Vladimir Mayakovski was one of the most extraordinary, controversial, innovative and special poets of Russian poetry of the Russian 1893th century. And he was born on a day like today in the Georgian village of Baghdadi in XNUMX. This is a selection of some of his poems to discover or remember him.
Vladimir Mayakovsky
When his father died in the early XNUMXth century, Mayakovski moved with his family to Moscow, where he left his studies to dedicate himself to politics.
In addition to poet, it was also a great painter and actor cinema. It also shone like essayist and in his texts he always denoted and defended his revolutionary ideal. Great love, and also impossible, of his life, was Lili brik, to whom he dedicated his most famous work. He also traveled to France and the United States, which greatly influenced his poetry. But victim of the feeling of defeat and abandonment, committed suicide in 1930.
Selection of poems
As a child
I was graceful in love, without limits.
But as a child,
people worried, worked.
And me
escaped to the banks of the river Rión,
and wandered doing nothing.
My mother got angry:
"Damn kid!"
My father threatened me with the belt.
But I
I earned three false rubles
and played with the soldiers under the walls.
Without the weight of the shirt,
without the weight of booties,
spinning
and I burned under the sun of Kutaís,
until they stitched my heart.
The sun was amazed:
«You can hardly see
and he also has a heart
the boy insists.
How does it fit in this piece of a
subway,
the river,
the heart,
yo,
and the kilometer-long peaks? »
Teen
The youth have a thousand occupations.
We study grammar until we're stunned.
To me
they kicked me out of the fifth year
and went to moth-eaten the prisons of Moscow.
In our little home world
curly-haired poets appear for the beds.
What do these anemic lyrics know?
So to me
they taught me to love in jail.
What is it worth compared to this
the sadness of the forest of Boulogne?
What is it worth compared to this
the sighs before a sea landscape?
I therefore,
I fell in love with camera window 103,
from the "undertaker's office."
There are people who look at the sun every day
and is proud.
"His rays are not worth much," they say.
But I,
so,
for a little yellow sunbeam,
reflected on my wall,
I would have given everything in the world.
It is commonly like this
Love is given to anyone
but…
between employment,
money and so on,
day after day,
it hardens the subsoil of the heart.
On the heart we carry the body,
on the body the shirt,
but this is little.
Just the idiot,
handle fists
and the chest covers it with starch.
When they are old they regret it.
The woman puts on makeup.
The man exercises with the Müller system,
but it's too late
The skin multiplies its wrinkles.
Love blossoms
blooms,
and then it peels off.
Verlaine and Cezánne
I crash, every time,
with the edge of the table or shelf,
measuring with my steps, every day,
the four meters of my room.
All this about the Istria hotel is narrow for me,
in this corner, Campagne-Premiere street.
The life of Paris oppresses me.
That of casting anguish, by the boulevards,
it is not for us.
On the right, I have the Boulevard Montparnesse,
to the left, Boulevard Raspall.
I walk and walk without stinging the soles,
I walk day and night
like a standard poet,
until before my eyes,
ghosts rise. (…)
Port
Sheets of water under the belly.
Torn in waves by white teeth.
It was the moan of the fireplace-as if they were walking
love and lust for the copper fireplace.
The boats approached the exits of the cribs
to suck the iron mother.
In the ears of the deaf ships
the anchor earrings were burning.