Смерть поэта. Стихи В. Маяковского на английском языке

Всем
В том, что умираю, не вините никого и, пожалуйста, не сплетничайте. Покойник этого ужасно не любил.
Мама, сестры и товарищи, простите — это не способ (другим не советую), но у меня выходов нет.
Лиля — люби меня.
Товарищ правительство, моя семья это Лиля Брик, мама, сестры и Вероника Витольдовна Полонская.
Если ты устроишь им сносную жизнь — спасибо.
Начатые стихи отдайте Брикам, они разберутся.
Как говорят:
«инцидент исперчен»,
любовная лодка
разбилась о быт.
Я с жизнью в расчете
и не к чему перечень
взаимных болей,
бед
и обид.
Счастливо оставаться.
Владимир Маяковский
12/IV 30 г.

To His Own Beloved Self The Author Dedicates These Lines

Six.
Ponderous. The chimes of a clock.
«Render unto Ceasar… render unto God…»
But where’s
someone like me to dock?
Where to find waiting — a lair?
Were I
like the ocean of ocean little,
on the tiptoes of waves I’d rise,
I’d strain, a tide, to caress the moon.
Where to find someone to love
of my size,
the sky too small for her to fit in?

Were I poor
as a multimillionaire,
it’d still be tough.
What’s money for the soul? —
Theif insatiable.
The gold
of all Californias isn’t enough
for my desires’ riotous horde.

I wish I were tongue-tied,
like Dante
or Petrarch,
able to fire a woman’s heart,
reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages!
My words
and my love
form a triumphal arch:
through it in all their splendour,
leaving no trace,will pass
the inamoratas of all the ages.

Were I
As quiet as thunder,
how I’d wail and whine!
One groan of mine
would start world’s crumbling cloister shivering.
And if
I’d end up by roaring
with all of its power of lungs and more —
the comets, distressed, would wring their hands
and from the sky’s roof leap in fever.

If I were dim as the sun,
night I’d drill
with the rays of my eyes,
and also
all by my lonesome,
radiant self
build up the earth’s shivering bosom.

On I’ll pass,
dragging my huge love behind me.
On what feverish night, deliria-ridden,
by what Goliaths was I begot —
I, so big
and so no one needen?

Vladimir Mayakovsky
Перевод с русского И. Железнова

The Violin — A Little Bit Nervous

The violin got all worked up, imploring
then suddenly burst into sobs,
so child-like
that the drum couldn’t stand it:
«All right, all right, all right!»
But then he got tired,
couldn’t wait till the violin ended,
slipped out on the burning Kuznetsky
and took flight.
The orchestra looked on, chilly,
while the violin wept itself out
without reason
or rhyme,
and only somewhere,
a cymbal, silly,
kept clashing:
«What is it,
what’s all the racket about?»
And when the helicon,
brass-faced,
sweaty,
hollared:
«Crazy!
Crybaby!
Be still!»
I staggered,
on to my feet getting,
and lumbered over the horror-stuck music stands,
yelling,
«Good God»
why, I myself couldn’t tell;
then dashed, my arms round the wooden neck to fling:
«You know what, violin,
we’re awfully alike;
I too
always yell,
but can’t prove a thing!»
The musicains commented,
contemptuously smiling:
«Look at him-
come to his wooden-bride-
tee-hee!»
But I don’t care-
I’m a good guy-
«You know, what, violin,
let’s live together,
eh?».

Vladimir Mayakovsky
перевод с русского Д. Роттенберг