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    Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé. Èçáðàííûå ñòèõîòâîðåíèÿ. Äâóÿçû÷íàÿ âåðñèÿ (ðóññêèé-àíãëèéñêèé) Ïåðåâîä Àëèêà Âàãàïîâà

Vladimir Mayakovsky

šTranslated by Alec Vagapov, 1968 -2014

 

 

 

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...

 

 

 

 

1.      The Poem of the Soviet Passport

2.      Left March

3.      The Parisian Woman

4.      Òî Comrade Nette, the Man and The Ship

5.      Build the Material Base!

6.      The Beauties

7.       Eat grouse, chew pineapples...

 

 

 

 

Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé

Ñòèõè î ñîâåòñêîì ïàñïîðòå

 

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

The Poem of the Soviet Passport

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

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 USA

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 Soviet Union.

 

1929

 

 




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé

 

ËÅÂÛÉ ÌÀÐØ

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

LEFT MARCH

 (Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

Ðàçâîðà÷èâàéòåñü â ìàðøå!

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!

 

 

Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé

 

ÏÀÐÈÆÀÍÊÀ

 

Vladimir Mayakovsky

THE PARISIAN WOMAN

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

 

 

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 Paris

If she has to work, -

                                       not to sell her soul.

 

 

 

 

Âëàäèìèð Ìàÿêîâñêèé

 

Òîâàðèùó Íåòòå,
ïàðîõîäó è ÷åëîâåêó

Vladimir Mayakovsky

Òî Comrade Nette,
  the Man and The Ship

 

(Translated from the Russian

by Alec Vagapov)

 

              

ß íåäàðîì âçäðîãíóë. He çàãðîáíûé âçäîð.

 ïîðò, ãîðÿùèé êàê ðàñïëàâëåííîå ëåòî,

ðàçâîðà÷èâàëñÿ è âõîäèë òîâàðèù "Òåîäîð

Íåòòå".


Ýòî -- îí. ß óçíàþ åãî.

 áëþäå÷êàõ-î÷êàõ ñïàñàòåëüíûõ êðóãîâ.

-- Çäðàâñòâóé, Íåòòå! Êàê ÿ ðàä, ÷òî òû æèâîé

äûìíîé æèçíüþ òðóá, êàíàòîâ è êðþêîâ.


Ïîäîéäè ñþäà! Òåáå íå ìåëêî?

Îò Áàòóìà, ÷àé, êîòëàìè ïîêèïåë...

Ïîìíèøü, Íåòòå, -- â áûòíîñòü ÷åëîâåêîì

òû ïèâàë ÷àè ñî ìíîþ â äèï-êóïå?


Ìåäëèë òû. Çàõðàïûâàëè ñîíè.

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.


I have recognized him. He arrived

Wearing round spectacles of safety buoys.

Hello, Nette! I'm so glad that you're alive,

A smoky life of funnels, hooks and coils.


Now come here. How's everything?

You must have traveled, boiling, very far...

You remember, when a human being,

Having tea with me in a sleeping car?


People snored while you sat up till morn.

Squinting at the sealing-wax with half closed eyes.

You would talk about Rommie Yakobson

And amuse yourself by learning rhymes.


You'd fall asleep at dawn, revolver at the ready.

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 ?


Big and bright is the moon that shines in your rear,

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.


We don't believe in communism from the books we read

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.


We are living bound by an iron oath,

And we might as well be hanged and crushed

For we want this world to be a common earth

Without Latvias and without Russias.



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.

.

 

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]

 


 Let poets grumble,
                             and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

                                            like vipers.

With a pure heart,

                                  I shout

                                         about

What socialism can"t do without.


"The floor I live on

                                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.
I want to rise

                     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 
                                         high up above,

right near

                 the  Solar

                               Prominence.
We are neither horses,

                                    comrades,
                                                  nor children, really,
 Riding a horse

                         with  load,

                                          you bet?!

  In short, -
                you,  firstly,
                                  secondly

                                                and thirdly -
 provide me 

                    with a lift instead.

 

Instead of  lift,

                 somehow I"ve got

to hop and jump -

                               they"d better wait!
 On the white wall

                              somebody wrote
                                  

In scrawls: " The lift
                              WON"T

                                           operate!"
Likewise,

              a lot of thing
                                    are just disgusting.

Say, primus stoves!
                                Make way to gas!
 And after work

                         get washed                                  

                                         at once.
Run, lift,

               run, master of deception!

Let's build
                 material base,

                                       taking a chance,
 for brand-new
                     socialist relations".
 
  Let poets grumble,
                             and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

                                            like vipers.

With a pure heart,

                                  I shout

                                         about

What socialism

                             can"t do without.

                                                  
  [ 1929 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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,
                            ïîáðèò ÷òî íàäî.
Ïî ãðàíä
           ïî îïåðå
                      ãóëÿþ ãðàíäîì.

Ñìîòðþ
        â àíòðàêòå -
                        êðàñàâêà íà êðàñàâèöå.
Ðàçìÿê õàðàêòåð -
                         âñå ìíå
                                   íðàâèòñÿ.
Òàëèè -
        êóáêè.
Íîãòè -
        â ãëÿíöå.
Êðàøåíûå ãóáêè
                         ðîçîé óáèãàíÿòñÿ.
Ðåòóøü -
        ó ãëàçà.
Îòòåíÿåò ñèíü åãî.
Ñïèíû
      èç ãàçà
öâåòà ëîñîñèíüåãî.
Óïàäàÿ
        ñ âûñîòû,
ïîë
    ìåòóò
         øëåéôû.
Îò òàêîé
         êðàñîòû
                  ñòîðîíèòåñü, ðåôû.
Ïîâåðíåò -
          â áðèëüÿíòàõ óøè.
Ïîøåâåëèòñÿ øàëÿ -
                                 íà ãðóäèíêå
                                                   ðÿä æåì÷óæèí

îáíàæàþò
            øèíøèëÿ.
Ïëàòüå -
        ïóõîì.
               Íå äûøè.
Àæ  íà ñòàðîì
                 íà ìîðæå
òîëüêî ôàé
          äà êðåïäåøèí,
òîëüêî
       îáëàêî æîðæåò.
Áðîøêè -  áëåùóò...
                          íà òåáå!-
ñ ïëàòüÿ
          ñ ïîëóãîëîãî.
Ýõ,
   ê òàêîìó ïëàòüþ áû
äà åùå áû...
             ãîëîâó.

1929

 

 

 Slipped into dinner jacket,
                                         perfectly shaved,
I am

        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
               from height,
the trains

             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 ...
                                   now there you are!..-
from half-naked  dress

                                   you get.
But it  would be best

                        if, along with the dress,

she had also

                    a head.

 
1929

 

 

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]

 

 


 Let poets grumble,
                             and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

                                            like vipers.

With a pure heart,

                                  I shout

                                         about

What socialism can"t do without.


"The floor I live on

                                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.
I want to rise

                     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 
                                         high up above,

right by the side of

                             Solar

                                    Prominence.

 

 


We are neither horses,

                                    comrades,
                                                  nor children, really,
 Riding a horse

                         with  load,

                                          you said?!

  In short, -
                you"d better  firstly,
                                             secondly

                                                       and thirdly, -
 provide me 

                    with a lift instead.

 

Instead of  lift,

                 somehow I"ve got

to hop and jump -

                               they"d better wait!
 On the white wall

                              somebody wrote
                                  

In scrawls: " The lift
                              WON"T

                                           operate!"
Likewise,

              a lot of thing
                                    are just disgusting.

Say, primus stoves!
                                Make way to gas!
 And after work

                         get washed                                  

                                         at once.
Run, lift,

               run, master of deception!

Let's build
                 material base,

                                       taking a chance,
 for brand-new
                     socialist relations".
 
  Let poets grumble,
                             and splutter  playing pipers,

 And let them curl their lips

                                            like vipers.

With a pure heart,

                                  I shout

                                         about

What socialism

                             can"t do without.

                                                  
  [ 1929 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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,
                            ïîáðèò ÷òî íàäî.
Ïî ãðàíä
              ïî îïåðå
                            ãóëÿþ ãðàíäîì.

Ñìîòðþ
             â àíòðàêòå -
                              êðàñàâêà íà êðàñàâèöå.
Ðàçìÿê õàðàêòåð -
                         âñå ìíå
                                   íðàâèòñÿ.
Òàëèè -
           êóáêè.
Íîãòè -
            â ãëÿíöå.
Êðàøåíûå ãóáêè
                        ðîçîé óáèãàíÿòñÿ.
Ðåòóøü -
             ó ãëàçà.
Îòòåíÿåò ñèíü åãî.
Ñïèíû
           èç ãàçà
öâåòà ëîñîñèíüåãî.
Óïàäàÿ
        ñ âûñîòû,
ïîë
    ìåòóò
         øëåéôû.
Îò òàêîé
         êðàñîòû
                  ñòîðîíèòåñü, ðåôû.
Ïîâåðíåò -
          â áðèëüÿíòàõ óøè.
Ïîøåâåëèòñÿ øàëÿ -
                                 íà ãðóäèíêå
                                                   ðÿä æåì÷óæèí

îáíàæàþò
            øèíøèëÿ.
Ïëàòüå -
        ïóõîì.
               Íå äûøè.
Àæ  íà ñòàðîì
                 íà ìîðæå
òîëüêî ôàé
          äà êðåïäåøèí,
òîëüêî
       îáëàêî æîðæåò.
Áðîøêè -  áëåùóò...
                          íà òåáå!-
ñ ïëàòüÿ
          ñ ïîëóãîëîãî.
Ýõ,
   ê òàêîìó ïëàòüþ áû
äà åùå áû...
             ãîëîâó.

1929

Slipped into dinner jacket,
                                         perfectly shaved,
I am

        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
               from height,
the trains

             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 ...
                                   now there you are! -

from half-naked  dress

                                   you get.
But it  would be best

                        if, along with the dress,

she had also

                    a head.

 
1929

 


Îöåíêà: 4.58*6  Âàøà îöåíêà:

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