Vladimir Mayakovsky
An amazing adventure of Vladimir Mayakovsky

at Pushkino, Akulov Hill,
Rumyantsev s dacha,
27 versts from Moscow
by Yaroslavl railway.

The sunset blazed like sixty suns.
July was under way.
The heat was dense,
the heat was tense,
upon that summer’s day.
The slope near Pushkino swelled up
into Akulov Hill,
while at the foot
a village stood,
roofs like a warped-up frill.
Behind the village
was a hole;
by evening, sure though slow,
into that hole
the sun would roll,
to sleep, for all I know.
And then,
next morning,
crimson-clad,
the sun would rise
and shine,
till finally it made me mad —
the same each blasted time!
Till once
so crazy I became
that all turned pale with fright.
“Get down, you loafer!”
to the sun
I yelled with all my might.
“Soft job, sun,” I went on to shout,
“this coming up to roast us,
while I must sit,
year in, year out,
and draw these blooming posters!”
“Look here,” I cried, “you Goldy-Head,
it’s time you changed your ways.
Why not step in for tea, instead
of rise, and set, and blaze?”
My lucky stars!
What have I done!
Corona, beams and all,
itself,
with giant strides
the sun
is coming at my call.
I try to cover up my fear,
retreating lobster-wise;
it’s coming,
it’s already near,
I see its white-hot eyes.
Through door and window,
chink
and crack
it crammed into the room.
Then stopped
to get its hot breath back,
and blimey, did it boom!
“I’m changing my itin’rary
the first time since creation.
Now, poet,
out with jam and tea,
else why this invitation?”
Myself scarce fit
to match two words,
half-barmy with the heat,
I somehow nodded
kettlewards:
“Come on, orb,
take a seat!”
That hollering won’t come to good.
My impudence be dashed!
Thought I
and sat
as best I could
upon the bench,
abashed.
But strange to say,
with every ray
I felt the stiffness ease,
and cramped formality gave way
to frankness by degrees.
I spoke of this
and spoke of that,
about the beastly ROSTA
“There, there,” he said,
“don’t sulk, my lad,
there’s things worse than a poster.
You s’pose it’s easier to shine
all day up there?
Just try.
But since the job’s been earmarked
mine,
my motto’s
do or die!”
This way till dark we chatted on,
till former night, precisely.
Huh,
dark indeed!
All shyness gone,
we got along quite nicely.
And pretty soon right chummily
I thump him on the shoulder,
and he hits back,
“Why, you and me,
that’s two, so let’s be bolder!
Come, poet, up!
Let’s sing and shine,
however dull the earth is.
I’ll pour the sunshine that is mine,
and you —
your own,
in verses!”
The walls of gloom,
the jails of night
our double salvo crushed,
and helter-skelter,
verse and light
in jolly tumult rushed.
The sun gets tired
and says good night
to sleep away his cares,
then I blaze forth with all my might,
and day once more upflares.
Shine up on high,
shine down on earth,
till life’s own source runs dry —
shine on —
for all your blooming worth,
so say
both sun
and I!

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg