Mayakovskaya Station (Станция ‘Маяковская’), Semyon Kirsanov

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Semyon Kirsanov (1906-1972) was a disciple of Mayakovsky. He wrote this in 1939 to mark the opening of the Mayakovskaya Metro station – my favourite.

The futurists’ claim to eschew form seems questionable – when you cease to focus on the erratic line arrangement (unfortunately beyond my competence to reproduce accurately on WordPress), you find an almost consistent iambic metre here.

On latest
radial
of metro line
I’m again
rejoicing
to see it shine!
To poets’
meeting,
directly by
its lines
I’ll fleeting
by verses fly.
So steel
of stainless words
is cast afar
and
through the tunnel flies
like shooting star!
The words
were not turned to ice
by hands’ canter –
will marble’s
streaking splice
for drafts suffice!
In
vaulted cladded stone,
dark bright-lit bands,
a sunken
monument
to poet stands!
No crypt,
no statue, no
mere idol gold,
but glory’s
slender show
for verses bold!
Ablaze,
the tunnel’s shaking:
yet in the strife
will folk be taking
from verse
their life.
And heated
by the cheeks
of massing throng
it
for a long time won’t
be going wrong.
Oh,
he’s
not a show-off – don’t
suggest it!
On
the escalator there
he’s going
down.
So lost
in thought he goes
to buried home –
and reading
from his youth
a favourite tome!
So let the
rails stretch
for aeons here!
O Comrade Station, sketch
an emerald
sphere!
Oh, through
old Moscow’s depths’
new metro line
may
Mayakovsky’s verse
it shine
and shine!

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

На новом
радиусе
у рельс метро
я снова
радуюсь:
здесь так светло!
Я будто
еду
путем сквозным
в стихи
к поэту,
на встречу с ним!
Летит
живей еще
туннелем вдаль
слов
нержавеющих
литая сталь!
Слова
не замерли
его руки,-
прожилки
мрамора –
черновики!
Тут,
в сводах каменных,
лучами в тьму
подземный
памятник
стоит – ему!
Не склеп,
не статуя,
не истукан,
а слава
статная
его стихам!
Туннель
прорезывая,
увидим мы:
его поэзия
живет
с людьми.
Согретый
множеством
горячих щек,
он
не износится
и в долгий срок.
Он
не исплеснится! Rhyme for won’t
Смотрите –
там
по строчкам-лестницам
он сходит
сам.
Идет,
задумавшись,
в подземный дом,-
в ладонях
юноши
любимый том!
Пусть рельсы
тянутся
на сотни лет!
Товарищ станция,
зеленый
свет!
Землей
московскою
на все пути,
стих
Маяковского,
свети,
свети!

Translation by Rupert Moreton

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