"A Cloud in Trousers," Part Two
Part two of the four part poem by Mayakovski, "A Cloud in Trousers," for Orchestra, Baritone, and chorus. In Russian. (Go to my Myspace page for the text in Russian). The text translated to English, by Andrey Kneller, for part two:
Composer for large-scale performance work, ballet and opera. Have written music for classical theatrical productions of Shakespeare, ("The Tempest," "The Twelft
Loren Lieberman is a native of Denver, Colorado, now living on the West Coast in California, where he is best known for his work as an actor in Classical and Shakespearean Theatre.
He has a degree from Sonoma State University in Theatre Arts, and has been an Honor's Music Composition Student at the College of Marin, Santa Rosa Junior College, and at Sonoma State University. He has won an award for composition from the Redwood Empire Music Association. He has recently completed an opera in Russian, based on the novel by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward", (and of the same name), and is currently working on his fourth opera, based on the Classical Tragedy by Sophocles, "Oedipus the King," with a libretto in Ancient Greek.
His interest in languages has shaped much of his artistic temperment, and he is self taught in Russian and Sanskrit, and has hopes to begin his next opera, Shakespeare's, "Romeo and Juliet," in Hindi.
Story behind the song
piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, bass clarinet, 2 bassoons, contra bassoon, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, two trombones, bass trombone, tuba, chorus (SATB), solo baritone, violins 1 and 2, viola, cello, contra bass, harp
Lyrics
A Cloud in Trousers
by Vladimir Mayakovsky
translated from the Russian by Andrey Kneller
Part II
Glorify me!
The great ones are no match for me!
Upon everything thata€™s been done
I stamp the word a€œnaught.a€
As of now, I have no desire to read.
Novels?
So what!
This is how books are made,
I used to think: --
Along comes a poet,
And opens his lips with ease.
Inspired, the fool simply begins to sing --
Oh please!
It turns out:
Before they can sing with elation,
On their calloused feet they tramp for some time,
While the brainless fishes of imagination
Are splashing and wallowing in the heart's slime.
And while, hissing with rhymes, they boil
All the loves and the nightingales in a broth-like liquid,
The tongueless street merely squirms and coils --
It has nothing to yell or even speak with.
In our pride, we work all day with goodwill
And the city towers of Babel are again restored.
But God
Grinds
These cites into empty fields,
Stirring the word.
In silence, the street dragged on the ordeal.
A scream stood erect on the gullet's road.
While fat taxis and cabs were bristling still,
Wedged in the throat.
As if from consumption,
The trodden chest gasped for air.
The city, with gloom, blocked the road rather fast.
And when --
Nevertheless! --
The street coughed up the strain onto the square
And pushed the portico off its throat, at last,
It seemed as if,
Accompanied by the choirs of an archangel's chorus,
Recently robbed, God would show us His heat!
But the street squatted down and yelled out coarsely:
Let's go eat!
The Krupps and the Krupplets gather around
To paint menacing brows on the city,
While in the gorge
Corpses of words are scatted about,--
Two live and thrive,--
"Swine"
And another one,--
I believe "borsch".
And poets, soaking in sobs and complaining,
Run from the street, resentful and sour:
With those two words there's no way to portray now
A beautiful lady,
Or love
Or a dew-covered flower.
And after the poets,
Thousands of others stampeded:
Students,
Prostitutes,
Salesmen.
Gentlemen,
Stop!
You are not the needy;
So how dare you to beg them, gentlemen!
Covering yards with each stride,
We are healthy and ardent!
Don't listen to them, but thrash them instead!
They,
Who are stuck like a free add-on
To each king-size bed!
Are we to ask them humbly:
Help us, please!
Imploring them for hymns
And oratorios?
We are the creators with the burning hymns
To the hum of the mills and laboratories.
Why should I care about Faust?
In a fairy display of the fireworks loot,
He's gliding with Mephistopheles on the parquet of galaxies!
I know--
A nail in my boot
Is more frightening than Goeth's fantasies!
I am
The most golden-mouthed,
With every word I am giving
The body a name-day,
And the soul a rebirth,
I assure you:
The minutest speck of the living
Is worth more than all that I'll ever do on this earth!
Listen!
The present-day Zarathustra,
Wet with sweat,
Is dashing around you and preaching here.
We,
With faces crumpled like a bed spread,
With lips sagging like a chandelier,
We,
The Leprous City detainees,
Where, from filth and gold, lepers' sores were raised,
We are purer than the Venetian azure seas,
Washed by the sunshin's balmy rays.
I spit on the fact
That Homer and Ovid didn't create
Soot-covered with pox,
Men like us all,
But at the same time, I know
That the sun would fade
If it looked at the golden fields of our souls.
Muscles are surer than prayers to us!
We won't pray for aid any more!
We--
Each one of us--
Holds in his grasp
The driving reins of the world!
This led to Golgotha in the auditoriums
Of Petrograd, Moscow, Kiev, Odessa,
And there wasn't one of you
Who wasn't imploring thus:
Crucify him!
Teach him a lesson!
But to me,--
People,
Even those of you who were mean,--
To me, you are dear and I love you with passion.
