credit


Dmitri Shostakovich, Vsevolod Meyerhold, Vladimir Mayakovsky, and Aleksandr Rodchenko, 1929



❝ The beauty of Dante’s verse is not lost even on unbelievers, and Mayakovsky’s old-fashioned unlettered Marxism need not obscure the poetic wonder of his hells and heavens. ❞
—— Edward J. Brown, Mayakovsky: A Poet in the Revolution


a trip to moscow on mayakovsky’s birthday (part two)



a trip to moscow on mayakovsky’s birthday (19 july 2014)



❝ I’m a bit touched in the head.
But, on the other hand,
who would have given his thoughts such inhuman vastness, and where? ❞
——

Vladimir Mayakovsky: A Tragedy (excerpt), 1913

translated by one of your mods (!)



# poetry
❝ Но кому я, к черту, попутчик!
Ни души
не шагает
рядом. ❞
—— Маяковский (via kirilchukv)


weirdvintage:

These pacifiers are second to none, I’d suck on them until I die”—Russian poster, c. 1920s (via)



❝ Remote kinship with any of the well-known Indian tribes is considered the height of fashion in high society — something which, even quite recently, was regarded as a thundering disgrace in American eyes. ❞
—— Vladimir Mayakovsky, My Discovery of America. I guess this is an early case of the “1/16 Cherokee” phenomenon? Earlier he also explains that only white people are considered American, and how preposterous that seems when most of the “American” music and dance genres had black origins.


Your thought,
musing on a sodden brain
like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch,
I’ll taunt with a bloody morsel of heart
and satiate my insolent, caustic contempt.

No gray hairs streak my soul,
no grandfatherly fondness there!
I shake the world with the might of my voice,
and walk—handsome,
twentytwoyearold.

Tender souls!
You play your love on a fiddle,
and the crude club their love on a drum.
But you cannot turn yourselves inside out,
like me, and be just bare lips!

Come and be lessoned—
prim officiates of the angelic league,
lisping in drawing-room cambric.

You, too, who leaf your lips like a cook
turns the pages of a cookery book.

If you wish,
I shall rage on raw meat;
or, as the sky changes its hue,
if you wish,
I shall grow irreproachably tender:
not a man, but a cloud in trousers!

—— A Cloud in Trousers (excerpt), Vladimir Mayakovsky, trans. George Reavey


❝ And thus,
enormous,
I stood hunched by the window,
and my brow melted the glass.
What will it be: love or no love?
And what kind of love:
big or minute?
How could a body like this have a big love?
It should be a teeny-weeny,
humble, little love;
a love that shies at the hooting of cars,
that adores the bells of horse-trams. ❞
—— Vladimir Mayakovsky, A Cloud in Trousers (excerpt), trans. George Reavey