To Russia (The Overseas Ostrich) - Vladimir Mayakovsky

Here I come,

in feathers of stanzas, meter and rhyme,

an overseas ostrich, in sum,

is what I’m.

Trying, do I, my poor noggin to hide,

to deep under jangling of plumage abide.

I’m not yours, you snow-smothered monstrosity!

Deep, burrow deep

into feathers’ loquacity,

deep, o my soul, and what do I see?

A new native land

with a dearth of ferocity,

A scorched southern beastliless

Realm of whoopee.

Isle of white heat,

Ovations of palms, clapping their fronds, yea!

But then, “Hey,

Make way, deadbeat!”

They crumple and stomp creativity.

And on again off am I’m,

bound for oasis, my locomotivity,

weaving in sandiness footsteps of time.

Some shrink away,

seem ready for flight.

“Hadn’t we better go?

Might it not bite?”

Others kowtow and suck up to and fro.

“Momma,

Say, Momma,

does it lay eggs, poop doo?

I don’t know, smoochikins;

I’d bet that it do.”

Floors let out whinnies and hootikins,

Alleyways pop out their eyes into stares,

Frigidness drenches me wet with arrears,

While fingered by smokiness, bristling with cares,

I keep loading

and transporting years.

Go on! Grab me in your vile-ice grip!

Shave off my plumage with razor of wind.

Let me just blow away —

alien-ostriched, overseazed

scrap of scrip —

into your raving Decemberness freezed.

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Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893 - 1930) Georgia

Translated by U. R. Bowie

Source: RuVerses