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Best Famous Vladimir Mayakovsky Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Vladimir Mayakovsky poems. This is a select list of the best famous Vladimir Mayakovsky poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Vladimir Mayakovsky poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Vladimir Mayakovsky poems.

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Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

Back Home

 Thoughts, go your way home.
Embrace, depths of the soul and the sea.
In my view, it is stupid to be always serene.
My cabin is the worst of all cabins - All night above me Thuds a smithy of feet.
All night, stirring the ceiling’s calm, dancers stampede to a moaning motif: “Marquita, Marquita, Marquita my darling, why won’t you, Marquita, why won’t you love me …” But why Should marquita love me?! I have no francs to spare.
And Marquita (at the slightest wink!) for a hundred francs she’d be brought to your room.
The sum’s not large - just live for show - No, you highbrow, ruffling your matted hair, you would thrust upon her a sewing machine, in stitches scribbling the silk of verse.
Proletarians arrive at communism from below - by the low way of mines, sickles, and pitchforks - But I, from poetry’s skies, plunge into communism, because without it I feel no love.
Whether I’m self-exiled or sent to mamma - the steel of words corrodes, the brass of the brass tarnishes.
Why, beneath foreign rains, must I soak, rot, and rust? Here I recline, having gone oversea, in my idleness barely moving my machine parts.
I myself feel like a Soviet factory, manufacturing happiness.
I object to being torn up, like a flower of the fields, after a long day’s work.
I want the Gosplan to sweat in debate, assignning me goals a year ahead.
I want a commissar with a decree to lean over the thought of the age.
I want the heart to earn its love wage at a specialist’s rate.
I want the factory committee to lock My lips when the work is done.
I want the pen to be on a par with the bayonet; and Stalin to deliver his Politbureau reports about verse in the making as he would about pig iron and the smelting of steel.
“That’s how it is, the way it goes … We’ve attained the topmost level, climbing from the workers’ bunks: in the Union of Republics the understanding of verse now tops the prewar norm …” Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

Past One O'Clock ...

 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.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

Call To Account!

 The drum of war thunders and thunders.
It calls: thrust iron into the living.
From every country slave after slave are thrown onto bayonet steel.
For the sake of what? The earth shivers hungry and stripped.
Mankind is vapourised in a blood bath only so someone somewhere can get hold of Albania.
Human gangs bound in malice, blow after blow strikes the world only for someone’s vessels to pass without charge through the Bosporus.
Soon the world won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out.
And trampled down only for someone, to lay their hands on Mesopotamia.
Why does a boot crush the Earth — fissured and rough? What is above the battles’ sky - Freedom? God? Money! When will you stand to your full height, you, giving them your life? When will you hurl a question to their faces: Why are we fighting? Translated: by Lika Galkina with Jasper Goss, 2005.

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Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

My Soviet Passport

 I'd tear
 like a wolf
 at bureaucracy.
For mandates my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper.
But this .
Down the long front of coupés and cabins File the officials politely.
They gather up passports and I give in My own vermilion booklet.
For one kind of passport - smiling lips part For others - an attitude scornful.
They take with respect, for instance, the passport From a sleeping-car English Lionel.
The good fellows eyes almost slip like pips when, bowing as low as men can, they take, as if they were taking a tip, the passport from an American.
At the Polish, they dolefully blink and wheeze in dumb police elephantism - where are they from, and what are these geographical novelties? And without a turn of their cabbage heads, their feelings hidden in lower regions, they take without blinking, the passports from Swedes and various old Norwegians.
Then sudden as if their mouths were aquake those gentlemen almost whine Those very official gentlemen take that red-skinned passport of mine.
Take- like a bomb take - like a hedgehog, like a razor double-edge stropped, take - like a rattlesnake huge and long with at least 20 fangs poison-tipped.
The porter's eyes give a significant flick (I'll carry your baggage for nix, mon ami.
) The gendarmes enquiringly look at the tec, the tec, - at the gendarmerie.
With what delight that gendarme caste would have me strung-up and whipped raw because I hold in my hands hammered-fast sickle-clasped my red Soviet passport.
I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy.
For mandates my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper, But this .
I pull out of my wide trouser-pockets duplicate of a priceless cargo.
You now: read this and envy, I'm a citizen of the Soviet Socialist Union! Transcribed: by Liviu Iacob.

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

Our March

 Beat the squares with the tramp of rebels!
Higher, rangers of haughty heads!
We'll wash the world with a second deluge, 
Now’s the hour whose coming it dreads.
Too slow, the wagon of years, The oxen of days — too glum.
Our god is the god of speed, Our heart — our battle drum.
Is there a gold diviner than ours/ What wasp of a bullet us can sting? Songs are our weapons, our power of powers, Our gold — our voices — just hear us sing! Meadow, lie green on the earth! With silk our days for us line! Rainbow, give color and girth To the fleet-foot steeds of time.
The heavens grudge us their starry glamour.
Bah! Without it our songs can thrive.
Hey there, Ursus Major, clamour For us to be taken to heaven alive! Sing, of delight drink deep, Drain spring by cups, not by thimbles.
Heart step up your beat! Our breasts be the brass of cymbals.

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

Attitude To A Miss

 That night was to decide
if she and I
were to be lovers.
Under cover of darkness no one would see, you see.
I bent over her, it’s the truth, and as I did, it’s the truth, I swear it, I said like a kindly parent: “Passion’s a precipice – so won’t you please move away? Move away, please!”

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky |

Conversation with Comrade Lenin

 Awhirl with events,
 packed with jobs one too many,
the day slowly sinks
 as the night shadows fall.
There are two in the room: I and Lenin- a photograph on the whiteness of wall.
The stubble slides upward above his lip as his mouth jerks open in speech.
The tense creases of brow hold thought in their grip, immense brow matched by thought immense.
A forest of flags, raised-up hands thick as grass.
Thousands are marching beneath him.
Transported, alight with joy, I rise from my place, eager to see him, hail him, report to him! “Comrade Lenin, I report to you - (not a dictate of office, the heart’s prompting alone) This hellish work that we’re out to do will be done and is already being done.
We feed and we clothe and give light to the needy, the quotas for coal and for iron fulfill, but there is any amount of bleeding muck and rubbish around us still.
Without you, there’s many have got out of hand, all the sparring and squabbling does one in.
There’s scum in plenty hounding our land, outside the borders and also within.
Try to count ’em and tab ’em - it’s no go, there’s all kinds, and they’re thick as nettles: kulaks, red tapists, and, down the row, drunkards, sectarians, lickspittles.
They strut around proudly as peacocks, badges and fountain pens studding their chests.
We’ll lick the lot of ’em- but to lick ’em is no easy job at the very best.
On snow-covered lands and on stubbly fields, in smoky plants and on factory sites, with you in our hearts, Comrade Lenin, we build, we think, we breathe, we live, and we fight!” Awhirl with events, packed with jobs one too many, the day slowly sinks as the night shadows fall.
There are two in the room: I and Lenin - a photograph on the whiteness of wall.