You came in sharp as a torment here. Vladimir Mayakovsky - A Cloud in Pants (Poem): Verse. Cloud in Pants Vladimir Mayakovsky

Introduction

your thought,
dreaming on a softened brain,
like a fat footman on a greasy couch,
I will tease about the bloody flap of the heart:
I scoff to my fill, impudent and caustic.

I have not a single gray hair in my soul,
and there is no senile tenderness in it!
The world is overwhelmed by the power of the voice,
I'm going - beautiful,
twenty-two.

Gentle!
You put love on violins.
Love on the timpani lays rough.
And you can't twist yourself like me,
to have one solid lips!

Come learn -
from the living room cambric,
a dignified official of the angelic league.

And which lips calmly flips,
like a cookbook page cookbook.

Want to -
I will be mad from meat
- and like the sky, changing tones -
want to -
I will be impeccably gentle,
not a man, but a cloud in his pants!

I do not believe that there is a flower Nice!
I am praised again
men stale like a hospital
and women, tattered as the saying goes.

Do you think it's malaria?

It was,
was in Odessa.

"I'll be there at four," Maria said.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.

Here comes the evening
into the night terror
left the windows
frowning,
December.

In decrepit back they laugh and neigh
candelabra.

I can't be recognized now.
sinewy hulk
groans
writhing.
What could such a lump want?
And the lump wants a lot!

After all, it doesn't matter to yourself.
and what is bronze,
and the fact that the heart is a cold piece of iron.
At night I want my ringing
hide in soft
into the feminine.

And so,
huge,
hunched in the window
I melt window glass with my forehead.
Will there be love or not?
Which -
big or tiny?
Where does the body have such a large:
must be small
humble darling.
She shied away from car horns.
Loves the end bells.

More and more,
buried in the rain
face in his pockmarked face,
I am waiting,
splashed by the thunder of the city surf.

Midnight, rushing about with a knife,
caught up
stabbed -
get him out!

The twelfth hour has fallen
like the head of the executed from the chopping block.

Gray raindrops in the glass
fell out,
made a grimace,
like howling chimeras
Notre Dame Cathedral.

Damned!
What, and this is not enough?
Soon your mouth will scream.
Hear:
quiet,
like a sick person out of bed
nerve jumped.
And so,-
first walked
barely,
then he ran
excited,
clear.
Now he and the new two
rush about in a desperate tap dance.

The plaster on the ground floor has collapsed.

Nerves -
big,
small,
many!-
jumping mad,
and already
Nerves are shaking!

And the night is creeping and crawling around the room, -
a heavy eye cannot reach out of the mud.

The doors suddenly banged
like a hotel
does not hit the tooth on the tooth.

You entered
sharp, like "here!",
mucha suede gloves,
said:
"You know -
I'm getting married".

Well, get out.
Nothing.
I'll get stronger.
See how calm!
Like a pulse
dead man.
Remember?
You said:
"Jack London,
money,
Love,
passion",-
and I saw one:
you are Gioconda,
to be stolen!
And they stole it.

Again, in love, I will go out into the games,
fire illuminating the eyebrow bend.
What!
And in the house that burned out
sometimes homeless vagrants live!

tease?
"Less than a beggar's pennies,
you have emeralds of madness.
Remember!
Pompey died
when they teased Vesuvius!

Hey!
Lord!
lovers
sacrilege,
crimes,
slaughterhouse -
and the worst
saw -
my face
When
I
absolutely calm?

And I feel -
"I"
not enough for me.
Some of me break out stubbornly.

Hello!
Who is speaking?
Mother?
Mother!
Your son is very sick!
Mother!
He has a heart of fire.
Tell the sisters, Lyuda and Olya, -
he has nowhere to go.
Every word,
even a joke
which he vomits with a burning mouth,
thrown out like a naked prostitute
from a burning brothel.
People are sniffing
it smelled fried!
They caught up with some.
Brilliant!
In helmets!
No boots!
Tell the firemen
on a burning heart they climb in caresses.
I myself.
Eyes weepy with barrels I will roll out.
Let's lean on the ribs.
I'll jump out! I'll jump out! I'll jump out! I'll jump out!
Collapsed.
Do not jump out of the heart!

On a burning face
from cracked lips
charred kiss rush rose.

Mother!
I can't sing.
At the church of the heart, the choir is engaged!

Burnt figurines of words and numbers
from a skull
like children from a burning building.
So fear
grab the sky
vysil
the burning hands of the Lusitania.

shaking people
in the apartment is quiet
a hundred-eyed glow bursts from the pier.
The last cry -
at least you
that I am burning, groan in the centuries!

Praise me!
I'm not great.
I'm over everything that's done
I put "nihil".

I used to think -
books are made like this:
the poet came
lightly opened his mouth,
and immediately an inspired simpleton sang -
Please!
And it turns out -
before it starts to sing
walk for a long time, sore from fermentation,
and quietly flounders in the mire of the heart
stupid imagination.
While they are boiling, rhyming with rhymes,
from loves and nightingales some kind of brew,
the street writhes speechless -
she has nothing to scream and talk.

Cities towers of babel,
lifted up, lifted up again,
but god
cities on arable land
destroys,
interfering word.

The street flour silently pearled.
A scream rose from his throat.
Bristled, stuck across the throat,
chubby taxis and bony cabbies
the chest was in a hurry.

The consumptives are flatter.
The city blocked the road with darkness.

And when -
anyway!-
coughed up a crush on the square,
pushing the porch that has stepped on the throat,
thought:
in the choirs of the archangel's chant
God, robbed, goes to punish!

And the street sat down and yelled:
"Let's go eat!"

Make up the city of Kruppy and Kruppiki
wrinkle of threatening eyebrows,
and in the mouth
corpses of dead words decompose,
only two live, fattening -
"bastard"
and something else
seems to be "borscht".

poets,
soaked in weeping and sobbing,
rushed from the street, ruffling their hair:
“How to drink two of these
and young lady
and love,
and a flower under the dew?
And for the poets
street thousand:
students,
prostitutes,
contractors.

Lord!
Stop!
You are not a beggar
you dare not ask for handouts!

We healthy
with a step sazhen,
it is necessary not to listen, but to tear them -
their,
sucked by a free app
for every double bed!

Whether to humbly ask them:
"Help me!"
Pray for an anthem
about the oratorio!
We ourselves are creators in a burning hymn -
factory and laboratory noise.

What do I care about Faust
rocket extravaganza
sliding with Mephistopheles in the heavenly parquet!
I know -
nail in my boot
more nightmarish than Goethe's fantasy!

I,
golden-eyed,
whose every word
newborn soul,
birthday body,
I tell you:
smallest speck of life
more valuable than all that I will do and have done!

Listen!
preaches,
tossing and groaning,
of today scream-lipped Zarathustra!
We
with a face like a sleepy sheet,
with lips hanging like a chandelier,
We,
convicts of the city-leper colony,
where gold and mud have ulcerated leprosy,
we are cleaner than the Venetian azure,
washed by seas and suns at once!

Don't care what's not
by Homers and Ovids
people like us
from soot in smallpox.
I know -
the sun would dim when it saw
our souls are golden placers!

Veins and muscles - more prayers.
Should we beg for favors of time!
We -
every -
keep in our fives
worlds drive belts!

It took the audience to Calvary
Petrograd, Moscow, Odessa, Kyiv,
and there was none
which
would not shout:
"Crucify
crucify him!”
But me -
People,
and those who offended -
You are dearest and dearest to me.

seen
How does a dog lick a kicking hand?

I,
ridiculed by today's tribe,
how long
dirty joke,
I see time going through the mountains,
which no one sees.

Where people's eyes break off stubby,
head of the hungry hordes,
in the crown of thorns revolutions
the sixteenth year is coming.

And I am his forerunner;
I - where the pain is, everywhere;
on every drop of tear leak
crucified himself on the cross.
Nothing can be forgiven.
I burned the souls where tenderness was raised.
It's harder than taking
a thousand thousand Bastilles!

And when,
his arrival
revolt announcing,
come out to the savior -
you i
I'll take my soul out
trample on
so big! -
and bloody ladies, like a banner.

Oh why is this
where does it come from
in bright fun
swing dirty fists!

Came
and curtained her head with despair
the idea of insane asylums.

AND -
as in the death of the dreadnought
from choking spasms
rush into the open hatch -
through your
to scream torn eye
climbed, distraught, Burliuk.
Almost bleeding tear-stained eyelids,
got out,
got up,
went
and with a tenderness unexpected in a fat man
took it and said:
"Fine!"
It's good when in a yellow jacket
the soul is wrapped up from inspections!
Fine,
when thrown into the teeth of the scaffold,
shout:
"Drink Van Gouten's cocoa!"

And this second
bengali,
loud
I wouldn't trade for anything
I am not on...

And from cigar smoke
liquor glass
the drunken face of the Severyanin was drawn out.
How dare you be called a poet
and, gray, tweet like a quail!
Today
necessary
brass knuckles
cut the world in the skull!

You,
disturbed by the thought of one -
"Do I dance gracefully" -
watch me having fun
I -
areal
pimp and card cheat.
From you,
who were wet with love,
from which
in the centuries a tear shed,
I'll leave
sun monocle
I'll put it in a wide-open eye.

Incredibly dressed up
I will walk on earth
to like and burn,
and ahead
I'll lead you on Napoleon's chain like a pug.
The whole earth will fall with a woman,
fidgets with meats, although to surrender;
things come to life
lips of a thing
lisp:
"swell, swell, swell!"

All of a sudden
and clouds
and cloudy stuff
raised an incredible pitching in the sky,
as if the white workers are dispersing,
sky declaring an embittered strike.
Thunder from behind a cloud, beast, got out,
huge nostrils provocatively blowing my nose,
and the sky's face twisted for a second
the stern grimace of an iron Bismarck.
And someone
entangled in clouds,
stretched out his hands to the cafe -
and like a woman
and soft as if
and as if gun carriages.

You think -
this sun is gentle
pats the cafe on the cheek?
It's shoot the rebels again
General Galife is coming!

Take out, walking, hands from trousers -
take a stone, a knife or a bomb,
and if he has no hands -
come and beat his forehead!
Go hungry
sweaty,
submissive,
sour in the flea mud!
Go!
Mondays and Tuesdays
let's paint with blood for the holidays!
Let the earth under the knives remember
who wanted to vulgarize!

earth,
obese like a lover
who fell in love with Rothschild!
So that the flags flutter in the heat of firing,
like every decent holiday -
lift up, lampposts,
bloody carcasses of meadowsweet.

cursed,
begged
cut,
follow someone
bite into the sides.

In the sky, red like the Marseillaise,
trembled, oblique, sunset.

Already crazy.

Nothing will happen.

The night will come
have a bite
and eat.
See -
the sky is Judith again
a handful of betrayed stars?

Came.
Feasting on Mamai,
planting back on the city.
We won't break this night with our eyes,
black like Azef!

I eat, throwing myself into tavern corners,
I pour wine over my soul and tablecloth
and see:
in the corner - eyes are round, -
the Mother of God sank into her heart with her eyes.
What to present according to a painted pattern
radiance of the tavern horde!
You see - again
spat upon the Calvary
prefer Barabbas?
Maybe on purpose I
in the human mess
no one's face is newer.
I,
May be,
the most beautiful
from all your sons.
Give them
bursting with joy,
imminent death of time,
to become children who must grow up,
boys are fathers,
girls are pregnant.
And let the new born grow
inquisitive gray-haired Magi,
and they will come
and children will be baptized
the names of my poems.

I, who sing of the car and England,
maybe just
in the most ordinary gospel
thirteenth apostle.
And when my voice
obscenely hoots -
from hour to hour,
the whole day,
maybe Jesus Christ is sniffing
my soul forget-me-not.

Maria! Maria! Maria!
Let go, Maria!
I can't on the streets!
Do not want?
Waiting
how the cheeks will fall into a hole
tried by everyone
fresh,
I will come
and toothlessly mumble,
that today I
"surprisingly honest."
Maria,
see -
I have already begun to slouch.

In the streets
people will make holes in fat in four-story crops,
poke out eyes,
shabby in the forty-year task, -
giggle
what's in my teeth
- again!-
stale roll of yesterday's caress.
The rain washed the sidewalks
puddles squeezed crook,
wet, licking the streets clogged with cobblestone corpse,
and on gray eyelashes -
Yes!-
on the eyelashes of frosty icicles
tears from the eyes -
Yes!-
from lowered eyes downpipes.
All pedestrians muzzle rain sucked,
and in the carriages an athlete was polished behind a fat athlete;
people burst
going through,
and fat oozed through the cracks,
a muddy river with crews flowing down
along with a dried-up bun
zhevotina of old cutlets.

Maria!
How to squeeze a quiet word into their fat ear?
Bird
is taken by the song,
sings,
hungry and calling
and I'm a man, Maria,
simple,
coughed up on a consumptive night into Presnya's dirty hand.
Mary, do you want this?
Let go, Maria!
With a spasm of fingers I will clamp the iron throat of the bell!

Pastures go wild in the streets.
On the neck abrasions crush fingers.

You see - stuck
pins in the eyes of ladies' hats!

Babe!
Don't be afraid,
what's on my neck
sweaty women sit like a wet mountain, -
it's through life I drag
millions of huge pure loves
and a million million little dirty loves.
Don't be afraid,
again,
in treason bad weather,
I will cling to thousands of pretty faces, -
"Loving Mayakovsky!" -
yes, it's a dynasty
on the heart of the crazy ascended queens.
Mary, closer!
In undressed shamelessness,
in fearful trembling,
but give your lips the unfaded beauty:
I never lived with my heart until May,
but in the life
only the hundredth April is.
Maria!

Sonnet poet sings to Tiana
and I -
all meat,
the whole person
your body just asking
as Christians ask -
"our daily bread
give us today."

Maria - come on!

Maria!
Your name I'm afraid to forget
like a poet afraid to forget
some
in the throes of nights the word is born,
majesty equal to God.
Your body
I will cherish and love
like a soldier
shattered by war
unnecessary,
nobody's
saves his only leg.
Maria -
do not want?
Do not want!

So - again
dark and dull
I'll take my heart
drenched in tears,
carry,
like a dog,
which is in the kennel
bears
a paw that had been run over by a train.
I gladden the road with blood,
clings with flowers to the dust of the tunic.
A thousand times will dance with Herodias
sun earth -
the head of the Baptist.
And when my number of years
splash to the end -
a million bloodlines will spread the trail
to my father's house.

I'll get out
dirty (from spending the night in ditches),
I will stand side by side
bend over
and say in his ear:
- Listen, Lord God!
How are you not bored
in cloudy jelly
to dip your irritated eyes daily?
Let's - you know -
arrange a carousel
on the tree of study of good and evil!
Omnipresent, you will be in every closet,
and put such wines on the table,
to want to walk in ki-ka-pu
gloomy Peter the Apostle.
And in paradise again we will settle Evochek:
order-
tonight is
from all boulevards beautiful girls
I will bring you.
Want?
Do not want?
Shaking your head, curly?
Supis a gray eyebrow?
You think -
this,
behind you, winged one,
knows what love is?
I am also an angel, I was one -
looked into the eye like a sugar lamb,
but I no longer want to give mares
sculpted vases from Servian flour.
Almighty, you invented a pair of hands
did,
that everyone has a head, -
why didn't you think
to be pain-free
kiss, kiss, kiss?!
I thought you were an almighty god
and you are a half-educated, tiny god.
See I'm bending over
because of the ankle
I take out a shoe knife.
Winged scoundrels!
Hustle in paradise!
Ruffle your feathers in a frightened shake!
I will open you, smelling of incense
from here to Alaska!

Don't stop me.
I'm lying
is it right
but I can't be calmer.
See -
the stars are beheaded again
and the sky was bloody with slaughter!
Hey you!
Sky!
Take off your hat!
I'm coming!

The universe is sleeping
put on paw
with pincer stars huge ear.

Analysis of the poem "A Cloud in Pants" by Mayakovsky

"A Cloud in Pants" is one of Mayakovsky's most famous and popular works, giving an idea of distinctive features his talent and outlook. The poet worked on it for about a year and a half and first presented it to the public in 1915. L. Brik was present at the author's reading, which made an indelible impression on Mayakovsky. He dedicated his poem to her. This was the beginning of a long, painful romance.

The poem was originally called "The Thirteen Apostles" and was much larger in length. Due to too sharp statements about the church, the work was banned by censorship and underwent significant revision by the author.

The verse refers to love lyrics, since the plot is based on the expectation of the lyrical hero of his beloved. This painful expectation turns into hatred when the hero learns that his beloved is going to get married. The rest of the poem is a philosophical reflection of the author, a description of his overwhelming feelings.

"A cloud in pants" gives the maximum idea of the expressive techniques used by Mayakovsky: custom size, abundant use of neologisms and distorted words, inaccurate and broken rhyme, original metaphors and comparisons.

The long wait for Mary turns into real torture for the poet. Behind the laconic description of the passage of time ("Eight. Nine. Ten.") hides hard-to-suppressed anger and impatience. The lyrical hero meets the news of Mary's forthcoming marriage outwardly calmly, but a gigantic feeling of anger and hatred for the world around him "stubbornly breaks out" from his soul.

Mayakovsky throws out this feeling against the vulgarity and abomination of bourgeois society. If earlier the creative process seemed to him a relatively simple matter, now, looking at the disgusting reality, he cannot express his feelings. All the bright words died, only "bastard and ... it seems," borscht "" remained. This statement of the poet is very significant. He never lacked words and created new ones at any time.

Anger leads the poet to the idea of a merciless reprisal against an imperfect society. He calls to take up arms and gray everyday days "to paint with blood on holidays."

Mayakovsky throughout the poem highlights the significance of his "I". This is not only a manifestation of selfishness, but also the assertion of the priority of an individual over the interests and opinions of an inert crowd. The apotheosis of this thought is the recognition by the author of himself as the "thirteenth apostle" and the approach to Jesus Christ.

At the end of the poem, the author again turns to Mary with a humble, rude prayer. He frankly asks the woman to give up her body. Rejection leads to a new outburst of rage. The unsatisfied poet looks forward to his death in anticipation of a conversation with God. He accuses the creator of impotence and threatens to destroy the whole paradise. This threat conveys the mood of the poet to the maximum extent and emphasizes his irreconcilable character.

The original title of the poem - "The Thirteenth Apostle" - was replaced by censorship. Mayakovsky said: “When I came to the censorship with this work, they asked me: “What do you want to go to hard labor?” I said that in no case, that this does not suit me in any way. Then they crossed out six pages to me, including the title. It's a question of where the title came from. I was asked - how can I combine lyrics and a lot of rudeness. Then I said: “Well, I will be, if you like, like a madman, if you want, I will be the most tender, not a man, but a cloud in his pants” 1.

The first edition of the poem (1915) contained a large number of censored banknotes. In full, without cuts, the poem was published at the beginning of 1918 in Moscow with a preface by V. Mayakovsky: ““ A cloud in pants ”... I consider it a catechism of today's art: “Down with your love!”, “Down with your art!”, “Down with your system !”, “Down with your religion” - four cries of four parts.

Each part of the poem expresses a certain idea. But the poem itself cannot be strictly divided into chapters, in which four cries of "Down with!" are consistently expressed. The poem is not at all divided into compartments with its “Down!”, but is a holistic, passionate lyrical monologue, caused by the tragedy of unrequited love. The experiences of the lyrical hero are captivating different areas life, including those where loveless love, false art, criminal power dominate, Christian patience is preached. The movement of the lyrical plot of the poem is due to the hero's confession, which at times reaches high tragedy (the first publications of excerpts from The Cloud had the subtitle "tragedy").

The first part of the poem is about the tragic unrequited love of the poet. It contains an unprecedented strength of jealousy, pain, the hero's nerves rebelled: "like a patient from the bed, a nerve jumped", then the nerves "jump furiously, and already the legs give way under the nerves."

The author of the poem painfully asks: “Will there be love or not? Which one is big or tiny? The whole chapter is not a treatise on love, but the experiences of the poet spilled out. The chapter reflects the emotions of the lyrical hero: “Hello! Who is speaking? Mother? Mother! Your son is very sick! Mother! He has a heart of fire." The love of the lyrical hero of the poem was rejected (It was, it was in Odessa; “I’ll come at four,” said Maria sharp as “here!”, / tormenting the suede gloves, / said: “You know - / I’m getting married”), and this leads him to deny love-sweet-voiced chant, because true love is difficult, it is love-suffering.

His ideas about love are defiantly, polemically frank and shocking: “Maria! The poet sings sonnets to Tiana 3, // and I / am all meat, all man - // I just ask your body, // as Christians ask - // “Our daily bread - / give us today.” For the lyrical hero, love is equivalent to life itself. Lyricism and rudeness outwardly contradict each other here, but from a psychological point of view, the hero's reaction is understandable: his rudeness is a reaction to the rejection of his love, it is a defensive reaction.

V. Kamensky, Mayakovsky's companion on a trip to Odessa, wrote about Maria that she was a completely extraordinary girl, she "combined high quality captivating appearance and intellectual aspiration for everything new, modern, revolutionary ... "" Excited, swept up by a whirlwind of love experiences, after the first dates with Maria, - says V. Kamensky, - he flew into our hotel with a sort of festive spring sea wind and enthusiastically repeated: “This is a girl, this is a girl!” ... Mayakovsky, who had not yet known love, for the first time experienced this tremendous feeling, which he could not cope with. Covered by the "fire of love", he did not know at all what to do, what to do, where to go.

The unsatisfied, tragic feelings of the hero cannot coexist with cold vanity, with refined, refined literature. To express genuine and strong feelings, the street lacks words: "the street is writhing without a language - it has nothing to shout and talk with." Therefore, the author denies everything that was previously created in the field of art:

I am over everything that is done, I put "nihil".

Of all the art forms, Mayakovsky turns to poetry: it is too detached from real life and from the real language spoken by the street, the people. The poet exaggerates this gap:

and corpses decompose in the mouth of dead words.

For Mayakovsky, the soul of the people is important, not his appearance(“We are smallpox from soot. I know that the sun would dim when it saw our souls with golden placers”). The third chapter is devoted to the theme of poetry:

And from cigarette smoke/ Severyanin's drunken face was drawn out like a glass of liquor. How dare you be called a poet And, little grey, chirp like a quail. Today / it is necessary / with brass knuckles / to cut the world in the skull.

The lyrical hero declares his break with previous poets, with "pure poetry":

From you, who were soaked with love, From whom / a tear shed for a century, I will leave, / I will insert the sun with a monocle into a widely splayed eye.

Another “down with” the poem is “down with your system”, your “heroes”: the “iron Bismarck”, the billionaire Rothschild and the idol of many generations - Napoleon. “I’ll lead you on Napoleon’s chain like a pug,” says the author.

The theme of the collapse of the old world runs through the entire third chapter. In revolution, Mayakovsky sees a way to put an end to this hated system and calls for revolution - for this bloody, tragic and festive action, which should burn out the vulgarity and dullness of life:

Go! / Mondays and Tuesdays will be stained with blood on holidays! Let the earth under the knives remember who she wanted to vulgarize! Earth, / fattened like the mistress that Rothschild fell in love with! So that the flags flutter in the heat of firing, like every decent holiday - raise higher, lampposts, bloodied carcasses of meadowsweet.

The author of the poem sees the coming future, where there will be no loveless love, refined bourgeois poetry, bourgeois order and the religion of patience. And he himself sees himself as the “thirteenth apostle”, “precursor” and herald of the new world, calling for purification from colorless life:

I, ridiculed by today's tribe, like a long obscene anecdote, see time going through the mountains, which no one sees. Where the eyes of people break off stubby, the head of the hungry hordes, in the crown of thorns of revolutions, the sixteenth year is coming. And I am your forerunner!

The hero seeks to melt his unquenched pain, he seems to rise to new height in his personal experiences, trying to save the future from the humiliations that fell to his lot. And he sees how his grief and the grief of many will end - "the sixteenth year."

The hero goes through a painful path of ups and downs in the poem. This became possible because his heart is full of the deepest personal experiences. In the fourth chapter of the poem, the hopeless longing for the beloved returns. "Maria! Maria! Maria!" - the name sounds hysterically like a refrain, in it - "a born word, equal in majesty to God." Inconsistent and endless prayers, confessions - there is no answer from Mary. And a daring rebellion against the Almighty begins - "half-educated, tiny god." Rebellion against the imperfection of earthly relationships and feelings:

Why didn't you invent, so that it would be without pain to kiss, kiss, kiss ?!

The lyrical hero of the poem is "a handsome twenty-two-year-old." With maximalism entering into life young man expressed in the poem is a dream of a time devoid of suffering, of a future existence, where “millions of huge pure loves” will triumph. The theme of personal, unsurmounted shocks develops into a glorification of future happiness.

The author is disappointed in the moral force of religion. The revolution, according to Mayakovsky, should bring not only social liberation, but also moral purification. The anti-religious pathos of the poem was sharply defiant, repelling some and attracting others. For example, M. Gorky "was struck in the poem by the God-fighting stream." “He quoted verses from A Cloud in Pants and said that he had never read such a conversation with God ... and that, by God, Mayakovsky flew in great” 4 .

I thought - you are an almighty god, and you are a half-educated, tiny god. You see, I bend down, / I take out a shoe knife from behind the bootleg. Winged scoundrels! / Hug in paradise! Ruffle your feathers in a frightened shake! I will open you, smelling of incense, from here to Alaska! ...Hey you! Sky! / Hats off! I'm coming! Deaf. The universe sleeps, putting a huge ear on the paw with pincers of the stars.

Features of Mayakovsky's poetics

V. Mayakovsky's poem "A Cloud in Pants" (as well as his other works) is characterized by hyperbolism, originality, planetary comparisons and metaphors. Their excess sometimes creates difficulties for perception. M. Tsvetaeva, for example, who loved Mayakovsky's poetry, believed that “it is unbearable to read Mayakovsky for a long time because of purely physical waste. After Mayakovsky, you need to eat a lot and for a long time.

K.I. drew attention to the difficulty of reading and understanding Mayakovsky. Chukovsky: “The images of Mayakovsky surprise, amaze. But in art, this is dangerous: in order to constantly amaze the reader, no talent is enough. In one poem by Mayakovsky we read that the poet licks a red-hot brazier, in another that he swallows a burning cobblestone, then he takes his spine out of his back and plays it like a flute. It's stunning. But when, on other pages, he pulls out his living nerves and makes a butterfly net out of them, when he makes himself a monocle out of the sun, we almost cease to be surprised. And when he then dresses the cloud in his pants (the poem "The Cloud in Pants"), he asks us:

Here, / do you want, / from the right eye / I will take out a whole flowering grove ?!

The reader doesn't care anymore: if you want - take it out, if you don't want - no. You won't get past the reader. He's numb." 5 In his extravagance, Mayakovsky is sometimes monotonous, and therefore few people love his poetry.

But now, after the stormy disputes about Mayakovsky that have recently died down, the attempts of some critics to throw Mayakovsky himself off the steamer of modernity, it is hardly worth proving that Mayakovsky is a unique, original poet. This is a poet of the street and at the same time the most subtle, easily vulnerable lyricist. At one time (in 1921) K.I. Chukovsky wrote an article about the poetry of A. Akhmatova and V. Mayakovsky - the "quiet" poetry of one and the "loud" poetry of another poet. It is quite obvious that the verses of these poets are not similar, even polar opposites. Who does K.I. prefer? Chukovsky? The critic not only contrasts the verses of the two poets, but also brings them closer, because they are united by the presence of poetry in them: “I, to my surprise, equally love both Akhmatov and Mayakovsky, for me they are both mine. For me there is no question: Akhmatova or Mayakovsky? I like both that cultured, quiet, old Rus', which Akhmatova embodies, and that plebeian, stormy, square, drum-bravura, which Mayakovsky embodies. For me, these two elements do not exclude, but complement each other, they are both equally necessary.