Brooklyn Bridge
VLADIMIR MAYAKOVSKY, who was born in 1893 and died in 1930, was one of the most exciting poets during the last years of the czars and the first decade of the Soviet Union. This poem, written during his three months’ visit to the United States in 1925, is taken fromTHE BEDBUG AND SELECTED POETRY by Vladimir Mayakovsky, edited by and with an introduction by Patricia Blake.
Give, Coolidge,
a shout of joy!
I too won’t spare words
about good things.
a shout of joy!
I too won’t spare words
about good things.
Blush
at my praise,
go red as our flag,
however
united-states-
of-America
you may be.
As a crazed believer
enters
a church,
retrea’s
into a monastery cell,
austere and plain;
so I,
in graying evening
haze,
humbly set foot
on Brooklyn Bridge.
As a conqueror presses
into a city
all shattered,
on cannon with muzzles
craning high as a giraffe,
so, drunk with glory,
eager to live,
I clamber,
in pride,
upon Brooklyn Bridge.
As a foolish painter
plunges his eye,
sharp and loving,
into a museum madonna,
so I,
from the near skies
bestrewn with stars,
gaze
at New York
through the Brooklyn Bridge.
at my praise,
go red as our flag,
however
united-states-
of-America
you may be.
As a crazed believer
enters
a church,
retrea’s
into a monastery cell,
austere and plain;
so I,
in graying evening
haze,
humbly set foot
on Brooklyn Bridge.
As a conqueror presses
into a city
all shattered,
on cannon with muzzles
craning high as a giraffe,
so, drunk with glory,
eager to live,
I clamber,
in pride,
upon Brooklyn Bridge.
As a foolish painter
plunges his eye,
sharp and loving,
into a museum madonna,
so I,
from the near skies
bestrewn with stars,
gaze
at New York
through the Brooklyn Bridge.
New York,
heavy and stifling
till night,
has forgotten
its hardships
and height;
and only
the household ghosts
ascend
in the lucid glow of its windows.
Here
the elevateds
drone softly.
And only
their gentle
droning
tells us:
here trains are crawling and rattling
like dishes
being cleared
into a cupboard. While a shopkeeper fetched sugar
from a mill
that seemed to project
out of the water —
masts
passing under the bridge
looked
no larger than pins.
I am proud
of just this
mile of steel;
upon it,
my visions come to life, erect —
here’s a fight
for construction
instead of style,
an austere disposition
of bolts
and steel.
If
the end of the world
befall —
and chaos
smash our planet
to bits,
and what remain
be
this
bridge, rearing above the dust of destruction;
then,
as huge ancient lizards
are rebuilt
from bones
finer than needles,
to tower in museums,
so,
from this bridge,
a geologist of the centuries
will succeed
in recreating
our contemporary world.
He will say:
yonder paw
of steel
once joined
the seas and the prairies;
from this spot,
Europe
rushed to the West,
scattering
to the wind
Indian feathers.
heavy and stifling
till night,
has forgotten
its hardships
and height;
and only
the household ghosts
ascend
in the lucid glow of its windows.
Here
the elevateds
drone softly.
And only
their gentle
droning
tells us:
here trains are crawling and rattling
like dishes
being cleared
into a cupboard. While a shopkeeper fetched sugar
from a mill
that seemed to project
out of the water —
masts
passing under the bridge
looked
no larger than pins.
I am proud
of just this
mile of steel;
upon it,
my visions come to life, erect —
here’s a fight
for construction
instead of style,
an austere disposition
of bolts
and steel.
If
the end of the world
befall —
and chaos
smash our planet
to bits,
and what remain
be
this
bridge, rearing above the dust of destruction;
then,
as huge ancient lizards
are rebuilt
from bones
finer than needles,
to tower in museums,
so,
from this bridge,
a geologist of the centuries
will succeed
in recreating
our contemporary world.
He will say:
yonder paw
of steel
once joined
the seas and the prairies;
from this spot,
Europe
rushed to the West,
scattering
to the wind
Indian feathers.
Lithograph by Howard Cook. Courtesy of the Print Department, Boston Public Library.
This rib reminds us
of a machine —
just imagine,
would there be hands enough,
after planting
a steel foot
in Manhattan,
to yank
Brooklyn to oneself
by the lip?
By the cables
of electric strands,
I recognize
the era succeeding
the steam age —
here
men
had ranted
on radio.
Here
men
had ascended
in planes.
For some,
life
here
had no worries;
for others,
it was a prolonged
and hungry howl.
From this spot,
jobless men
leapt
headlong
into the Hudson.
Now my canvas
is unobstructed
as it stretches
on cables of string
to the feet of the stars.
I see:
here
stood Mayakovsky,
composing verse
syllabic by syllable.
I stare
as an Eskimo gapes at a train,
I seize on it
as a tick fastens to an ear.
Brooklyn Bridge — Yes . . .
That’s quite a thing!
of a machine —
just imagine,
would there be hands enough,
after planting
a steel foot
in Manhattan,
to yank
Brooklyn to oneself
by the lip?
By the cables
of electric strands,
I recognize
the era succeeding
the steam age —
here
men
had ranted
on radio.
Here
men
had ascended
in planes.
For some,
life
here
had no worries;
for others,
it was a prolonged
and hungry howl.
From this spot,
jobless men
leapt
headlong
into the Hudson.
Now my canvas
is unobstructed
as it stretches
on cables of string
to the feet of the stars.
I see:
here
stood Mayakovsky,
composing verse
syllabic by syllable.
I stare
as an Eskimo gapes at a train,
I seize on it
as a tick fastens to an ear.
Brooklyn Bridge — Yes . . .
That’s quite a thing!
Translated by George Reavey,