You, thunderer and swirl of the flag of blood and roses, kneader of the bread of poem, deathless comrade of dithyramb and liberty, you whose suicided life I carry as a forge, who first strode the street of this century, ai, you were the first singing through the slum of trash and the molecules chained to a thousand yesterdays, wiper of the gravy of history from the mouth of obese lies, servant of Revolution, you who, among men, stormed the pallid lips of neutrality and apathy, not as a stud of craven doom, not as semblable but as a thrust and momentum of mass and energy announcing the towering totems of humanity freed from the hut, you Russian more American than English, you sabbath-destroyer and leveler of trumpery and religious double-talk, I have plucked the bullet so many times from your brain I could feed a hundred armed struggles with your dream.
2 thoughts on “VLADIMIR MAYAKOVSKY”
Poetry to rip the scab off of apathy!
not the brain, never the brain, the heart, Russian tradition mandates a fresh white pressed sirt and the bullet to the heart. Sad but true .. His poem Lenin in Spanish great book illustrated with block prints published by the Sandinistas in 19 85. viva Vlodya!