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Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé. Èçáðàííûå ñòèõîòâîðåíèÿ. Äâóÿçû÷íàÿ âåðñèÿ (ðóññêèé-àíãëèéñêèé) Ïåðåâîä Àëèêà Âàãàïîâà | ||
šTranslated by Alec Vagapov, 1968 -2014
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1. Ñòèõè î ñîâåòñêîì ïàñïîðòå
2. Ëåâûé
ìàðø
3. Ïàðèæàíêà
4. Òîâàðèùó
Íåòòå, ïàðîõîäó è ÷åëîâåêó
5. Äà¸øü ìàòåðèàëüíóþ
áàçó!
6. Êðàñàâèöû
7. Åøü àíàíàñû, ðÿá÷èêîâ æóé...
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1. The Poem of the Soviet Passport 2. Left March 4. Òî Comrade Nette, the Man and The
Ship 5. Build the
Material Base! 6. The Beauties 7. Eat grouse,
chew pineapples...
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Ñòèõè î ñîâåòñêîì ïàñïîðòå
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Vladimir Mayakovsky
The Poem of the Soviet Passport
(Translated from
the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
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ß âîëêîì áû âûãðûç áþðîêðàòèçì. Ê
ìàíäàòàì ïî÷òåíèÿ íåòó. Ê ëþáûì ÷åðòÿì ñ ìàòåðÿìè êàòèñü ëþáàÿ
áóìàæêà. Íî ýòó... Ïî
äëèííîìó ôðîíòó êóïå è êàþò ÷èíîâíèê ó÷òèâûé äâèæåòñÿ. Ñäàþò
ïàñïîðòà, è ÿ ñäàþ ìîþ ïóðïóðíóþ êíèæèöó. Ê îäíèì
ïàñïîðòàì - óëûáêà ó ðòà. Ê äðóãèì
- îòíîøåíèå ïëåâîå. Ñ
ïî÷òåíüåì áåðóò, íàïðèìåð, ïàñïîðòà ñ äâóõñïàëüíûì àíãëèéñêèì ëåâîþ. Ãëàçàìè äîáðîãî äÿäþ âûåâ, íå
ïåðåñòàâàÿ êëàíÿòüñÿ, áåðóò, êàê áóäòî áåðóò ÷àåâûå, ïàñïîðò àìåðèêàíöà. Íà ïîëüñêèé - ãëÿäÿò, êàê â àôèøó êîçà. Íà ïîëüñêèé - âûïÿëèâàþò
ãëàçà â òóãîé ïîëèöåéñêîé ñëîíîâîñòè - îòêóäà,
ìîë, è ÷òî ýòî çà ãåîãðàôè÷åñêèå
íîâîñòè? È íå
ïîâåðíóâ ãîëîâû êî÷àí è ÷óâñòâ íèêàêèõ íå èçâåäàâ, áåðóò, íå ìîðãíóâ, ïàñïîðòà äàò÷àí è ðàçíûõ ïðî÷èõ øâåäîâ. È âäðóã, êàê áóäòî îæîãîì, ðîò ñêðèâèëî ãîñïîäèíó. Ýòî ãîñïîäèí ÷èíîâíèê áåðåò ìîþ êðàñíîêîæóþ ïàñïîðòèíó. Áåðåò - êàê áîìáó, áåðåò - êàê åæà, êàê
áðèòâó îáîþäîîñòðóþ, áåðåò, êàê ãðåìó÷óþ â 20 æàë çìåþ äâóõìåòðîâîðîñòóþ. Ìîðãíóë ìíîãîçíà÷àùå ãëàç íîñèëüùèêà, õîòü âåùè ñíåñåò çàäàðîì âàì. Æàíäàðì âîïðîñèòåëüíî ñìîòðèò íà ñûùèêà, ñûùèê íà æàíäàðìà. Ñ êàêèì
íàñëàæäåíüåì æàíäàðìñêîé êàñòîé ÿ áûë áû èñõëåñòàí è ðàñïÿò çà òî, ÷òî â ðóêàõ ó ìåíÿ ìîëîòêàñòûé, ñåðïàñòûé ñîâåòñêèé ïàñïîðò. ß âîëêîì
áû âûãðûç áþðîêðàòèçì. Ê
ìàíäàòàì ïî÷òåíèÿ íåòó. Ê ëþáûì ÷åðòÿì ñ ìàòåðÿìè êàòèñü ëþáàÿ
áóìàæêà. Íî ýòó... ß äîñòàþ èç øèðîêèõ øòàíèí äóáëèêàòîì áåñöåííîãî ãðóçà. ×èòàéòå, çàâèäóéòå, ÿ - ãðàæäàíèí Ñîâåòñêîãî
Ñîþçà. 1929 |
I'd root out bureaucracy
once and for ever. I have no respect for formalities. May every paper
go to the devil But for this... A courteous official
passes through The maze of compartments
and halls. They hand in passports,
And I,
too, Hand in my red-skinned pass. Some passports
arouse an obliging smile While others are treated as mud. Say, passports picturing
the British Lion Are taken with special regard. A burly guy from
the Is met with an exorbitant
honor, They take his passport as if they
Were taking a gift of money. The Polish passport
makes them stare Like a sheep might stare at
a Christmas tree: Where does it come from,
this silly and queer Geographical discovery? Without trying to
use their brains, Entirely dead to all feelings, They take quite coldly
passports from Danes And other sorts of
aliens. Suddenly, as if he had
burnt his
mouth, The official stood
stock-still: It's my red passport
fall this bound Into the hands of his majesty. He takes my pass,
as if it were A bomb, a blade or
those sorts of things, He takes it with
extraordinary caution and scare As if it were a snake
with dozens of stings. The porter meaningly
bats his eyes Ready to serve me for
free. The detective looks at
the cop
in surprise, The cop looks at him
inquiringly. I know I'd be fiercely slashed and hanged By this gendarmerie caste Only because I have
got in my hand This hammer-and-sickle
pass. I'd root out bureaucracy once and for ever. I have no respect for formalities. May every paper go
to the devil But for this... This little thing, so
dear to me, I withdraw from my loose pantaloons, Read it and envy me:
I happen to be A citizen of the 1929 |
ËÅÂÛÉ ÌÀÐØ
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Vladimir Mayakovsky
LEFT MARCH
(Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
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Ñëîâåñíîé íå ìåñòî êëÿóçå. Òèøå, îðàòîðû! Âàøå ñëîâî, òîâàðèù ìàóçåð. Äîâîëüíî æèòü çàêîíîì, äàííûì Àäàìîì è Åâîé. Êëÿ÷ó èñòîðèè çàãîíèì. Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Ýé, ñèíåáëóçûå! Ðåéòå! Çà îêåàíû! Èëè ó áðîíåíîñöåâ íà ðåéäå ñòóïëåíû îñòðûå êèëè?! Ïóñòü, îñêàëÿñü êîðîíîé, âçäûìàåò áðèòàíñêèé ëåâ âîé. Êîììóíå íå áûòü ïîêîðåííîé. Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Òàì çà ãîðàìè ãîðÿ ñîëíå÷íûé êðàé íåïî÷àòûé. Çà ãîëîä çà ìîðà ìîðå øàã ìèëëèîíîâ ïå÷àòàé! Ïóñòü áàíäîé îêðóæàò íàíÿòîé, ñòàëüíîé èçëèâàþòñÿ ëååâîé, - Ðîññèè íå áûòü ïîä Àíòàíòîé. Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Ãëàç ëè ïîìåðêíåò îðëèé?  ñòàðîå ñòàíåì ëè ïÿòèòüñÿ? Êðåïè ó ìèðà íà ãîðëå ïðîëåòàðèàòà ïàëüöû! Ãðóäüþ âïåðåä áðàâîé! Ôëàãàìè íåáî îêëåèâàé! Êòî òàì øàãàåò ïðàâîé? Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! Ëåâîé! |
About turn! March! Away with a talk-show. Silence, you speakers! Comrade mauser, you have the floor. Down with the law which for us Adam and Eve have left. We'll ruin the jade of the past. Left! Left! Left! Hey, bluejackets! Be gone! Sail away! Overseas! Or is there anything wrong with the keels of your battleships? May the vigorous British Lion Keep howling, frenzied and chafed. The commune shall not resign. Left! Left! Left! There o'er the hills of sorrow There's a land of the rising sun... For hunger, for the sea of horror, millions, march one by one! May them gang up against us, To all their threats we"ll be deaf, The Entente shall never suppress us. Left! Left! Left! Can the eagle ever get blind? Can they make us swing off the road? Hold your proletarian hand tight on the world's throat! Deck out the sky with drape! March boldly ahead , don"t be late! Who's marching out of step? Left! Left! Left! |
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ÏÀÐÈÆÀÍÊÀ |
Vladimir Mayakovsky
THE PARISIAN WOMAN
(Translated from
the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
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Âû ñåáå ïðåäñòàâëÿåòå ïàðèæñêèõ æåíùèí ñ øååé ðàçæåì÷óæåííîé,
ðàçáðèëëèàíòåííîé ðóêîé... Áðîñüòå ïðåäñòàâëÿòü ñåáå! Æèçíü - æåñò÷å - ó ìîåé ïàðèæàíêè âèä äðóãîé. Íå çíàþ, ïðàâî, ìîëîäà èëè ñòàðà îíà, Äî æåëòèçíû Îòøëèôîâàííàÿ
â ëîùåííîì õàìüå. Ñëóæèò îíà â óáîðíîé ðåñòîðàíà - ìàëåíüêîãî ðåñòîðàíà "Ãðàíä-Øîìüåð". Âûïèâøåãî
áóðãóíäñêîãî ìîæåò çàõîòåòüñÿ äëÿ îáëåã÷åíèÿ ïîéòè ïðîéòèñü. Äåëî ìàäìóàçåëü - ïîäàâàòü ïîëîòåíöå, îíà â ýòîì äåëå ïðîñòî àðòèñò. Ïîêà ó òðþìî ðàçãëÿäûâàåøü ïðûùèê, Îíà ðàçóëûáèâ
îáëóïëåííûé ðîò, ïóäðîé ïîïóäðèò, äóõàìè ïîïðûùåò, ïîäàñò ïèïèôàêñ è ëóæó ïîäîòðåò. Ðàáà ÷ðåâîóãîäèé òîð÷èò áåç ñîëíöà, â êëîçåòíîé øàõòå ïî ñóòêàì êëîïåÿ, çà ïÿòüäåñÿò ñàíòèìîâ (ïî êóðñó ÷åðâîíöà ñ ìóæ÷èíû îêîëî ÷åòûðåõ
êîïååê). Ïîä óìûâàëüíèêîì ëàäîíè îìûâàÿ äûøà äèêîâèíîé ïàðôþìåðíûõ çåëèé, íàä ìàäìóàçåëüþ íåäîóìåâàÿ, õî÷ó ñêàçàòü ìàäìóàçåëè : - Ìàäìóàçåëü, Âàø âèä, èçâèíèòå, æàëîê. Íà óáîðíóþ ìîëîäîñòü ãóáèòü íå æàëêî Âàì? Èëè ìíå íàâðàëè
ïðî ïàðèæàíîê, èëè Âû, ìàäìóàçåëü, íå ïàðèæàíêà. Âûãëÿäèòå Âû òóáåðêóëåçíî è
âÿëî, ×óëêè øåðñòÿíûå... Ïî÷åìó
íå øåëêà? Ïî÷åìó íå øëþò Âàì ïàðìñêèõ ôèàëîê áëàãîðîäíûå ìóñüþ îò ïîëíîãî êîøåëüêà? - Ìàäìóàçåëü ìîë÷àëà,
ãðîõîò íàâàëèâàë íà òðàêòèð, íà ïîòîëîê, íà íàñ. Ýòî, êðóæà âåñåëüå êàðíàâàëîâî, âåñü â ïàðèæàíêàõ ãóäåë Ìîíïàðíàñ. Ïðîñòèòå, ïîæàëóéñòà, çà
ñòèõ ðàñêðåæåùåííûé è çà
îïèñàííûå âîíþ÷èå ëóæè, íî î÷åíü òðóäíî â Ïàðèæå æåíùèíå, åñëè æåíùèíà íå ïðîäàåòñÿ,
à ñëóæèò. |
What is your idea of
a Parisian woman? A jeweled beauty with a gemmed hand? Don't try to fancy!
Life is more gloomy! The Parisian I know
is nothing of the kind. I don't know whether she
is old
or young, In a gloss of finery
impaired by wear She works at the toilet
of a restaurant A little restaurant
called Grande Chamiere. After having a drop
one may have a desire To refresh oneself by taking the air. The woman"s job
is to help with a towel, And she is a conjurer
in this affair. You sit at the mirror
in the toilet-room Watching your pimples
while she,
with a smile, Will powder your face and
put some perfume, Wipe up the pool and
give you a towel. To please the gluttons
she sticks around In the somber lavatory all day long. For fifty centimes! (Which is around Four kopecks for every good turn). I go to the washstand
to wash my hands Inhaling the marvel
of perfumery smell, Her wretched plainness
puzzling my fancy I want to say to the
mademoiselle: Your appearance is far from being pleasing. Why should you spent your life in a toilet? I must have thought
too much
of Parisians Or you are not a Parisian at all. Your manners are languid
and you look unhealthy. The stockings you wear aren't silk but plain. Why don't the moneyed messieurs
present you With bunches of violets now and then? She didn't reply. The
air being rent By a loud street noise
falling
on us That was the noise
of the carnival merriment Of young Parisians in Monte Parnasse. I am sorry for a rigorous
poem like this, For having mentioned
a dirty pool, But it's hard for a
woman to live
in If she has to work, -
not to sell her soul. |
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Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé Òîâàðèùó Íåòòå, |
Vladimir Mayakovsky
Òî Comrade Nette, (Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
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ß íåäàðîì âçäðîãíóë. He çàãðîáíûé âçäîð.  ïîðò, ãîðÿùèé êàê ðàñïëàâëåííîå ëåòî, ðàçâîðà÷èâàëñÿ è âõîäèë òîâàðèù "Òåîäîð Íåòòå".
 áëþäå÷êàõ-î÷êàõ ñïàñàòåëüíûõ êðóãîâ. -- Çäðàâñòâóé, Íåòòå! Êàê ÿ ðàä, ÷òî òû æèâîé äûìíîé æèçíüþ òðóá, êàíàòîâ è êðþêîâ.
Îò Áàòóìà, ÷àé, êîòëàìè ïîêèïåë... Ïîìíèøü, Íåòòå, -- â áûòíîñòü ÷åëîâåêîì òû ïèâàë ÷àè ñî ìíîþ â äèï-êóïå?
Ãëàç êîñÿ â ïå÷àòè ñóðãó÷à, íàïðîëåò áîëòàë î Ðîìêå ßêîáñîíå è ñìåøíî ïîòåë, ñòèõè ó÷à. Çàñûïàë ê óòðó. Êóðîê àæ ïàëåö ñâåë... Ñóíüòåñÿ -- êîìó îõîòà! Äóìàë ëè, ÷òî ÷åðåç ãîä âñåãî âñòðå÷óñü ÿ ñ òîáîþ -- ñ ïàðîõîäîì. Çà êîðìîé ëóíèøà. Íó è çäîðîâî! Çàëåãëà, ïðîñòîðû íàäâîå ïðîðâàâ. Áóäòî íàâåê çà ñîáîé èç áèòâû êîðèäîðîâîé òÿíåøü ñëåä ãåðîÿ, ñâåòåë è êðîâàâ.  êîììóíèçì èç êíèæêè âåðÿò ñðåäíå. "Ìàëî ëè ÷òî ìîæíî â êíèæêå íàìîëîòü!" À òàêîå -- îæèâèò âíåçàïíî "áðåäíè" è ïîêàæåò êîììóíèçìà åñòåñòâî è ïëîòü. Ìû æèâåì, çàæàòûå æåëåçíîé êëÿòâîé. Çà íåå -- íà êðåñò, è ïóëåþ ÷åøèòå: ýòî -- ÷òîáû â ìèðå áåç Ðîññèé, áåç Ëàòâèé, æèòü åäèíûì ÷åëîâå÷üèì îáøåæèòüåì.
 íàøèõ æèëàõ -- êðîâü, à íå âîäèöà. Ìû èäåì ñêâîçü ðåâîëüâåðíûé ëàé, ÷òîáû, óìèðàÿ, âîïëîòèòüñÿ â ïàðîõîäû, â ñòðî÷êè è â äðóãèå äîëãèå äåëà.
Ìíå áû æèòü è æèòü, ñêâîçü ãîäû ì÷àñü. Íî â êîíöå õî÷ó -- äðóãèõ æåëàíèé íåòó -- âñòðåòèòü ÿ õî÷ó ìîé ñìåðòíûé ÷àñ òàê, êàê âñòðåòèë ñìåðòü òîâàðèù Íåòòå. 1926 |
I startled. Then I saw that it was not a dream. Nor was it the fancy of a poet. The "Theodor Nette" turned about to steam Into the port.
Wearing round spectacles of safety buoys. Hello, Nette! I'm so glad that you're alive, A smoky life of funnels, hooks and coils.
You must have traveled, boiling, very far... You remember, when a human being, Having tea with me in a sleeping car?
Squinting at the sealing-wax with half closed eyes. You would talk about Rommie Yakobson And amuse yourself by learning rhymes.
Was there anybody going to pry? Could I think that in a year's time already As a ship you would appear to my eye ?
The vast is divided in two by its light. As if you were dragging the trace of a hero From the scene of a severe naval fight.
There is a lot of rubbish in them as a rule. But this is something that turns all "fibs" to real And reveals the gist of the idea to the full.
And we might as well be hanged and crushed For we want this world to be a common earth Without
We have blood, not water flowing in our body. We are marching through the pistol din So that consequently we might be embodied In a ship, a poem or some other lasting thing.
I would go on living
following my bent. And the only wish that I would dare venture Is that I could meet my latter end Just like comrade Nette met his last adventure. . |
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Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé ÄÀ¨ØÜ ÌÀÒÅÐÈÀËÜÍÓÞ
ÁÀÇÓ! |
Vladimir
Mayakovsky
BUILD THE MATERIAL BASE! (Translated from
the Russian by Alec
Vagapov) |
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Ïóñòü ðîïùóò ïîýòû, ñëþíîþ ïëåùà, ãóáîþ
ïðåçðåíèå âûçìåèâ.
ß, äóøó íå ñíèçèâ, êðè÷ó î âåùàõ, îáÿçàòåëüíûõ
ïðè ñîöèàëèçìå. "Ìíå, òîâàðèùè, ýòàæè
íå â ýòàæè - ìíå óäîáñòâà ïîäàé. Ìíå, òîâàðèùè,
õî÷åòñÿ æèòü íå õóæå, ÷åì æèëè ãîñïîäà. ß âàì, òîâàðèùè, íå äðîçä è íå
ñèíèöà, ìíå è áåç ýòîãî äåëîâ
ìàññó. ß, òîâàðèùè, õî÷ó âîçíîñèòüñÿ, êàê ïîäîáàåò ãîñïîäñòâóþùåìó êëàññó. ß, òîâàðèùè, èç íèùèõ
âûøåë, ìíå íàäîåëî â ãðÿçè ïîáèðàòüñÿ. Ìíå áû, òîâàðèùè,
æèòü
ïîâûøå, ó
ñàìûõ ñîëíå÷íûõ
ïðîòóáåðàíöåâ. Ìû, òîâàðèùè, íå ëîøàäè è íå
äåòè - ñêàêàòü íà øåñòîé, ïîêëàæó
âçâàëèâ?! Ñëîâîì, - âî-ïåðâûõ,
âî-âòîðûõ, è â-òðåòüèõ, - ìíå ïîäàâàéòå ëèôò. À âìåñòî ýòîãî ëèôòà ìíå - ïðûãàòü - ðàáîòà òðåõïîòàÿ! ×åðíûì óãëåì íà
áåëîé ñòåíå âûâåäåíî êðèâî: "Ëèôò ÍÅ
ðàáîòàåò". Âîò òàê æå è ìíîãîå
ïðîòèâíî ãëàçó. - Ïðèìóñà, íàïðèìåð?!
Äîðîãó ãàçó! Ïîðàáîòàâ, æåëàþ ïîìûòüñÿ ñðàçó. Áåãàé - ëèôò ìîøåííèê! Ñëîâîì, äàâàéòå ìàòåðèàëüíóþ
áàçó äëÿ
íîâûõ ñîöèàëèñòè÷åñêèõ
îòíîøåíèé". Ïóñòü ðîïùóò ïîýòû, ñëþíîþ ïëåùà, ãóáîþ ïðåçðåíèå âûçìåèâ.
ß, äóøó íå ñíèçèâ, êðè÷ó î âåùàõ,
îáÿçàòåëüíûõ
ïðè ñîöèàëèçìå. [1929] |
And let them curl their lips like vipers. With a pure heart,
I shout
about What socialism can"t do without.
doesn"t matter, I should say, - conveniences is what I need. I want, dear comrades,
to live the way the bourgeois and masters did. I"m not a thrush for you,
comrades,
nor a tit, I have got things to do, a whole mass. high up in
life, indeed, as it befits the ruling class. I come from lowest class,
I"ve had enough. I hate to beg in dirt, like
all of us. Comrades, I"d rather live right near the Solar
Prominence. comrades,
with load, you bet?! In short, - and thirdly - with a lift instead. Instead of lift, somehow I"ve got to hop and jump - they"d better wait!
somebody wrote In scrawls: " The lift operate!" a
lot of thing Say, primus stoves! get
washed
at
once. run, master of deception! Let's build
taking a chance, And let them curl their lips like vipers. With a pure heart,
I shout
about What socialism can"t
do without. |
|
Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé ÊÐÀÑÀÂÈÖÛ (Ðàçäóìüå íà îòêðûòèè Grand
Opera) |
Vladimir
Mayakovsky THE BEAUTIES ( Meditation on
the opening of Opera House) Translated from
the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
|
 ñìîêèíã âøòîïîðåí, îáíàæàþò |
Slipped into dinner jacket, at Opera House,
like a grandee. During the interval I
see a lot of
beauties. Great! My disposition melted,
I like it here,
really. The waists are cups, The nails are glossy, The painted lips, are Houbigant rosy. The retouch shadows the blue of the
eyes. The backs are the blossom
of salmon, so
nice. Dropping sweep the floor. Keep off, poets, such
beauty,
for you it"s a bore. As she turns her rear you"ll see diamonds in her ear. As she playfully stirs, on the
breast
chinchilla reveals white purls. The dress is like fluff. You
won"t breathe, I bet. Even old walrus is seen dressed in faille and crêpe de Chine. Only the cloud is crêpe Georgette, The brooches glitter ...
you get. if,
along with the dress, she had also a head. |
|
Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé |
Vladimir
Mayakovsky (Translated from
the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
|
*** Åøü àíàíàñû, ðÿá÷èêîâ æóé, Äåíü òâîé ïîñëåäíèé
ïðèõîäèò, áóðæóé. 1917 |
*** Eat grouse, chew pineapples, bourgeois, You are coming to your final day, you are. 1917 |
|
Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé ÄÀ¨ØÜ
ÌÀÒÅÐÈÀËÜÍÓÞ ÁÀÇÓ!
|
Vladimir
Mayakovsky
BUILD THE MATERIAL BASE! (Translated from
the Russian by Alec Vagapov) |
|
Ïóñòü ðîïùóò ïîýòû, ñëþíîþ ïëåùà, ãóáîþ
ïðåçðåíèå âûçìåèâ.
ß, äóøó íå ñíèçèâ, êðè÷ó î âåùàõ, îáÿçàòåëüíûõ
ïðè ñîöèàëèçìå. "Ìíå, òîâàðèùè, ýòàæè
íå â ýòàæè - ìíå óäîáñòâà ïîäàé. Ìíå, òîâàðèùè,
õî÷åòñÿ æèòü íå õóæå, ÷åì æèëè ãîñïîäà. ß âàì, òîâàðèùè, íå äðîçä è íå
ñèíèöà, ìíå è áåç ýòîãî äåëîâ
ìàññó. ß, òîâàðèùè, õî÷ó âîçíîñèòüñÿ, êàê ïîäîáàåò ãîñïîäñòâóþùåìó êëàññó. ß, òîâàðèùè, èç íèùèõ
âûøåë, ìíå íàäîåëî â ãðÿçè ïîáèðàòüñÿ. Ìíå áû, òîâàðèùè, æèòü
ïîâûøå, ó
ñàìûõ ñîëíå÷íûõ
ïðîòóáåðàíöåâ. Ìû, òîâàðèùè, íå ëîøàäè è íå
äåòè - ñêàêàòü íà øåñòîé, ïîêëàæó
âçâàëèâ?! Ñëîâîì, - âî-ïåðâûõ,
âî-âòîðûõ, è â-òðåòüèõ, - ìíå ïîäàâàéòå ëèôò. À âìåñòî ýòîãî ëèôòà ìíå - ïðûãàòü - ðàáîòà òðåõïîòàÿ! ×åðíûì óãëåì íà
áåëîé ñòåíå âûâåäåíî êðèâî: "Ëèôò ÍÅ
ðàáîòàåò". Âîò òàê æå è ìíîãîå
ïðîòèâíî ãëàçó. - Ïðèìóñà, íàïðèìåð?!
Äîðîãó ãàçó! Ïîðàáîòàâ, æåëàþ ïîìûòüñÿ ñðàçó. Áåãàé - ëèôò ìîøåííèê! Ñëîâîì, äàâàéòå ìàòåðèàëüíóþ
áàçó äëÿ
íîâûõ ñîöèàëèñòè÷åñêèõ
îòíîøåíèé". Ïóñòü ðîïùóò ïîýòû, ñëþíîþ ïëåùà, ãóáîþ ïðåçðåíèå âûçìåèâ.
ß, äóøó íå ñíèçèâ, êðè÷ó î âåùàõ,
îáÿçàòåëüíûõ
ïðè ñîöèàëèçìå. [1929] |
And let them curl their lips like vipers. With a pure heart,
I shout
about What socialism can"t do without.
doesn"t matter, I should say, - conveniences is what I need. I want, dear comrades,
to live the way the bourgeois and masters did. I"m not a thrush for you,
comrades,
nor a tit, I have got things to do, a whole mass. high up in
life, indeed, as it befits the ruling class. I come from lowest class, I"ve had enough. I hate to beg in dirt, like all of us. Comrades, I"d rather live right by the side of Solar
Prominence.
comrades,
with load, you said?! In short, - and thirdly, - with
a lift instead. Instead of lift, somehow I"ve got to hop and jump - they"d better wait!
somebody wrote In scrawls: " The lift operate!" a
lot of thing Say, primus stoves! get
washed
at once. run, master of deception! Let's build
taking a chance, And let them curl their lips like
vipers. With a pure heart,
I shout
about What socialism can"t do without. |
|
Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé ÊÐÀÑÀÂÈÖÛ (Ðàçäóìüå íà îòêðûòèè Grand
Opera) |
Vladimir
Mayakovsky BEAUTIES ( Meditation on
the opening of Opera House) Translated from
the Russian by Alec
Vagapov) |
|
 ñìîêèíã âøòîïîðåí, îáíàæàþò |
Slipped into dinner jacket, at Opera House, like a grandee. During the interval I
see
a lot of beauties. Great! My disposition melted,
I like it here, really. The waists are cups, The nails are glossy, The painted lips, are Houbigant rosy. The retouch shadows the
blue of the eyes, the backs are the blossom
of salmon,
so nice. Dropping sweep the floor. Keep off, poets, such
beauty,
for you it"s a bore. As she turns her rear you"ll see diamonds in her ear. As she playfully stirs, on the
breast chinchilla reveals white
purls. The dress is like fluff. You won"t breathe, I bet. Even old walrus is
seen dressed up in faille and
crêpe de Chine. Only the cloud is crêpe Georgette. The brooches glitter ... from half-naked dress
you get. if,
along with the dress, she had also a head. |
|