Владимир Маяковский
Born on July 19, 1893, in a small Georgian village, Vladimir Mayakovsky is remembered for his contributions to Soviet poetry. Among the foremost representatives of Russian Futurism, he went to considerable lengths to debunk idealistic and romanticized notions of poetry and poets, preferring instead the language of the streets. During the Russian Revolution, much of his poetry called for support of the Bolsheviks, garnering him respect from Communist officials. In 1930, troubled by critics and disappointment in love and politics, he shot himself with a revolver. Stalin, who proclaimed indifference to Mayakovsky’s works a crime, was among those who eulogized the poet. “The poem of the Soviet Passport,” written in 1929, is an example of Mayakovsky’s short, simple, rhythmic lines, which he was known for reciting in stentorian, declamatory style.
Стихи о советском паспорте
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Я волком бы
выгрыз
бюрократизм.
К мандатам
почтения нету.
К любым
чертям с матерями
катись
любая бумажка.
Но эту...
По длинному фронту
купе
и кают
чиновник
учтивый
движется.
Сдают паспорта,
и я
сдаю
мою
пурпурную книжицу.
К одним паспортам -
улыбка у рта.
К другим -
отношение плевое.
С почтеньем
берут, например,
паспорта
с двухспальным
английским левою.
Глазами
доброго дядю выев,
не переставая
кланяться,
берут,
как будто берут чаевые,
паспорт
американца.
На польский -
глядят,
как в афишу коза.
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На польский -
выпяливают глаза
в тугой
полицейской слоновости -
откуда, мол,
и что это за
географические новости?
И не повернув
головы кочан
и чувств
никаких
не изведав,
берут,
не моргнув,
паспорта датчан
и разных
прочих
шведов.
И вдруг,
как будто
ожогом,
рот
скривило
господину.
Это
господин чиновник
берет
мою
краснокожую паспортину.
Берет -
как бомбу,
берет -
как ежа,
как бритву
обоюдоострую,
берет,
как гремучую
в 20 жал
змею
двухметроворостую.
Моргнул
многозначаще
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глаз носильщика,
хоть вещи
снесет задаром вам.
Жандарм
вопросительно
смотрит на
сыщика,
сыщик
на жандарма.
С каким наслажденьем
жандармской
кастой
я был бы
исхлестан и распят
за то,
что в руках у меня
молоткастый,
серпастый
советский паспорт.
Я волком бы
выгрыз
бюрократизм.
К мандатам
почтения нету.
К любым
чертям с матерями
катись
любая бумажка.
Но эту...
Я
достаю
из широких штанин
дубликатом
бесценного груза.
Читайте,
завидуйте,
я -
гражданин
Советского Союза.
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The Poem of the Soviet Passport
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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,
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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.
Translated by Alec Vagapov
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