should I? No? You’re shaking your curly head coarsely? You’re knitting your brows like you’re rough? Do you think That this Winged one, close by, Knows the meaning of love? I too am an angel; used to be one before-- With a sugar lamb’s eye, I stared at your faces, But I don’t want to give presents to mares anymore, -- All the torture of Sevres that’s been made into vases. 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?! I thought that you were the Great God, Almighty But you’re a miniature idol, -- a dunce in a suit, Bending over, I’m already reaching For the knife that I’m hiding At the top of my boot. You, swindlers with wings, Huddle in fright! Ruffle your shuddering feathers, rascals! You, reeking of incense, I’ll open you wide, From here all the way to Alaska. Let me go! You can’t stop me! Whether I’m right or wrong Makes no difference, I will not be calmer. Look, -- The stars were beheaded all night long And the sky is again bloody with slaughter. Hey you, Heaven! Take your hat off, When you see me near! Silence. The universe sleeps. Placing its paw Under the black, star-infested ear. 1914-1915 Check out my poetry here: http://www.unknownpoets.com/db/authors/master [This message has been edited by Master (07-15-2002 07:08 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2002 Andrey Kneller - All Rights Reserved | |||
Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
Master~ Every time I read you ... I learn~ This is a marvelous piece of work ... all of it~ The man was certainly talented ... and I've got you to thank for introducing me to his work~ 'I come face to face With the rippling rain, Yet once more, And wait Splashed by the city surf’s thundering roar. Running amok with a knife outside, The night caught up to him And stabbed him, Unseen.' Your translations should be read by others ... and I wish you the best in your publishing endeavors~ *Hugs* ~*Marge*~ ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~ |
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Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA |
Thanks Marge! I truly appreciate your comments... I've already found a publisher who was interested in the project, and I've sent in the manuscript about a week ago. So I'm anxiously waiting to hear from them. Wish me luck! :) Check out my poetry here: |
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