Mayakovsky, Vladimir; George Reavey (tr.); Max Hayward (tr.); Patricia Blake (intro);
The bedbug [a play] and selected poetry
Meridian Books / World Publishing Co 1960/1984 (Paperback 318 pages)
ISBN 9780253311306 / 0253311306
topics: | drama | poetry | russia
[Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky] (1893--1930) is no doubt one of the most influential (and controversial) of modern Russian poets. His fierce defence of the Soviet system alienated him to many Russians (particularly the large and influential emigre community), and his lifestyle of utter excess fringing on megalomania does little to endear him. However, many of his poems, such as Conversation with a tax collector about poetry retain an undeniable power. Mayakovsky is also a pioneer in creative writing pedagogy, and often conducted "How to write verse" lectures, using his own poems as exemplars. The introductory biography by Patricia Blake is full of Mayakovsky's exotic quirks, including an episode where he disrupted an official dinner and prevented a minister and an ambassador from speaking (by yelling outrageously), and reduced a visiting Finn dignitary to epileptic paroxysms of "too much... too much... "
Also describes a series of cruel acts against lovers, including a 17-year girl who commits suicide three years after estrangement - and then Mayakovsky incorporates her suicide into a plot. In another episode, noted dissolute neo-romantic poet, Sergei Esenin committed suicide in 1925, by slashing his wrists and writing a farewell poem in his own blood; a day later he finally hanged himself. Two lines from the poem: in this life to die is nothing new and, in truth, to live is not much newer. Mayakovsky's "most famous act of cruelty" was in response to these lines, in the poem To Sergei Esenin, where he counters: In this life it is not hard to die, to mold life is more difficult A year later, in a lecture titled "How to make verse", he used To Sergei Esenin as an example, and elaborated on his purpose behind writing it: to deliberately paralyze the action of Esenin's last lines... the wroking class needs strength in order to continue the revolution which demands... that we glorify life and the joy that is to be found along that most difficult of roads -- the road towards communism." (from _How to make verse_, 1926 [At the time, Mayakovsky was a noted "communist poet", posited the Lef conception of poetry (to work in accordance with "social demand"), here the poetry of self-expression has no place. ] [as a matter of interest, the farewell note by Esenin goes: Goodbye, dear friend, goodbye My love, you are in my heart. It was preordained we should part And be reunited by and by. Goodbye: no handshake to endure. Let's have no sadness furrowed brow. In this life to die is nothing new and, in truth, to live, is not much newer. [Dec 1925]
Citizen tax collector! Forgive my botheing you ... Thank you ... don't worry ... I'll stand ... My business is of a delicate nature: about the plate of the poet in the workers' ranks. Along with owners of stores and property I'm made subject to taxes and penalties. You demand I pay five hundered for the half year and twenty-five for failing to send in my returns. Now my work is like any other work. Look here -- how much I've lost, what expenses I have in my production and how much I spend on materials. You know, of course, about "rhyme." Suppose a line ends with the word "day," and then, repeating the syllables in the third line we insert something like "tarara-boom-de-day." In your idiom rhyme is a bill of exchange to be honoured in the third line! --- that's the rule. And so you hunt for the small change of suffixes and flections in the depleted cashbox of conjugations and declensions. You start shoving a word into the line, but it's a tight fit -- you press it and it breaks. Citizen tax collector, honestly, the poet spends a fortune on words In our idiom rhyme is a keg. A keg of dynamite. The line is a fuse. The line burns to the end and explodes and the town is blown sky-high ?? in a strophe. Where can you find, and at what price, rhymes that take aim and kill on the spot? Suppose only half a dozen unheard-of rhymes were left, in, say, Venezuela. And so I'm drawn to North and South. I rush around entangled in advances and loans. Citizen! Consider my traveling expenses.
-- all of it! -- is a journey to the unknown. Poetry is like mining radium. For every gram you work a year. For the sake of a single word you waste a thousand tons of verbal ore. But now incendiary the burning of these words compared with the smoldering of the raw material. These words will move millions of hearts for thousands of years. Of course, there are many kinds of poets. So many of them use legerdemain! And, like conjurers, pull lines from their mouths -- their own -- and other people's. Not to speak of the lyrical castrates?! They're only too glad to shove in a borrowed line. This is just one more case of robbery and embezzlement among the frauds rampant in the country. These verses and odes bawled out today amidst applause, will go down in history as the overhead expenses of what two or three of us have achieved. As the saying goes, you eat forty pounds of table salt, and smoke a hundred cigarettes in order to dredge up one precious word from artesian human depths. So at once my tax shrinks. Strike out one wheeling zero from the balance due! For a hundred cigaretts -- a ruble ninety; for table salt -- a ruble sixty. Your form has a mass of questions: "Have you traveled on business or not?" But suppose I have ridden to death a hundred Pegasi in the last 15 years? And here you have -- imagine my feelings! -- something about servants and assets. But what if I am simultaneously a leader and a servant of the people? The working class speaks through my mouth, and we, proletarians, are drivers of the pen. As the years go by, you wear out the machine of the soul. And people say: "A back number, he's written out, he's through!" There's less and less love, and less and less daring, and time is a battering ram against my head. Then there's amortization, the deadliest of all; amortization of the heart and soul. And when the sun like a fattened hog rises on a future without beggars and cripples, I shall already be a putrefied corpse under a fence, together with a dozen of my colleagues. Draw up my posthumous balance! I hereby declare -- and I'm telling no lies: Among today's swindlers and dealers, I alone shall be sunk in hopeless debt. Our duty is to blare like brass-throated horns in the fogs of bourgeois vulgarity and seething storms. A poet is always indebted to the universe, paying, alas, interest and fines. I am indebted to the lights of the Broadway, to you, to the skies of Bagdadi, [Mayakovsky's birthplace] to the Red Army, to the cherry trees of Japn -- to everything about which I have not yet written. But, after all, who needs all this stuff? Is its aim to rhyme and rage in rhythm? No, a poet's word is your resurrection and your immortality, citizen and official. Centuries hence, take a line of verse from its paper frame and bring back time! And this day with its tax collectors, its aura of miracles and its stench of ink, will dawn again. Convinced dweller in the present day, go to the N.K.P.S.(*5), take a ticket to immortality and, reckoning the effect of my verse, stagger my earnings over three hundred years! But the poet is strong not only because, remembering you, the people of the future will hiccup. No! Nowadays too the poet's rhyme is a caress and a slogan, a bayonet and a knout! Citizen tax collector, I'll cross out all the zeros after the five and pay the rest. I demand as my right an inch of ground among the poorest workers and peasants. And if you think that all i have to do is to profit by other people's words, then, comrades, here's my pen. Take a crack at it yourselves! (1926) online here (japanese forum) [...]
[his last poem, may be considered his suicide note] Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed. The Milky Way streams silver through the night. I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams I have no cause to wake or trouble you. And as they say, the incident is closed. Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind. Now you and I are quits. Why bother then to balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts. Behold what quiet settles on the world. Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars. In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation. [Notes from the back] [After Mayakovsky's suicide on April 14, 1930, this poem was found, untitled, among several pages of scribbled lines in his notebook. It is presumed to be either a continuation of At the top of my voice or part of the projected lyrical introduction to that poem. M used the middle quatrain ("And as they say... hurts." as an epilogue in his suicide note, except he changed the line, "Now you and I are quits" to "Now life and I are quits". In the suicide note he also included a further wordplay- he altered the sentence "incident is closed" ischerpan, to read isperchen - suggesting "the incident is too highly peppered", hence spoiled. ]
Mayakovsky (1893-1930) is one of the most important post-Revolution poets of Russia, and one of the major international figures of 20th-century avant-garde poetics. This selected edition draws from his entire career, ranging from his early love lyric "The Cloud in Trousers," through "Conversation with a tax Collector About Poetry," to "Bedbug," his late dramatic work exploding with his disillusionment with the Soviet State. Russian originals face the English translations.