Vladimir Mayakovsky 1927
Source: 20th Century Russian Literature.
Over those
whom sleep eternal claimed
that lean,
harsh winter
spread
a pall.
What are words!
Words
are lame!
On the Volga sores
I refuse
to dwell.
Of a string of days
I choose
to speak,
akin
to a thousand others,
bleak,
pushed on
by the years,
oarsmen eager,
not over-fat
nor
over-meagre.
If ever
something of worth
I wrote
it was all
the fault
of a pair
of eyes-
bottomless skies,
my beloved's eyes.
Huge they are,
round,
dark brown,
with a speck
of hazel,
coal-hot,
blazing.
The phone's gone
stark-raving mad,
an axe's
blunt edge
striking the ear:
wham!
Round the huge brown eyes -
pads:
hunger's
to blame.
Doctor's orders:
for the eyes
to be able
to eye
the world,
heat the place,
put greens
on the table.
By their curly green tails -
behold!-
I'm holding
two carrots
crunchy.
They're not
for my stew:
I'm taking them to
my sweetheart,
for her
to munch.
Boxes of sweets
and flowers
freely
I handed out,
but
I recall
that those carrots
plus firewood
(half a billet)
were
the most precious
gift
of all.
Thrust under my arm
are
damp pieces of wood:
knobby sticks,
eyebrow-thick.
Face puffy,
eyes-splits:
it's
malnutrition.
Greens and care -
eyes clear.
Bigger than saucers,
they eye
the Revolution.
Easier for me
than for most
(it's no boast!)
Because I'm
Mayakovsky.
I sit and chew
a fresh
piece of horse flesh.
The door whines.
My kid sister.
"Hullo!"
"Hullo!"
"Volodya, listen,
it's New Year's tomorrow.
Got some salt
I could borrow?"
"A pinch,
Wet too.
Here,
let's divide it in two."
Wading through snow,
fighting fear,
with an
"Oh, dear,
how'll I keep on my feet!"
Olga stumbles along
the icy,
three-mile long
Presnya Street.
Home
to salt her potatoes
she hastens.
Frost
walks
beside her,
grows fierce,
inches
closer,
tickles
and pinches.
"Gimme it!
Isn't that salt
you're hiding?"
Home at last,
and didn't lose it.
But how use it?
To her fingers
it's frozen fast.
Behind the wall
shuffling feet.
"Here, wife,
we gotta eat.
Trade my coat
for millet,
will ye?"
Look through the pane-
it's snowing again.
The snow falls,
covering all.
Soft its step,
yes,
and light.
Moscow's
a cliff,
bare
and white.
Snow lies
in banks
and drifts.
Of forests
the skeleton clings
to the cliff.
Daybreak.
Into the sky's thick shawl
the sun,
a louse,
crawls.
December's late dawn,
worn out,
shivery,
hangs
over Moscow
like typhus fever.
Storm clouds vagrant
to fat lands migrate.
Wrapped in haze,
its chest sticking out,
America lies.
What is it doing? -
Lapping up
coffee
and cocoa
by the cup.
Into your face,
thick as the snout
of a good-sized pig,
than a round tray rounder,
from this hungering land of ours
I shout:
My love
for my land
is boundless!
You can forget
when
and where
you stuffed
your craw
and your belly,
but
the land
you hungered with
you can never
as long as you live and breathe
forget!