Analysis of the poem “Good” (V.V. Mayakovsky)

History of creation

The analyzed poem was written in 1827. This poem was dedicated to the tenth anniversary of the Great October Revolution. It is not for nothing that the poem “Good” was considered a kind of symbol of that time. The poet put his whole soul into the poem, talking about his experiences and thoughts. This material is presented in the form familiar to Mayakovsky - rough, but very understandable. This work did Mayakovsky a huge service, managing to protect him from the repression to which a large number of authors were then subjected.

Mayakovsky was not afraid of power or punishment. He was an ideological Bolshevik. Vladimir Vladimirovich really believed that Russia had a great future ahead. He sacredly honored the memory of his ancestors, calling on others not to forget them. It perfectly reveals the whole situation that was happening at that time.

Analysis of the poem by Good Mayakovsky

Vladimir Vasilyevich Mayakovsky is rightfully recognized as one of the most patriotic Russian poets. Of course, every poet was a patriot at heart, nevertheless, Vladimir Vasilyevich had a special attitude towards his homeland. Perhaps he is the only one who, despite his love for Russia, could openly express in his works everything he thought. With his works, he repeatedly showed the authorities that he did not agree with their methods of governing the country. And we must admit that his poems have been heard more than once.

One of the most popular works written in the style of symbolism is considered to be the work “Good!” The first thing I would like to note is that this poem was written on the eve of the decade of the Great October Revolution.

At its core, this work is a kind of excursion into history. He is very loved by historians and specialists working in this field. Since it perfectly conveys the main historical facts that influenced the situation at this moment in Russian history.

In order to show everything more vividly and colorfully, the author uses a large number of different literary techniques. The author did not spare any effort or time, and did everything possible to make this work more valuable from a historical point of view.

The poem consists of 19 parts, each of which is continuously connected to each other, which ultimately gives the feeling of a complete, complete and even laconic work.

Despite the fact that there is an element of irony in the work, in the depths of his soul, Vladimir Vasilyevich is sure that Russia is a great country and that it is the standard to follow, and an example that, of course, many should follow.

In conclusion, I would like to say that this work is very interesting, instructive, and so on.

Genre, size

This author worked in futurism. Ego poetry cannot be confused with the poetry of another poet. The use of the tonic method of versification played a big role in this. In his works, he revealed more and more new topics that worried the society of that time. Revolutionary ideas can also be traced in the author’s work. His texts are often written rudely, harshly, using swear words. Vladimir Vladimirovich also uses occasionalisms, is constantly moving somewhere, and the size of his writing is unusual. He uses new phrases that the public is not used to. Thanks to the combination of all these factors, we can safely say that this is modernism.

As for the genre, the poem is written in the lyric-epic genre. But due to the fact that the author uses accurate historical data, the work can be classified as a chronicle poem.

Images and symbols

The time the author talks about is rich in various heroes.

The images of Miliukov and Kuskov reflect a revived era. The poet makes fun of them; for this he uses a reworking of a scene from the work “Eugene Onegin”.

The author also uses the image of Cossacks who conduct conversations related to the problems of that period.

The image of Alexander Blok reveals the typical nobility and intelligentsia.

In the image of Kolchak, Krasnov and Wrangel, Mayakovsky shows white commanders. He highlights their main features - cowardice, hypocrisy and cruelty.

The author specifically singled out one of the images - this is the image of Alexander Fedorovich Kerensky. He cruelly ridicules him in his work.

But the work also contains positive images. One of these images can be identified as revolution. He portrays it not just as a kind of rebellion, but also as a subsequent construction. There is also an image of new art, which has also undergone changes. But these changes were only beneficial. New creativity is fresh and relevant.

There is also an image of a party, which the poet shows as somehow strong and powerful. This force was aimed at fighting the bourgeoisie.

The image of the Motherland is also glorified by Mayakovsky, who was a patriot of his region. He loves and appreciates his land, which can be easily seen from his work.

The images of Russian officers, whose activities the author was proud of, are also glorified.

In the image of the lyrical hero, who is shown as a simple working man, one can see the features of the author himself.

Themes

The main theme of the work is the theme of revolution. This event was necessary for the country, although it was quite difficult. The author shows how mood changes in different periods of history. Each part of the poem talks about different events. It's like a short story about this or that revolutionary figure, about his exploits, or vice versa.

The time described can be called a turning point in the life of the state. Values, leaders and attitudes have changed. It was a truly important time for the fate of the people and the state.

The topic of how the new state was built is also revealed. The author does not show that it was easy. No, he describes all the difficulties that had to be overcome in creating a new and perfect world. This is a time of technological development, equality and fair decisions. Here you can clearly see how proud Mayakovsky is of his Motherland. He shows all the joy that his country has begun to develop for the better!

The theme of patriotism also occupies an important place in the poem “Good”. Vladimir Vladimirovich was a clear patriot who loved his Motherland very much. He loves her any way - hungry, destroyed. Mayakovsky is proud of what his country has gone through, so he is especially happy about the changes that will lead his beloved state to a better and brighter future.

Popular retellings today

Mikhailovsky Groves - a summary of Paustovsky's story
The author loves to visit the Pushkin Nature Reserve. When he was there for the first time, he found a sign in the grass that had once been signed by the genius himself. Now such landmark signs with stanzas from the poet’s poems are scattered throughout the territory of Mikhailovsky
Find - summary of Zoshchenko's story
Misha's sister Lelya found an empty candy box in the house and put a spider and a frog in it. They then wrapped the box in paper and tied it with a pretty ribbon. When the package was ready, the children placed it on the sidewalk near the fence
Phaedra - a summary of Racine's tragedy
Hippolytus was born an Amazon from King Theseus. The young man decides to find his father. Theseus at this time was already living with his second wife, Phaedra, and children. Phaedra immediately disliked her stepson, so he wants to leave the palace.
Consuelo - a summary of Sand's novel
All events take place in the second half of the 18th century. The main character, singer Consuelo, appears before us. The girl was of gypsy origin.

Problems of the work

The author shows the civil war as the first problem. Due to this event, a large number of lives were lost. Mayakovsky laments that ordinary, working people, on whose shoulders the entire well-being of the country rests, died. People who considered themselves among the elite did not risk their lives. The author shows all the realities that the Russian people had to face.

The second problem Vladimir Vladimirovich shows is hunger and poverty. Because of the hostilities, the cities had a very hard time. They became cut off from food supplies, which led to famine. People died from the cold and lack of food. Using the example of his beloved, the author shows the physical condition of people. They were exhausted both externally and internally. But people were still full of determination and were going to stand until the end.

Mayakovsky ridicules a large number of political movements. In them he sees one feature that unites them. They all together serve the bourgeoisie, which needs absolutely nothing except the safety of its fortune.

Fine! V. V. Mayakovsky

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October poem “Good!” V. Mayakovsky with illustrations by N. Dolgorukov

October poem.

Time is an unusually long thing - there were times - the epic times have passed. No epics, no epics, no epics. Fly by telegram, stanza! Take a sore lip and drink from the river called “Fact.” This time is buzzing with a telegraph string, this heart and truth are together. It was with the fighters, or the country, or in my heart. I go so that, having been with this book, I will walk out of the apartment world again on the shoulders of machine-gun fire, like a bayonet, flashing a line. So that from a book, through the joy of the eyes, from a happy witness, a building and rebellious force flows into tired muscles. We will not hire anyone to sing this day. We will crucify the pencil on the sheet so that the rustle of the pages, like the rustle of banners, rustles above the foreheads of the years.

“End the war! Enough! Will! It’s unbearable in this hungry year. They lied: “people - freedom, forward, era, dawn...” - and in vain. Where is the land, and where is the law to give the land away by summer? - No! What do they give for February, for work, for not fleeing from the front? - Shish. There are a bunch of Guchkovs, devils, ministers, Rodziankas around our necks... Fuck them! The power turns its snout on the rich - why obey it?! Hit!!” Now in thunder, now in whispers, this murmur crawled out of the Kerensky prison-sieve. I walked to villages along grasses and paths, and gnashed my teeth with steel in factories. Other people's parties were thrown away. - What did they do with gathering chatterboxes?! - And they gave pennies, and strength, and votes to the Bolsheviks. Glory reached the very earthen head of the peasant - it flowed and became known that there were some kind of "big men" - oooh! Force! —

Rastrelli built the palace for the kings. Kings were born, lived, and grew old. The palace did not think about the fidgety shooter, did not guess that some kind of attorney at law would be stretched out in the bed entrusted to the queens.

The eagles, the power, the blankets and the lace make the begging attorney's head spin.

Having forgotten both classes and parties, he goes to the duty speech. His eyes are Bonaparte and the color of a protective French jacket. Words and words. Fire lava. Chatting with a joyful magpie. He himself is more intoxicated with his glory than with forty degrees. Listen until you get tired, as another adjutant chirps: “There have been such cases - he is driving in a car. Having learned who and who, the crowd unharnessed their engines! Instead of horsepower, she carried it in her arms!” The prime minister will float over Nevsky in a splash of applause. both ladies and paunchy children throw flowers and roses. If he becomes sad due to unemployment, he confidently and quickly appoints himself either to the military, or to justice, or to some other minister. And again he returns, having said, to move things around and turn around the treasury. He draws up signatures with dignity and diligence. “Agricultural? Disorder? Row? Send this what's-his-name punitive squad! Lenin? Bolsheviks? Arrest and catch! What? Do not give? I can't hear without glasses. By the way... about His Excellency... Kornilov... Is it possible to bring the Cossacks here?! Their Majesty? I know. Well, yes!.. And he shook his hand. What nonsense! Emperor? To the water? And the black crust? What does the Council have to do with it? I order you there, to London, to King George.” Sewn to the story, numbered and fastened, and drawn by both Brodsky and Repin.

Petersburg windows. Blue and dark. The city is shackled with sleep and peace. BUT Madame Kuskova is not sleeping. Love and passion returned to the old lady. Bed and dreams are pinkish in the east. The yellowed shavings of her hair were intricately glued together with tearful delight. Why is this girl drying up and withering? He is silent... but the feeling is apparently great. She is consoled by a mustachioed, seasoned nanny, Pe En Milyukov. “I can’t sleep, nanny... It’s so stuffy here... Open the window and sit with me.” - Kuskova, what’s wrong with you? - “I’m bored... Let’s talk about old times.”

- About what, Kuskova? I used to keep in my memory a lot of old tales and fables - both about kings and queens. And I, with my frail little mind, would crown Mikhail. Why take someone else’s dynasty... Don’t you listen to me?! - “Oh, nanny, nanny, I’m sad. I'm sick, my dear. I’m crying, I’m ready to sob...” - Lord have mercy and save... What do you want? Ask. So that you don’t sulk at us, we’ll give you freedoms and constitutions... Let me sprinkle the speeches with water on the burning rebellion... - “I’m not sick. I... you know, nanny... is in love...” “My child, God be with you!” And Miliukov baptized her with a prayer with a professor’s hand. “Leave it alone, Kuskova, in our age there is no point in loving for nothing.” “I’m in love,” she whispered again in the professor’s ear. - Dear friend, you are unwell. - “Leave me, I’m in love.” - Kuskova, your nerves, - get some treatment... - “Oh, nanny, he’s so eloquent... Oh, nanny, nanny! nanny! Oh! They carry him in their arms And how he sings about freedom... I want to go with him, if not with him, then into the water.” The old woman pokes at the pillow, and all you can hear is: “Sasha! - Darling!” Wiping away his tears with his sleeve, the mustachioed nanny roared: -Who? Yes, speak wide open! - “To Kerensky...” - Which one? To Sashka?” And from such a confession Miliukova’s face blurred. The professor came to life with happiness: “Well, it’s the same thing!” Under Nikolai and under Sasha, we will maintain our income. - Perhaps you have seen similar ladies on the banks of the Neva?

Clinking with pre-war forged spurs, hung with aiguillettes up to the navels, the adjutant (at Selecte on Ligovka) and the captain Popov spoke. “Mr. Adjutant, don’t mind, I won’t give it to you,” tell me, what else are we waiting for? The Jews are selling Russia to the Jews, and the career officers are already under the Jews! You, of course, are a professor and a liberal, but please leave the Cossacks alone. For example, taking my position, this is... the devil knows what it is! Today with the orderly: I yell at him - hey, get some shibboletina so that you can see the snout in it! - And of course - to mother, and he to me, to mother, to the world to Elizaveta Kirillovna! “No, I’m not for a monarchy with crowns and eagles, BUT socialism needs a basis. First democracy, then parliament. Culture is needed. And we are Asia, sir! I'm even a socialist. But I don’t rob, I don’t burn. Is it possible right away? Of course not! Gradually, little by little, one inch, one step at a time, today, tomorrow, in twenty years. And these? From Wilhelm there are crosses and ribbons. In Berlin we got off with a platform ticket. Headquarters money - spies and agents. Those who travel with a sealed one would go to Kresty!” “I agree with this, of course, this bastard won’t be hanged enough.” “Lenin, who sows confusion, is the chairman of, perhaps, the Council of Ministers? What you?! Has old lady Rasseya gone crazy? Take castor oil! Get better! Get well! Thanks to the dexterous politicians, the officers - Suvorov, Golenishchev-Kutuzov - should be under the command of the capless Bronstein, some pantsless Levka?! Pipes! There are no jokes with the Cossacks - we let them go...” And all the adjutant - ha yes hee - Popov - hee yes ha. - “Be cursed twice and stab three times! Mr. Adjutant, allow me to listen: their... Excellency... was picked up by Kaledin, from the Don, with a whip, if you please, take a sniff! His Excellency... Is he really alone?! Kuban Cossacks, Dnieper, Don...” And all with glasses - ding and ding, and spurs - ding and don. The captain drank like an owl. The servants silently served the teapots. And at the end of Ligovka, other words rose from the basements. “I, comrades, am from the military bureau. The meeting ended, just like that. Take two hundred for your Mauser, and that’s one hundred rounds of rifle cartridges. While the compromisers covered their mouths, Kasatchina and Samokatchina approached. St. Petersburg residents were ordered to go to the fronts, but they were sent here from Gatchina. For those from the Vyborg side, you should enter from the Liteiny Bridge. At dusk, thinner than a treble string, do not make noise and do not make a drinking establishment. I pick up the phone for Lashevich - if we don’t strangle, they’ll strangle us. Either I’ll take the phone, or get out of my proletarian soul. He arrived with a torn coat, walking around, not recognized by anyone. Today, he says, it’s too early to get up. And the day after tomorrow is too late. Tomorrow, that is. Well, we can't do them any good! Kerensky will be beaten and stripped! We’ll get this same Alexandra Fedorovna out of the Tsar’s bed.”

As always, October was blowing with winds like they blow under capitalism. Cars and trams blew past Troitsky, sweeping away the usual rails. Under the Neva-River Bridge, the Kronstadters are sailing along the Neva... The rifles say that Winter will soon stagger.

In a frenzied car, the tires knocked down, quiet, like a packed pipe, the former, huddled behind Gatchina, ran away - “To the horn, to the ram!” Rebellious slaves!..” The eyes of rare stars see, surrounding the Winter Palace in rings, along Milionnaya the Kexholmites are approaching from the barracks. And in Smolny, thinking about the battle and the army, Ilyich, in makeup, takes small steps, and in front of the map, Antonov and Podvoisky stick flags into the attack sites. It’s better to leave power to goodness, you can’t escape anywhere! From all the outposts the Red Guards are marching towards the Winter.

Detachments of workers and sailors arrived naked, finishing at the bayonet, as if hands were on the throat, the well-groomed throat of the palace. Two shadows stood up. Huge and shaky. We moved. Forehead to forehead. And the palace courtyard squeezed the torsos of the crowds with the arms of the bars. Two huge shadows swayed from the wind and high-speed bullets, and machine guns, like the crunch of broken bones. The standing Pavlovians are angry. “They started... dabbling in politics... Where are Bochkarev’s fools against us?! They would order an assault.” But the shadow struggled, tangling its paws, and no one separated the paws or tore them. Unable to bear the silence, the weak gave up - he left from fear, from nerves. The first, overcome by fear, was the women's battalion. The Mikhailovites or Konstantinovites left the batteries by eleven... But Kerensky hid, try to lure him out! The Cossack head was thinking. And the defenders of Winter Palace thinned out like the teeth of a comb. And this silence lasted for a long time, the silence of hope and the silence of despair. And in the Winter Palace, in upholstered furniture with bronze twists, ministers in copper plaques sit, and there is the smell of being clean-shaven. They don’t look at them and don’t listen to them - they are at bayonets in the forest. They will fall like an overripe pear as soon as they are shaken. The voice is rare. Whispers, signs. - Is Kerensky somewhere? - He? Behind the Cossacks. - And again silently And only in the evening: - Where is Prokopovich? - There is no Prokopovich. - And from behind the Nikolaevsky cast-iron bridge, the unkind steel of the Auror towers looks like death.

And then Konovalov’s face rose high above the collar. The noise that flowed like a spring now came like a surf. Who is this long?.. I was able to reach it! Each glass is hit with a stick. It was from three-inch guns that the forts of Peter and Paul forts were thrown away. And above, the city seemed to have been blown up: Auror’s six-inch gun went off. And before it had time to crumble, loud and menacing, a lantern soared over Petropavlovskaya, a symbol of uprising. - Down! Attack! Forward! Attack! - They burst in. On the carpets! Under a gilded roof! They took each ledge of each staircase, stepping over the cadets.

It was as if the rooms were full of water, flowing, merging over every loss, and contractions flared up hotter than midday behind every sofa, at every curtain. Along this enfilade, with greetings to the monarchs bearing treasure crowns, boots and rifle butts thundered and beat through the velvet halls and rolling corridors. Some embarrassed son of a bitch, and above him a Putilovite, more tender than a father: “You, boy, lay out the stolen watch - the watch is now ours!” The stomping grew and those thirteen were grabbed, beaten, knocked down, and stuffed. Huddled under a tie - what should they do? - It was as if an ax was hanging over the back of the head. Two hundred steps away... thirty... twenty... A cadet runs in: “It’s stupid to fight!” Thirteen squeals: -Give up! Surrender! - And at the door - pea coats, overcoats, sheepskin coats... And into this silence the bass rolled out to its fullest, strengthened above the yardarms: “Which ones are temporary here? Get off! Your time is up."

And one of those who burst in, touching his pennies, announced as if it were something simple and uncomplicated: “I, Chairman of the Revolutionary Military Committee Antonov, declare the Provisional Government deposed.” And in Smolny the crowd, with their chests outstretched, covered the fireworks of information with song. For the first time, instead of: - and this will be... - they sang: - and this is our last... - There is no more than an arshin left until dawn, - the hands of the rays from the east are prayed for. Comrade Podvoisky got into the car and said wearily: “It’s over... to Smolny.” The machine gun fell silent. Good luck. The ringing hive fell silent from the bullets. The edges of the bayonets burned like stars, the stars of heaven on guard turned pale. The October winds were blowing, as always. Having swept the rails across the bridge, the trams continued their race under socialism.

On such nights, on such days, at such hours, the only people on the streets are poets and thieves. The ocean cast darkness over the world. Xin. Above the fires there is a drill. Petersburg, which was blown up, sank by submarine. And only when the brown twilight staggered from the burning whirlwinds did I remember again: there was a continuous storm from the sides and from the tops. The dusk looks like water, and so is a bottomless blue abyss. And then there’s the vision of Aurorov’s whale carcass. Machine gun fire cut across the area. The embankments are empty. And only the fires roar in the thick twilight. And here, where the earth is sticky from the heat, from fear or from ice, a soldier warms himself with his palms clenched near the fire. Fire fell on the soldier's eyes and fell on a tuft of hair. I found out, was surprised, and said: “Hello, Alexander Blok. Lafa to the futurists, the old tailcoat is falling apart at every seam.” Blok looked - the fires were burning - “ Very good

". Blok's Russia was drowning all around... Strangers, the haze of the north sank to the bottom, like debris and cans of canned food. And immediately he changed his face more meagerly, gloomier than death at a wedding: “They write... from the village... they burned... my... library in the estate.” Blok stared - and Blok’s shadow stared, standing up against the wall... As if both were waiting for Christ walking on the water. But Christ did not appear to Blok. Blok has sadness in his eyes. Alive, with a song instead of Christ, people from around the corner. Get up! Get up! Get up! Workers and farm laborers. Clamp the rifle in your iron hands, mower and blacksmith! Up - flag! Ratchet - get up! Enemy - lie down! The day is rubbish! For bread! For peace! For freedom! Take the factory from the bourgeoisie! Take the landowner's field!

Brotherhood, fighting platoon! Get lost, old man. To smithereens, to dust. Bay bar! Fuck! tah! Enough, enough, enough humility to carry on your humps. Tremble, capital's mutts! Shake, crowns on your foreheads!

Fat hedgehog fear is dead! Fuck! tah! Tah! tah! This song, sung in its own way, reached the deaf peasants - and the villages stood up, shaking with howls, crossing axes along the way. With a knife, the fierce landowner’s chik is in place. Mister landowner, pack your things! The time has come, come out, barefoot, raise your axes, raise your braids. Why is my Nina worse?! The ladies themselves. Bring a piano and a gramophone with a clock into the hut! Come, eagles! When I woke up, I was robbed. Meet you at the stake, see you off at the rake! The case between Stenka and Pugachev, get hotter! We will sweep away all the rich people's estates with a fireman. Let the rooster go! Raise your pitchforks! Eh, don’t go out, dear, go out! Damn he's related now! Heads - a head of cabbage. The chatter of machine guns pours out from the carts. “Oh, apple, clear color. Hit Belavo on the right, Krasnova on the left.” This whirlwind, from thought to trigger, and construction, and fire, the smoke was taken over by the party, directed, built into ranks.

The cold is great. Winter is healthy. But the blouses stuck to the sweaty ones. There are communists under the blouse. They are loading firewood. On a labor day. We will not leave, although we have every right to leave. We load firewood into our cars, on our way. We can leave at two o'clock, but we'll leave late. Our comrades need our firewood: our comrades are freezing. The work is difficult, the work is exhausting. No pennies for it. But we work as if we were making the greatest epic. We will work, enduring everything, so that life, hurrying the wheels of the days, runs in an iron march in our carriages, across our steppes, into our frozen cities. “Uncle, what are you doing here? so many big guys? - What? Socialism: free labor of freely assembled people.

The rich stand before our republic. But how to comprehend it?

And the questions that are perplexed are countless: what kind of “socialist” nation is this, and what kind of “socialist fatherland” is this? “We are powerless to understand your delight. What are they excited about? What are they singing about? What kind of orange fruits grow in your Bolshevik paradise? What did you know except bread and water, barely surviving from day to day? Of such a fatherland, is such smoke really so pleasant? Why are you going if they say “fight”? You can be torn apart by a bomb, you can die for the land, but how can you die for the common one? It’s nice for a Russian to hug a Russian, but you have lost the name “Russia”. What kind of fatherland is this for those who have forgotten about the nation? What is your nation? Comintern? A wife, an apartment, and a current account - this is the fatherland, paradise. For the sake of such a fatherland, we would understand both death and youth.” Listen, national drone, our day is good because it is difficult. This song will be the song of our troubles, victories, everyday life.

The policy is simple. Like a sip of water. Those who open their well-fed mouths understand that if a claw gets stuck in Russia, the whole bourgeois bird will be lost. Various bastards and bitches come out of the "Surte General", from the "Intelligence Service", "Defensives" and "Sigurants", sewing gray overcoats, putting bombs in backpacks. They crowded into the holds, settled on the decks, with money from the recruiting agency. They sail to Novorossiysk from Marseille, from Dover they sail to Arkhangelsk. With a song, with whiskey, full like a pig. Keels dug up cold waters. They watch submarines with periscopes. Cruisers are sailing, littering shells. And destroyers with mines are rushing around. And on top of all of them, with cannons of monstrous length, are super-dreadnoughts. Stinking disgustingly of various gases, having torn out the clouds with propellers, the hydros flutter from aircraft to aircraft. Sent capital of captains of scientists. They felt my throat and squeezed it. You bump into White, you bump into Black, into the Caspian, into the Baltic - wherever the ship bumps, the end of the ride. Stands the mistress of the seas, bulldog Britain. From all ends of the blockade, the ring and guns stare into the face. — The Reds don’t like it? Are they hungry? Eat your fill of fish by going to the bottom. “And those who wanted to rob on land, those who disembarked from the ships as infantry.” “We’ll drown you at sea, we’ll drown you on land.” - With someone else’s hands, the heat is rowing, the smoke of the fatherland is blowing out shoots - I’m putting in front the fooled guys, barons and princes who were not executed. Dig graves, accumulate coffins - Yudenich's army is heading towards St. Petersburg. The food in the convoys is delicious, the canned food is worth a pound. Tanks caterpillars on St. Petersburg rod. From the north comes Admiral Kolchak, pounding Siberian bread with his boot.

The workers are going to be shot, the priests are going to have fun, the blue Czechs are coming with him. The trenches chosen by machines, the Crimea was dug up by sappers, Wrangel is operating large-caliber weapons from Perekop. Sentimental ladies love colonels. Colonels love to talk at dinner. - I’m walking, they say (sips whiskey), and a dozen Bolshevik monsters are attacking me. One time, one time, another time - by the way, like a dandy, he saved the girl too. - Lady, ask the gray gelding - he raped Murmansk like that. Ask how the Dvina River, painted with blood, drained of corpses, with terrible luggage, went to Ice. How brave men shot a bunch of one communist, and even that one was twisted. How His Majesty's officers fled from the shots, clearing the shore. Like fiery feathers above gray huts and sleek hands tightly at the throats. But... “its e long way to Tiperary, its e long way to go!” The armies and fleets of the rich of the world, both these and those, were driven into the first republic of workers and peasants, with flashing shots, blazing bayonets... Damn you, rotten kingdoms and democracies, with your tarnished “fraternite” and “egalite”! Lead boiling water is pouring on us. We are alone and there is nowhere to hide. "Yankee Doodle boils about, Yankee Doodle Dandy." In the midst of rifles and guns there are voices, Moscow is an island, and we are on an island. We are hungry, we are beggars, with Lenin in our heads and a revolver in our hands.

Life rushes by, windy, simple, dry. I live in the houses of Stakheev, now Veesenkh. They brought, with a rifle clanking, the rich and the cash register. Now there are all kinds of people and classes. In winter, volumes of Shakespeare are stuffed into the bee stove. They click their teeth, - potatoes are a feast for them. And in the summer they listen to the asphalt with pennies in the window: - Transval, Transval, my country, you are all on fire! - I am boiling in this stone cauldron, and this life - and running, and fighting, and sleep, and decay - into the house floors reflected from toes to forehead, washed by a thunderstorm, just as a crowd is reflected by passing trams. I squatted down during the firing, with my eyes to the window in peace, so that I could see better, I swam in the small boat for three thousand days.

Speculators are walking around Glavtop. They will hug, kiss, kill for rupees. The responsible secretaries stomp their felt boots. Lumberjacks are behind the bread cards. Lots of work, little grief for them, a whole pound! - first category. They chop it and eat the linden tea. - We are not Filippov, we are used to it. There will be lunch, there will be dinner, and the whites will be repulsed from the gate.

I wanted to eat, tighten my belt, pick up the rifle and go to the front. - And by the way, irreplaceable. Knocking with his boot, he goes for rations. The board gave out apricots and jam. The rich are smarter, they eat at Zundelovich's. No cabbage soup, no porridge - steak with broth, your bread, one and a half million. The scientist is worse: he needs phosphorus, oil

on a saucer. But, as luck would have it, there is a revolution, but no oil. They are scientific. They will write and cure. Mandate, handwritten, Anatol Vasilich. Where there is bread and meat, they will come to you for an hour. The commissioner reads Lunacharsky’s mandate: “So... sugar... so... fat for you. Firewood... birch... drier logs... and a fur coat for general consumption. I'm asking you, comrade, point blank. If you want, take a hat. Everyone comes with a different whim. Take the horse’s leg for now!” Fur over the eyes, like Baba Yaga, they walk backwards on three legs.

Twelve square arshins of housing. There are four people in the room - Lilya, Osya, me and the dog Puppy. He took the tattered cap and pulled out the sled. - Where are you going? - I'm going to the restroom. To Yaroslavsky. Like a sail, a fur coat is suspended, it smells like a goat. I’m carrying a log in a sleigh, I took the broken fence. The log is a carcass, harder than stone. It's like a giant's swollen knee. I walk in with a log in my arms. Fogged up, soaked. I whittle with importance and decorum. The knife is rusty. I'm cutting. I'm happy. The heat in my head rises. The meadows are blooming, May is singing in your ears - this is the fumes stretching from under the black views. Four icicles curled up and fell asleep. People come, walk around, wake up. We barely woke up - we were burned out of the coals. There is a snowdrift at the window. The hunchback is looking. Aren't you frozen out yet? The frosts are setting in at night, the snow and boots are creaking. The firmament, leaning over my room, is drenched in the sea of sunset. Along the pink surface of the sea, to the south - clouds-ships. Over the surface, over the pink surface, drop anchors, to where the birch wood is burning. I have wandered a lot in warm countries. But only this winter did the warmth of love, friendship and family become clear to me. Just lying in such icy conditions, scraping your teeth together, you will understand: you cannot spare a blanket or a caress for people. The land where the air is like a sweet fruit drink, you leave it and rush along, wheeling, but the land with which you were frozen together cannot be stopped loving forever.

That winter, thin and severe, hid everyone who had gone to sleep forever. Where are the words? And in these lines I will not touch on the pain of the Volga. I take days from a number of days that are from a thousand days in my family. From the gray strip of days, they were driven by years - water workers - not very well-fed, not very hungry. If I wrote anything, if I said anything, it was the fault of my eyes, the sky, my beloved eyes. Round and brown, hot to the point of burning. The phone went crazy and slammed its head into my ear: my brown eyes were squeezed by a tumor of hunger. The doctor chatted - to make your eyes open, you need warmth, you need greenery. Not home, not for soup, but to visit my beloved, I carry two carrots by the green tail. I gave a lot of sweets and bouquets, but most of all the expensive gifts I remember were these precious carrots and half a log of birch firewood. Wet, skinny pieces of wood under the arm, slightly thicker than the average eyebrow. Cheeks are swollen. Slit eyes. Greenery and caresses came out of the eyes. More saucers, watching the revolution. It’s easier for me than for everyone - I am Mayakovsky. I sit and eat a piece of horsetail. The door creaks, crying. Younger sister. -Hello, Volodya! - Hello, Olya! - Tomorrow is New Year's - is there any salt? - I divide it and hang a damp pinch in my palms. Overcoming snow and fear, the sister slides, the sister walks, wanders three miles of Freshwater to salt unleavened potatoes. Nearby the frost went on and on. If you want to tickle me, give me a pinch. It arrived, but the salt didn’t fall out—it was frozen to my fingers. Shark behind the wall: “Go, wife, sell your jacket, buy millet.” The window - the snow is falling from it, the snow is soft, the foot is quiet. Bela, the bare capital rock. A skeleton stuck to the rock of the forest. And from behind the forest, a louse crawls into the sky into the sun’s shawl. The December dawn, exhausted and late, rises over Moscow with typhoid fever. The clouds have gone to the fat countries. Behind the cloud lies America. She lay there, lapping up coffee and cocoa. In your face, thicker than pig whims, rounder than restaurant dishes, from our poor land I shout: I love this land. You can forget where and when you grew your bellies and crops, but the land from which you both starved can never be forgotten!

Just under your ear there is a staircase of two hundred steps, - the messengers are carrying minutes along the stairs. The days came and stomped: “We have lived, here you are,” there is no fuel for the clockwork bellies. Smoke has darkened the heavenly varnish, right up to the chimney, right up to the nose, the locomotive is in skids. Having put colored patches on their felt boots, everyone who had been mobilized walked out of the gate, out of the iron mouth, again, clutching their shovels. We went out into the forest and tackled it together. Whether it was me or you, they dug it up, dug it up. And again the train rolls behind the snowy tablecloth. The body weakens without food and drink, they made a stretcher, their hands intertwined. Now start singing, and you can go home - yes, five frostbitten ones are put on your hands. Today, on the stairs, dirty and dim, philistine rumor pigs were digging around. Denikin approaches the Tula powder core itself. The townsfolk have put on their shoes, and whisper-voiced cook choirs are typing in the dust. - It will be... grainy!.. untold pounds... streams of tea, crackers, sugars. Little white ones are close, take care of the Kerenks! - But the city woke up, framed in posters, - it was the party calling: “Proletarian, on horseback!” And the Red squadrons are galloping south to catch up with Mamontov. Today the day ran in in a hurry, breaking the silence with a scream, a shot through the lung, often wheezing, fell and ended, bloody. Blood flowed down the steps onto the floor, froze with dust in half, and again dripped onto the floor in drops from under Kaplan’s bullet. The four-legged animals walked, the jackals squealed. Salop says to Chuika, sense to Salop: “The long-nosed pikes are fidgeting!” Soon they will eat everyone up! - And then they stared at the long trail of surnames and titles. The wind rips off the lists of those executed, tears them, twists them and sends them down the chimney. The paw of the class lies on the predator - Lubyanka paw Che-ka. -Freeze, enemies! Move away, superfluous ones! Common people! Attention! At the hearth! - A class of millions stood up for Ilyich against the white monster with fangs, and the best medicine poured into Lenin, healing this will. The inhabitants were buried behind their kitchens, behind their diapers. -Don't touch us, we're chickens. We are just midges, we are waiting for feeding. Close your mouth, time! We are ordinary people - put your shoes on us, and we are already for your power. - And in the morning the sky is the belfry! Yesterday, blaming a lie, the birds and the sun split into pieces: alive, alive, alive, alive! And again, in a succession of groovy days, people came running and asked. - Follow us - “one more effort.” From battle to labor - from labor to attacks - in hunger, in cold and nakedness they held what they had taken, so much so that blood came out from under their nails. I have seen places where figs and quinces grew without difficulty near my mouth - you treat those differently. But the land that you conquered and nursed half-dead, where you stand with a bullet, lie down with a rifle, where you flow like a drop with the masses - with such land you will go to life, to work, to celebration and to death!

A quiet Jew, Pavel Ilyich Lavut, told me: “I just came out of the door, I see them floating...” They are running through Sevastopol towards the smoking steamships. A day of sanding was like a year of hiking. At the roadstead there are transports and transports, fights, shouts, swearing, trash - volunteers are running, lifting up their porticoes - pure public and soldiers. Some have a canary, some have a piano, some have a wardrobe, some have an iron. The cadets, who are loyal people after all, pushed each other with their elbows and cursed at us. They forgot decency, abandoned fashion, some without a skirt, and some without socks. A man hits a lady in the face, a soldier knocks a colonel off the bridge. Our people pressed forward, rushed along the ramps, and the military train was loaded with porridge. Slamming the door, as dry as a report, he left the empty headquarters.

Looking at his feet, Wrangel walked with a sharp step in a black Circassian coat. The city was abandoned. The pier is bare. A six-oar boat stands at the pier. And over the white decay, as if falling from a bullet, the commander-in-chief fell on both knees. Having kissed the ground three times, he crossed the city three times. He jumped into the boat under the bullets... - Your Excellency, row? - Row! - They removed the oar. The engine stalled. The motorboat went cheerfully towards Almaz. A standard yacht flew by like a bullet. And in transports with overshoes, far away, in the back, they were dragged away, torn from the machine and plowing, winding up one and a half hundred knots in a day. From their homeland into the clutches of the Turkish police, to the Turks into the hole, into the narrow Dardanelles, tomorrow's Gallipoli sailed, yesterday's Russians sailed. There's a lot of time ahead. Shake everyone who is wearing a helmet. If you milk cows in Argentina, you will run through African pits. Alien waves rocked the transports, flags with a crescent moon were thrown into their eyes, and from the transports the yacht was being chased - “Asps, they stole the treasury and ran away, you bastards.” The crews already need to beware of stray bullets. Two American destroyers stood side by side in the roadstead. The admiral circled the edge of the shooting mountains with a pipe: - All right. - And they left at the tail of the retreating packs - guns towards the city, heading towards the Bosphorus. Roast in the ovens of the mountain sun. Flowers filled the air. Our people are singing from Dzhankoy, pouring out from Simferopol. Interrupting the bullets conversation. Waving the banners of battle, a battle song descends from the mountains with the Reds. She didn’t bend when the machine gun was crushing her, she stood up, fearless, in the leaden rain: “And with us is Voroshilov, the first red officer.” The cannons and sea witches are listening, flying into the propellers with everything pouring down from the mountains - “we are ready to die for SSER!” — The chief of staff wrinkles his forehead. The fingers of a gnarled hand bend the letters in disobedient ways: “Wrangel will be thrown into the sea. There are no prisoners." For now, that’s the end of both the telegram and the war.

We remembered - some were under-plowed, some were under-harvested, some had blast furnaces and the dawns were rising. And they went, wiping off sweat with their sleeves, placing patrols on the towers.

Neither duty nor verse will force us to praise everything that we do. I could demolish half of the fatherland, and rebuild half by washing it. I am with those who went out to build and revenge is a constant fever. I glorify the Fatherland, which is, but three times - which will be.

I love the size of our plans, the sweep of steps fathoms.

I rejoice in the march that we take to work and to battle. I see where the rubbish is rotting today, where there is only simple soil, I see a fathom, from under it communal houses are sprouting. And trust in natural gifts fades with a sad pood of hay, and hardened hearts turn to the tractors of the peasants. And the plans that used to be held up by a brake at forehead stations are today rising from the blue day, shaped by iron and stone. And I, like the spring of humanity, born in labor and in battle, sing my fatherland, my republic!

On nine Octobers and Mays, under the red flags of festive processions, I carried my heart with millions, confident and cheerful, proud and solemn. Here, under the mourning and splashing of black flags, while the blood of the murdered man was hot, he fled from anxiety, to the enemy’s shots, to remain silent and gloomy, and to scream and growl. I have been here in the pounding of drums and in the dead cold of tears and ice floes, and more often than not, just alone. The soldiers of the guard towers stand, raising their pointed helmets, and, with anger melting in the heads of the domes, they pretend to be churches, monastic rogues. It’s night and the moon is on our heads. She comes from somewhere... from where the Council of People's Commissars and the Central Executive Committee, having cut off a piece of the Kremlin from the night, crawls over the battlements. It crawls onto a smooth boulder, bows its head for a second, and again the harrier head is carried away from the bare stone. The frontal place is terribly uncomfortable for the heads. And the square was illuminated for me by the moonlight in radiance, in reality in the daytime... The wall and the woman with the banner bent over those who lay down under the wall. The cobblestones were doused with lunar nickel, the bayonets from the moon were harder and angrier, and, like piled-up books, his mausoleum. But no melancholy will draw me into this door, black and viscous, - I will not disturb my soul with its deadness - it beats, as it beat in hearts and temples, in a living human spring. But the graves don’t let me in, and the names stop me. I read gloomily: “Comrade Krasin.” And I see Paris and from the windows of Doriot... And Krasin rides, gray-haired and handsome, through the joy of the workers, the rustling sea. I saw this in almost an hour. Laughed. Filmed around... And Voikov falls,

oozing blood, and the newspaper became wet with blood. Behind him, in front of me for a short moment, the kind with which the portraits became familiar - in a crumpled overcoat, with a sharp beard, walked a man, iron and wiry. To a young man pondering his life, deciding who to make his life from, I will say without hesitation: “Make it from Comrade Dzerzhinsky.” Some lay down as bones, some as ashes under the feet of the walls... Otherwise there is no ashes. From labor, from hard labor and from bullets, and almost no one - from long years. And it seems to me that in the red churchyard the comrades are tormented by anxiety and poison. It walks through ashes, oozes through bones, comes out into the light through flowers and herbs. And the grass and flowers rustle in concern. - Tell me, are you here? Tell me, didn’t you pass? Are they moving forward? Aren't they worth it? - Tell me. Will today's resident of your republic complete the commune of light and steel? - Hush, comrades, sleep... Your teenage country is becoming more dazzling every spring, growing stronger, stronger and slimmer. And again there is a rustling in the ashen vase, the wreaths are babbling with tongues of ribbons: - And in their black Europe and Asia there is fear, drowsiness and chains? - No! In the world of violence and money, prisons and loops, your great shadows walk, awakening and leading. - Aren’t you attracted to the all-powerful mud? Hasn't officialdom spun a web in your brain? Tell me, is it safe? Tell me, are you united? Is the party force ready for battle? - Sleep, comrades, quietly... Who will take away your peace? Let us stand, bayonets bristling, with the first order: “Forward!”

I almost walked around the entire globe - And life is good, and living is good

.
And in our turmoil, combative, ebullient, it’s even better. The street winds like a snake. Houses along the snake. The street is mine. The houses are mine. Shops stand with their windows open. There are products in the windows: wines, fruits. From flies muslin. The cheeses are not left to sit. The lamps are shining. “Prices have been reduced! My cooperation began to take flight. We beat ourselves with pennies. Very good.
Breasts near the display piles of books.
My name is in the poetry section. I rejoice - my work joins the work of my republic. The dust was kicked up with a sponge tire - my deputies are in my car. To the red building For the meeting. Sit, don’t worry, in my Moscow City Council. Pink faces. The revolver is yellow. My police are protecting me. He rules with a rod so that he goes to the right. I'll go right. Very good
.
Above me is the sky. Blue silk! It's never been so good
. The clouds are hummocks, the pilots swam across. These are my pilots. I stood up like a tree. They will pour it in as soon as they go into battle, one by one. Eyes on the newspaper: well done, the Viennese. The bourgeoisie gets a kick in the ass. Court

tourniquet Zer gut. There is a fire going through the rustling paper. The prosecutors are shaking. How good!

The editorial is full of scab threats.
So that they might choke. Are they threatening? Fine.
The shelves are moving, in my sight.
Troops beat the sides of the drum. The leg is strong, the head is high. The guns are being imported, the Red Star soldiers are coming. Adapted the beat of the foot to the march: your enemies are yours and your enemies. Are they climbing? Fine.
Let's grind it into powder. Smoke drafts. Take care of the air. Puff-puff, puff-puff my factories. Flush, machine, loudly, so that it never stops talking - more than a sieve for my Komsomol members. The wind blew in the neighboring garden. Passed away in the spirit. How good! Outside the city there is a field. There are villages in the fields. In the villages there are peasants. Beard brooms. Dads are sitting. Everyone is cunning. He will plow the earth and write poetry.

No matter the farm, from early mornings, work is a pleasure. They sow, bake, and give me bread. They milk, plow, catch fish. Our republic is being built, it is standing on end. Other countries have a hundred. History is the mouth of the coffin. And my country is a teenager - create, invent, try! Joy is flowing. Shouldn't you give it to us?! Life is Beautiful and amazing. We can grow to be a hundred years old without getting old. Our vigor grows year by year. Praise, hammer and verse, the land of youth.

1927

Mayakovsky's poem "Good!" (“October 25, 1917”) Typewritten copy.

Mayakovsky's poem "Good!" Typewritten copy. Excerpt.

Thank you for reading Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky’s work “Good!”

Read all works by Vladimir Mayakovsky To the main page (full list of works)

Means of expression

Here we can see completely new, unusual techniques that Vladimir Vladimirovich introduced into his work. But the author does not deviate from the usual style - he uses a reduction in style, and also uses completely new vocabulary.

In this poem we can see the use of songs, which was an innovation in the work of that time. Vladimir Vladimirovich also uses sayings.

Mayakovsky uses metaphors very interestingly, which is also a distinctive feature of his work.

Basic meaning

The main idea of the work is that the revolution was a necessary phenomenon. Without her there was no future for the state and the people. Thus, the people defended their rights, achieving freedom and independence. They are tired of constant oppression and injustice.

The author also shows the tragedy of the entire state. People who decided to revolution were forced to go through suffering. Vladimir Vladimirovich competently takes the reader to that difficult time, giving him the opportunity to appreciate for himself all the hardships of that great time. People had a very difficult time going through all this, but nevertheless they continued to work, love and live on.

All those hardships that had been accumulating for years suddenly fell on the people of that time. Yes, they had to overcome a difficult time, but the final goal was worth it. People did not lose their faith, enduring what was happening with steadfastness and courage.

Analysis of Poem 2

Vladimir Mayakovsky is a patriot of his country, Russia. That is why they consider him that way, because he carries himself that way. For example, in his works, he always speaks out in favor of the people, Russia - his land. And even despite the fact that he is very controversial, since he often spoke very ambiguously towards the people and the public, as well as their opinions and decisions. Still, he always remained honest with himself, and this is always important, both for the person and for his readers.

A work whose genre is a poem is called Good. It came out for general flagellation in 1927. This poem subsequently came to be considered simply a symbol of the era itself. Since it well emphasizes all the shortcomings and miscalculations of the people who ruled and at least somehow influenced the opinions and decisions of the people. In addition, Mayakovsky presented the events of those times - to put it mildly, roughly speaking, and also - perhaps too honestly than expected. But Mayakovsky herself is considered a very extraordinary person, and besides, she is a very rude person in herself. And not everyone could understand the meaning and manner of his stories.

The poem itself consists of nineteen parts, which are very extensive in themselves, and contain a lot of information about the history of the time when he lived. The poet seems to be trying to show the reader what everyone was experiencing then, and what he himself experienced in that era. He also wants other people to subsequently be able to see in an unadorned form what happened then - at the time when he lived. And he succeeded perfectly.

The first chapter is dedicated to the First World War. Russia is a country in which no one wants to fight anymore, and everyone is only thinking about how this will all end. Then he notes how the war is going, and all other important events, and perhaps not so important ones. Mayakovsky describes everything - straightforwardly and rudely, as has been his nature since his birth.

Analysis of the poem Good according to plan