Suffering Horses in Russian Literature MAYAKOVSKY, "Treating Horsies Nice"

Vladimir Mayakovsky
(1893-1930)

Хорошее отношение к лошадям 

Били копыта.
Пели будто:
- Гриб.
Грабь.
Гроб.
Груб.-

Ветром опита,
льдом обута,
улица скользила.
Лошадь на круп
грохнулась,
и сразу
за зевакой зевака,
штаны пришедшие Кузнецким клешить,
сгрудились,
смех зазвенел и зазвякал!
- Лошадь упала!
- Упала лошадь!-
Смеялся Кузнецкий.
Лишь один я
голос свой не вмешивал в вой ему.
Подошел
и вижу
глаза лошадиные...
Улица опрокинулась,
течет по-своему...

Подошел и вижу -
за каплищей каплища
по морде катится,
прячется в шерсти...

И какая-то общая
звериная тоска
плеща вылилась из меня
и расплылась в шелесте.
"Лошадь, не надо.
Лошадь, слушайте -
чего вы думаете, что вы их плоше?
Деточка,
все мы немножко лошади,
каждый из нас по-своему лошадь".
Может быть,
- старая -
и не нуждалась в няньке,
может быть, и мысль ей моя казалась пошла,
только
лошадь
рванулась,
встала нa ноги,
ржанула
и пошла.
Хвостом помахивала.
Рыжий ребенок.
Пришла веселая,
стала в стойло.
И все ей казалось -
она жеребенок,
и стоило жить,
и работать стоило.

1918 

Literal Translation (U.R.Bowie)

A Good Attitude Toward Horses (Treating Horses Well)

Horseshoes were pounding,

Seeming to sing:

Mushroom.

Plunder.

Coffin.

Coarse.

Drunk on the wind,

Shod in ice,

The street skidded.

Onto his croup

Came crashing

A horse,

And immediately,

One gaper after another,

Their trousers walking in to bell-bottom Kuznetsky [Kuznetsky Most, major street in Moscow],

They came in throngs,

Their laughter rang and clattered.

“A horse has fallen;

“A horse is down,”

Laughed Kuznetsky.

I alone

Did not blend my voice into that howl of his.

I walked up

And I saw

Equine eyes…

The street tipped over,

Flowed along on its own… [street as if reflected upside down in the horse’s eyes]

I walked up and saw:

One huge drop, then another huge drop

Down the snout dripping,

Hiding itself in the hair…

And some kind of universal

Animal anguish,

Splashing, flowed out of me

And went running and rustling.

“Horse, now don’t.

Horse, listen [using the polite ‘you’ in addressing the animal].

Why do you think that you’re worse than them? [substandard: How come you think you’re worsen…]

Kiddo,

We’re all at least a little bit horses;

Each of us is in his own way a horse.”

Maybe

She was old

And did not need a nanny;

Maybe my very thought she took as vulgar,

Only

The horse

Lurched,

Got up on her feet,

Whinnied,

And set off.

Swishing her tail,

A red-headed kid.

Merrily she arrived,

Stood in her stall.

And all the time it seemed to her

That she was a colt,

That life was worth living,

And work was worth working.

â

Translation by Andrey Kneller                                   Kindness to Horses The hooves stomped faster, singing as they trod: --Grip. Grab. Rob. Grub. - Wind-fostered, ice-shod, the street skidded. Onto its side, a horse toppled, and immediately, the loafers gathered, as crowds of trousers assembled up close on the Kuznetsky, and laughter snickered and spluttered. --“A horse tumbled!” --“It tumbled -- that horse!” The Kuznetsky cackled, and only I did not mix my voice with the hooting. I came up and looked into the horse’s eye... The street, up-turned, continued moving. I came up and saw tears, -- huge and passionate, rolling down the face, vanishing in its coat... and some kind of a universal, animal anguish spilled out of me and splashing, it flowed. “Horse, there’s no need for this! Horse, listen,-- look at them all, - who has it worse? Child, we are all, to some extent, horses,-- everyone here is a bit of a horse.” Perhaps she was old and didn’t want to be nursed, or maybe, she took in my speech with a scoff, but the horse, out of nowhere, suddenly burst, heaved to its feet, and neighing, walked off. Wiggling its tail, with its mane shining gold, It returned to the stall, full of joyful feelings. She imagined once more that she was a colt, and work was worth doing and life was worth living.

                                                               TRANSLATION BY U.R.BOWIE

Translator’s Note

My translations of poetry from the Russian are far from literal. I often go to the opposite extreme, and this Mayakovsky translation is one of the freest that I’ve done. It’s an original poem in English, based on the themes of Mayakovsky’s poem, on his rhythms, rhymes, his neologisms. Although I sometimes change lines, even add things on, I don’t think that I traduce Mayakovsky. If anything, my poem remains truer to the spirit of his than other, more literal, and—on the surface—more “faithful” translations.

 

Treating Horsies Nice

Hoofbeats were pounding out,

Seeming to sing:

Grip

Grab

Rude

Rip.

Shit-faced on wind,

Brogans in ice,

The street lost its grip

On the ground.

Down on his rump

Came crashing a horse.

Their trousers bell-bottomous

Sweeping the street,
Gapers and lollygags
Gathered around.

Guffawers, hehawers,

Jack-assèd grin-jawers:

“What a lark!

It’s a gas!

A horse done fell down

On his ass!”

I was the onliest beast in the pack

Who eschewed sneeriness,

Lewd smirks and leeriness.

Strolls up, does I,

Takes a look in the eye

Of Horsiemus fallimus…

The street in that eye

Upside-down rolled awry.

Walked up, does I

And I seen:

Horsie-tears, big and hot,

Down the snout dribbly-drop,

Damping the horsie-hair wet…

And some sort of generalized

Animal anguish

Came rustling and

Splashing

From out of my

Sanguinished

Soul:

“Listen now, horsie,

Kiddo, don’t cry.

You’ll have your neigh

At the sky by and by.

How could you think

Your life’s badder than theirs?
Horsiekins, all of us

Have in us dorkiness;

Humanness often is worsen

Than horsiness.”

Could be he was old,

And in need of no nanny,

Could be that my plea

Was insulting to he.

Anyways.

The horsie

Lurched up and

Stood tall

On his leggywegs,

Whinnied out sweet

And set off down the street.

Swishing his tail, well!

Don’t he look swell!

Happily made it home,

Stood in his stall,

Forgotten the fall,

Feeling a colt again,

Crunching his oats again:

“Ain’t life a ball

In spite of it all?”

June, 2018

Note on Mayakovsky

Written one hundred years ago, on the eve of the Soviet Era, this poem about the fallen horse in some odd way foreshadows Vladimir Mayakovsky’s suicide in 1930. A founder of the Futurist movement in Russian poetry, known before the Revolution for his wild antics and hooliganism, Mayakovsky accepted the new Soviet Union with alacrity, became its best spokesman. He is still known largely for his thunderous declamations of revolutionary poetry, with his macho-man stance, and his condemnation of the whole lyrical tradition in Russian literature.

But somewhere beneath all the bluster there was a truly lyrical poet, a “cloud in trousers” with a sensitive soul and a love for animals. He wrote poems in which he portrayed himself as a kind of freak, an animal tormented by the crudity of humankind. His letters to his mistress, Lilya Brik, are full of his childlike adoration of animals, and he signed off with drawings of small creatures, including himself as “puppy dog.”

Despite his position as champion of the U.S.S.R. and the new socialist life, he could not have failed to notice that the workers and peasants exalted in the age of the “New Man” were no less crass and cruel, no less ignorant than they had ever been. His famous play, “The Bedbug,” makes that point clearly. Critics have surmised that Mayakovsky actually witnessed the scene on Kuznetsky Most, described in the poem, and that he took the side of the horse, as does the poet/narrator.

See here for some recent commentary on Mayakovsky's poem:

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/tag/vladimir-mayakovsky/

Declamation of "Treating Horsies Nice" by six-year-old Elizaveta Bugulova, Moscow

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FA4nx_nfyfc