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Too slow, the wagons of years, The oxen of days--too glum. Our god is the god of speed, Our heart--our battle-drum.

Vladimir Mayakovsky

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Vladimir Mayakovsky
Age: 36 †
Born: 1893
Born: July 19
Died: 1930
Died: April 14
Actor
Artist
Director
Film Actor
Film Director
Journalist
Painter
Playwright
Poet
Poster Artist
Printmaker
Stage Actor
Theatrical Director
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Vladimir Maiakovsky
Vladimir Mayakov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Majakovski
Wladimir Wladimirowitsch Majakovskij
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski
Vladimir Vladimirovic Mayakovskij
Vladimir Vladimirovič Majakovskij
Vladimir Mayakovsky
Impatience
Slow
Speed
Battle
Days
Glum
Heart
Oxen
Years
Wagons
Drum

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In the church of my heart the choir is on fire
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In our language rhyme is a barrel. A barrel of dynamite. The line is a fuse. The line smoulders to the end and explodes and the town is blown sky-high in a stanza.
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I want to be understood by my country, but if I fail to be understood - what then?, I shall pass through my native land to one side, like a shower of slanting rain.
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Were I as quiet as thunder, how I'd wail and whine! One groan of mine would start the world's crumbling cloister shivering. And if I'd end up by roaring with all of its power of lungs and more - the comets, distressed, would wring their hands and from the sky's roof leap in a fever.
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If you like I'll be furious flesh elemental, or- changing to tones that the sunset arouses- if you like- I'll be extraordinary gentle, not a man but - a cloud in trousers.
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Comrade life, let us march faster, March faster through what's left of the five-year plan.
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On the pavement of my trampled soul the steps of madmen weave the prints of rude crude words.
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Our planet is poorly equipped for delight. One must snatch gladness from the days that are. In this life it's not difficult to die. To make life is more difficult by far.
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The love boat has crashed against the everyday.
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Art must not be concentrated in dead shrines called museums. lt must be spread everywhere – on the streets, in the trams, factories, workshops, and in the workers' homes.
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A line is a fuse that's lit. The line smolders, the rhyme explodes— and by a stanza a city is blown to bits.
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On I’ll pass, dragging my huge love behind me. On what feverish night, deliria-ridden, by what Goliaths was I begot – I, so big and by no one needed?
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Gentle souls! You play your love on the violin. The crude ones play it on the drums violently. But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me And become just two lips entirely?
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Love's ship has foundered on the rocks of life. We're quits: stupid to draw up a list of mutual sorrows, hurts and pains.
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To us love says humming that the heart's stalled motor has begun working again.
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I understand the power and the alarm of words - Not those that they applaud from theatre-boxes, but those which make coffins break from bearers and on their four oak legs walk right away.
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If you wish, I shall grow irreproachably tender: not a man, but a cloud in trousers!
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There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me, There are no gray hairs in my soul! Shaking the world with my voice and grinning, I pass you by, - handsome, Twentytwoyearold.
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