Mayakovsky gave a special place in the poem "A Cloud in Trousers", which we are analyzing, devoted to the theme of betrayal, which begins with Mary, and stretches across other areas: he sees life completely different, she smiles with her rotten grin, and he does not want to stay there at all where everyone is only interested in the entourage.

It is striking that Mayakovsky's poems are full of variety and he generously uses expressions and words that become new to the reader, although they are made from ordinary sayings that everyone knows. The color is created thanks to vivid images and double meanings that come to life under the thoughts of the readers. If you look at the triptych used in the poem, you can find the word "mock", which expresses aggression towards the one who reads, and this is none other than a representative of the bourgeoisie.

"Down with your art"

Let's continue the analysis of the poem "A Cloud in Pants", namely the second part. First, the author wants to overthrow those who became idols in art and who were extolled at that time, while Mayakovsky was writing a poem. In order to subvert these empty idols, the poet explains that only pain can give rise to real art, and that everyone can begin to create and see himself as the main creator.

Mayakovsky here operates with interesting complex adjectives, you can find both "cry-lipped" and "golden-ear". Or take "novorodite" for example: here the author compiled it from two others, bringing it closer in meaning to renewal and calling for action.

"Down with your system"

It is no secret that Mayakovsky spoke negatively about the political system, which just took its formation in the prime of the author as a poet. It is quite appropriate that the poet emphasizes one side or the other of the regime's weakness and stupidity with words such as “cursing,” “falling in love,” “things”. For example, you can think about belonging to things or about the verb "break through", with which Mayakovsky emphasizes decisive action, perseverance and speed.

"Down with your religion"

The fourth part is practically free from such difficult newly formed words, because the poet here simply conveys the specifics: no matter how he calls to love Mary, she rejects him, and then the poet becomes angry with God. He believes that one cannot rely on religion, given its venality, laziness, deceit and other vices.

Although Mayakovsky, and this is clearly seen in his analysis of the poem "A Cloud in Pants", introduces a revolutionary idea, it is clear that thoughts about pain, passion and experiences are concrete and dynamic. They also received a lot of attention. Undoubtedly, the poem analyzed by us has become the property of Russian literature; she splendidly and intelligible speech and turns expressed the revolutionary mood of the era of Mayakovsky.

During a tour of Russia, a group of futurists visited Odessa. V. Mayakovsky met Masha Denisova, fell in love, but love remained unrequited. The poet was deeply worried about his unrequited love. On the train, leaving Odessa, Mayakovsky read fragments of the poem "A Cloud in Trousers" to his friends.

The poem was completed with a dedication to Lilya Brik "You, Lilya". The original title of the poem - "The Thirteenth Apostle" was perceived by the censors as blasphemy against Christianity, in addition, it was indicated that Mayakovsky combined "lyrics and great rudeness" in the poem. In response, the poet promised to be "impeccably gentle, not a man, but a cloud in his pants." This phrase served as the basis for the new name. The 1915 edition had a subtitle - tetraptych (work in 4 parts). Each part expressed denial: “Down with your love!”, “Down with your art!”, “Down with your system!”, “Down with your religion!”.

Researchers call the poem "A Cloud in Trousers" the pinnacle of the pre-revolutionary work of V. V. Mayakovsky, in which the theme of love is combined with the themes of the poet's and poetry's significance in society, attitudes towards art and religion. Lyric and satirical notes are noted in the poem, which gives the work a dramatic sound. In general, this is a love poem. The introduction emphasizes the motives of the lyrics and the reasons for the tragedy of V.V. Mayakovsky (opposition lyric hero crowd, "bold").

The first part of the poem is a cry of discontent: "Down with your love!" What is behind this denial? The lyrical hero is waiting for a meeting with Maria, but she is not and is not. The heart of the lyric hero is in anguish and anxiety, this is expressed through his vision of the world around him: the evening "leaves", giving way to the darkness of the night; candelabra "laugh and laugh" in the back of the outgoing evening, etc. All this is presented on a larger scale, and the lyrical hero is a "sinewy mass", "lump". Maria comes and says: "You know, I'm getting married." The poet compares the theft of his beloved with the abduction of the "La Gioconda" from the Louvre.

In the second part of the poem, Mayakovsky turns to the theme of art, which does not want to see the suffering of people. The beggars and cripples (the heroes of the early lyrics) demand attention to themselves. Poets shun them, and Mayakovsky believes that they are "cleaner than the Venetian lazuli".

The theme of the poet and poetry sounds stronger and stronger. V. Mayakovsky opposes himself to the "poetics" - "... I am where there is pain, everywhere"; addressing the "jabbering poetics", he declares: "Down with your art!"

In the third part, the author denies the dominant system, which gives rise to distorted love and pseudo-art. The inhuman organization of the world gives rise to cruelty among people, as a result of this there are prisons, gallows, insane asylums. A lyrical hero comes out to meet the strong with the slogan "Down with your system!"

In the fourth part - "Down with your religion!" - the poet clearly blasphemes, introduces theomachist motives. And again, as at the beginning of the poem, he turns to Mary. These are pleas and reproaches, the poet remains with a bleeding heart.

Used materials of the book: Literature: uch. for stud. wednesday prof. study. institutions / ed. G.A. Obernikhina. M .: "Academy", 2010

The creativity of the presented poet is, on the whole, very peculiar. Mayakovsky's poem "A Cloud in Pants" was no exception. It is written in the manner characteristic of the author, without observing poetic meter and rhyme. Also, do not forget that this poem belongs to the futuristic direction. According to the surviving testimony of the poet himself, he began to create a work in 1914. Inspired by a romantic mood, the author quickly finished the poem. Already in 1915, first excerpts were published, and then the entire text of the work, but with significant censorship edits. Only in 1918 was it possible to publish the author's version of the poem. The original title "The Thirteenth Apostle" was also criticized, so Mayakovsky was forced to rename the work. Like other poems and poems of the author, "The Cloud in Pants" was perceived ambiguously by the writers. The poet's thinking was too non-standard, and therefore incomprehensible for many readers.

Vladimir Mayakovsky is used to shock the audience, so the work is oversaturated with metaphorical expressions, rude and colloquial phrases, which makes it extremely difficult to understand the plot. In the preface to the complete edition of the poem, the author himself outlined four main ideas. Their number corresponds to four parts of the work, which are preceded by a small introduction. The author consistently speaks in an ironic manner about love, art, social order and religion. Mayakovsky unconditionally pushes himself to the fore, emphasizing that he knows better what the content of the listed concepts should be.

Introduction

Your thought,
dreaming on a softened brain
like a withered footman on a greasy couch,
I will tease a flap about a bloody heart:
I mock my fill, impudent and caustic.

I have not one in my soul gray hair,
and senile tenderness is not in it!
The world is huge with the power of voice,
I'm walking - handsome
twenty-two years old.

Delicate!
You put your love on violins.
Love on the timpani lays down rude.
But you can't turn yourself out like me,
to have one solid lips!

Come learn -
from the living room cambric,
a dignified official of the angelic league.

And which calmly turns her lips,
like the cook of a cookbook page.

Want to -
I will be mad from the meat
- and, like the sky, changing tones -
want to -
I will be immaculately gentle
not a man, but a cloud in his pants!

I do not believe there is a flower Nice!
They are glorified by me again
men lying like a hospital
and women worn out like a proverb.

Do you think it's raving about malaria?

It was,
was in Odessa.

“I'll be there at four,” said Maria.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.

Here is the evening
into the nightmare
left the windows,
frowning,
December.

They laugh and laugh at the decrepit back
candelabra.

They could not recognize me now:
sinewy hulk
groans
writhes.
What could such a lump want?
And the lump wants a lot!

After all, it doesn't matter to yourself
and what is bronze,
and the fact that the heart is a cold iron.
I want my ringing at night
hide in soft
into the feminine.

And so,
huge,
hunching at the window
I melt window glass with my forehead.
Will there be love or not?
Which -
big or tiny?
Where does a big body like this come from:
must be small
meek little one.
She shies away from car horns.
Loves little bells.

More and more,
buried in the rain
face in his pockmarked face,
I am waiting,
spattered with thunder of the city surf.

Midnight, tossing with a knife,
caught up,
stabbed, -
get him out!

The twelfth hour has fallen,
like the head of the executed from the block.

There are gray rains in the glasses
come true,
they made a grimace,
as if chimeras howl
Notre Dame Cathedral.

Damned!
Well, and this is not enough?
Soon the mouth will shout.
I hear:
quiet,
like a sick person out of bed
jumped off the nerve.
And so,-
walked first
barely,
then ran,
excited,
clear.
Now he and the new two
rushing about in desperate tap-dancing.

The plaster on the ground floor collapsed.

Nerves -
big,
small,
many!-
the mad ones are jumping,
and already
the nerves give way!

And the night slithers and slimes around the room, -
the heavy eye cannot stretch out of the mud.

The doors suddenly caressed
like a hotel
the tooth does not fall on the tooth.

You entered
sharp, like "here!",
tormenting suede gloves,
said:
“You know -
I'm getting married".

Well, come out.
Nothing.
I will strengthen myself.
You see - how calm!
Like a pulse
dead man.
Remember?
You said:
"Jack London,
money,
love,
passion",-
and I saw one thing:
you are La Gioconda,
to be stolen!
And they stole it.

Again, in love, I will go out to the games,
fire illuminating the eyebrow bend.
What!
And in a house that's burned out
sometimes there are homeless vagabonds!

Teasing?
“Less than a beggar's penny,
you have emeralds of madness. "
Remember!
Pompey died,
when Vesuvius was teased!

Hey!
Gentlemen!
Lovers
sacrilege,
crimes,
slaughterhouse, -
and the worst thing
seen -
my face,
when
I am
absolutely calm?

And I feel -
"I am"
not enough for me.
Someone breaks out of me stubbornly.

Allo!
Who is speaking?
Mama?
Mama!
Your son is perfectly ill!
Mama!
His heart is on fire.
Tell the sisters, Lyuda and Olya, -
he has nowhere to go.
Every word,
even a joke
which he spews out with his burning mouth,
thrown out like a naked prostitute
from a burning brothel.
People sniff -
smelled fried!
They caught up with some.
Shiny!
In helmets!
No boots!
Tell the firemen:
on a burning heart they crawl in caresses.
I myself.
I’ll deflate my eyes with barrels.
Let the ribs rest.
I'll jump out! I'll jump out! I'll jump out! I'll jump out!
Collapsed.
You won't jump out of your heart!

Burning face
from cracked lips
the charred kiss of the rush grew.

Mama!
I can't sing.
The choir is engaged in the church of the heart!

Burnt figurines of words and numbers
from the skull,
like children from a burning building.
So fear
grab the sky
raised
burning hands of "Lusitania".

Shaking people
quietly in the apartment
a hundred-eyed glow bursts from the pier.
The last cry -
you though
about the fact that I am burning, stand up for centuries!

Praise me!
I'm not great.
I'm over everything that's done
put nihil.

I used to think -
books are done like this:
the poet came,
I opened my mouth easily,
and at once the inspired simpleton sang -
please!
But it turns out -
before it starts to sing
walk for a long time, crumbling from fermentation,
and quietly walks in the mud of the heart
stupid imagination.
While boiling away, drinking rhymes,
some kind of brew of love and nightingales,
the street writhes tongueless -
she has nothing to shout and talk with.

The towers of Babel
puffed up, we lift up again,
and god
towns in arable land
destroys,
interfering word.

Street flour pearl silently.
The shout stood out from his throat.
Puffed up, stuck across the throat,
chubby taxis and bony cabs
the chest was pedestrianized.

Consumption is flatter.
The city locked the road with darkness.

And when -
all the same! -
vomited a crush on the square,
pushing the porch that stepped on the throat,
thought:
in the choirs of the Archangel Chorale
God, robbed, goes to punish!

And the street sat down and yelled:
"Let's go eat!"

Make up the city of Krupp and Kruppiki
a wrinkle of threatening eyebrows,
and in the mouth
dead words decompose corpses,
only two live, fat -
"Bastard"
and some more,
it seems, "borscht".

Poets,
soaked in crying and sobbing,
rushed from the street, ruffling their cosma:
"How can two of these sing
and a young lady
and love,
and a flower under the dew? "
And for the poets -
street thousand:
students,
prostitutes,
contractors.

Gentlemen!
Stop!
You are not beggars
you dare not ask for handouts!

We, hefty,
with a shagot fathom,
one should not listen, but tear them -
their,
sucked by a free application
to every double bed!

Should I humbly ask them:
"Help me!"
Praying for a hymn
about the oratorio!
We ourselves are creators in a burning hymn -
noise of factories and laboratories.

What do I care about Faust,
an extravaganza of rockets
sliding with Mephistopheles in the heavenly parquet!
I know -
a nail in my boot
more nightmarish than Goethe's fantasy!

I AM,
golden-fiery,
whose every word
gives birth to a soul,
birthday body,
I tell you:
the smallest speck of living dust
most valuable thing that I will do and have done!

Listen!
Preaches
tossing and wailing,
cry-lipped Zarathustra of today!
We
with a face like a sleeping sheet,
with lips drooping like a chandelier,
we,
convicts of the city-leper colony,
where gold and dirt have pitted leprosy, -
we are cleaner than the Venetian lazuli,
washed by the seas and suns at once!

I don't care what is not
Homers and Ovids
people like us
from the soot in smallpox.
I know -
the sun darkened b, seeing
gold deposits of our souls!

Veins and muscles - more true prayers.
Should we beg for the favors of time!
We -
each -
keep in our hands
worlds drive belts!

It rocked audiences to Calvary
Petrograd, Moscow, Odessa, Kiev,
and there was not one
which the
would not shout:
"Crucify,
crucify him! "
But to me -
people,
and those that offended -
You are dearer and closer to me.

Have seen
how a dog licks a beating hand ?!

I AM,
ridiculed by today's tribe,
how long
dirty joke,
I see time walking through the mountains,
which no one sees.

Where people's eyes are cut short,
the head of the hungry hordes,
in the crown of thorns revolutions
the sixteenth year is coming.

And you have me - his forerunner;
I am where the pain is, everywhere;
on every drop of tear leak
crucified himself on the cross.
Already nothing can be forgiven.
I burned out the souls where tenderness was grown.
It's harder than taking
one thousand thousand Bastilles!

And when,
his arrival
announcing a mutiny,
go out to the savior -
you me
I will pull out my soul,
trample
so big! -
and bloody ladies like a banner.

Oh, why is this,
where does it come from
light fun
dirty fists swing!

Came
and curtains her head in despair
the thought of insane asylums.

AND -
as in the death of the dreadnought
from choking spasms
throw themselves into the open hatch -
through your
torn eye to scream
climbed, maddened, Burliuk.
Almost bloody bleeding eyelids,
got out
got up,
went
and with a tenderness unexpected in a fat man
took and said:
"Good!"
It's good when in a yellow jacket
the soul is wrapped up from examinations!
Good,
when thrown in the teeth of the scaffold,
shout out:
"Drink Van Guten's cocoa!"

And this second
Bengali,
loud,
I wouldn't trade for anything,
I am not ...

And from the cigar smoke
liqueur glass
the drunken face of the Severyanin stretched out.
How dare you be called a poet
and, gray, tweet like a quail!
Today
necessary
brass knuckles
cut into the world in the skull!

You,
disturbed by the thought of one -
"Do I dance gracefully" -
watch how I am having fun
I am -
areal
pimp and card sharper.
From you,
who were wet with love,
from which
for centuries a tear has flowed,
I'll leave
sun with monocle
I put it in a wide-eyed eye.

Having dressed up incredibly,
I will walk on the ground
to like and burn,
and ahead
I'll lead Napoleon on a chain like a pug.
The whole earth will fall in love with a woman,
fidgets with meat, although surrender;
things will come to life -
lips thing
suck:
"Tsatsa, tsatsa, tsatsa!"

All of a sudden
and clouds
and cloudy stuff
raised an incredible pitching in the sky,
as if the white workers were leaving,
declaring an embittered strike against the sky.
Thunder from behind a cloud, beast, got out,
huge nostrils defiantly blowing their nose,
and heaven's face was twisted for a second
the stern grimace of the iron Bismarck.
And someone
entangled in cloud entanglements,
stretched out his hands to the cafe -
and like a woman
and tender as if
and like a cannon carriage.

You think -
this sun is tender
patting on the cheek of the cafe?
It's to shoot the rebels again
General Ghalifa is coming!

Take out, walkers, your hands from your trousers -
take a stone, knife or bomb,
and if he has no hands -
come and beat his forehead!
Go hungry
sweaty,
submissive,
sour in a dirty flea!
Go!
Mondays and Tuesdays
let's paint with blood on holidays!
Let the earth under the knives be remembered
whom she wanted to vulgarize!

Earth,
fattened like a mistress
which Rothschild fell in love with!
So that the flags flutter in the heat of firing,
like every decent holiday -
Raise higher, lampposts,
bloody carcasses of meadowsweet.

Cursed
begged
cut,
climbed after someone
bite into the sides.

In the sky, red as the Marseillaise,
shuddered, devious, sunset.

Already crazy.

There will be nothing.

The night will come
have a snack
and eat.
See -
heaven is judging again
a handful of treacherous stars?

I came.
Feasting Mamaim,
backwards on the city seeding.
We won't break through this night with our eyes
black like Azef!

Throwing myself into tavern corners
pouring wine over my soul and tablecloth
and I see:
in the corner - eyes are round, -
The Mother of God has eaten into my heart with her eyes.
What to present with a painted template
shine a tavern horde!
You see - again
spat on the calvary
Prefer Barabbas?
Maybe on purpose I
in a human mush
the face of no one is new.
I AM,
may be,
the most beautiful
of all your sons.
Give them
moldy with joy,
imminent death of time,
so that children should become,
boys are fathers,
the girls became pregnant.
And let the new born grow
inquisitive gray-haired magi,
and they will come -
and children will be baptized
the names of my poems.

I, the car and England caroler,
maybe just
in the most ordinary gospel
thirteenth apostle.
And when my voice
bawdy hoots -
from hour to hour,
whole day,
maybe Jesus Christ sniffs
my soul is forget-me-not.

Maria! Maria! Maria!
Let go, Maria!
I can’t be on the streets!
Do not want?
You wait
how the cheeks will fall through a hole
tried by everyone
fresh,
I will come
and mumble toothlessly,
that today I
"Surprisingly honest."
Maria,
see -
I've already started to slouch.

In the streets
people will make holes in four-story goiters,
stick out their eyes,
worn out in a forty-year task, -
giggle
what's in my teeth
- again!-
stale loaf of yesterday's weasel.
The rain has wept the sidewalks
puddles compressed swindler,
wet, licks the streets of the cobbled corpse,
and on gray eyelashes -
Yes!-
on the eyelashes of frosty icicles
tears from my eyes -
Yes!-
from the downcast eyes of the drainpipes.
All pedestrians were sucked in the rain
and in the carriages the athlete sat behind the fat athlete;
people burst
after going right through
and fat oozed through the cracks,
a muddy river flowed down from the crews
together with the sucked bun
gum of old cutlets.

Maria!
How to squeeze a quiet word into their fat ear?
Bird
begged by a song
sings,
hungry and call,
and I am a man, Maria,
simple,
coughed up in a consumptive night into the dirty hand of Presnya.
Maria, do you want this?
Let go, Maria!
I will squeeze the iron throat of the bell with a spasm of my fingers!

The streets are rampant.
There are crush fingers on the neck.

You see - stuck
in the eyes of the ladies' hats pins!

Babe!
Do not be afraid,
what's on my neck
sweaty women sit like a wet mountain, -
I drag it through life
millions of huge pure loves
and a million million little dirty love.
Do not be afraid,
again,
in bad weather betrayal,
I'll cling to a thousand pretty faces, -
"Loving Mayakovsky!"
Why, this is a dynasty
on the heart of the mad queens ascended.
Maria, closer!
In stripped shamelessness
in a fearful shiver,
but give your lips an unfading beauty:
with my heart I never lived until May,
but in life
only the hundredth April is.
Maria!

The poet sings sonnets to Tiana,
and I -
all of meat,
whole man -
your body is just asking
as Christians ask -
"Our daily bread
give us this day. "

Maria - give me!

Maria!
I'm afraid to forget your name,
as a poet is afraid to forget
some
a word born in the throes of nights,
majesty equal to God.
Your body
I will cherish and love
like a soldier
chopped off by war
unnecessary,
nobody's
protects his only leg.
Maria -
do not want?
Do not want!

So - again
dark and dejected
I'll take my heart
ditching tears,
carry,
like a dog,
which is in the kennel
carries
a paw run over by a train.
I gladden the road with the blood of my heart
sticks to flowers at the dust of a tunic.
A thousand times will be dazzled by Herodias
sun earth -
the head of the Baptist.
And when my number of years
will dance to the end -
a trail of a million bloodstains
to my father's house.

I'll get out
dirty (from spending the night in ditches),
I'll stand side by side
bend over
and I will say in his ear:
- Listen, Lord God!
How bored you are
into cloudy jelly
dipping sore eyes daily?
Let's - you know -
arrange a carousel
on the tree of the study of good and evil!
Omnipresent, you will be in every closet
and we will place such wines on the table,
to want to go to ki-ka-poo
gloomy Peter the Apostle.
And we will settle Evochka in paradise again:
order, -
tonight
from all the boulevards of the most beautiful girls
I will drag you.
Want?
Do not want?
Shaking your head, curly hair?
Suck a gray eyebrow?
You think -
this,
behind you, winged,
knows what love is?
I am an angel too, I was him -
I looked into the eye with a sugar lamb,
but I don't want to give to mares anymore
from Servian flour sculpted vases.
Almighty, you made up a pair of hands
did,
that everyone has a head -
why didn't you invent
so that there is no torment
kiss, kiss, kiss ?!
I thought you were an omnipotent god
and you are a dropout, you little god.
See I bend over
because of the bootleg
I take out a boot knife.
Winged scoundrels!
Huddle in paradise!
Eat feathers in a frightened shake!
I will open you, smelling of incense
from here to Alaska!

Don't stop me.
I'm lying
is it right,
but I cannot be calmer.
See -
the stars beheaded again
and the sky was bloody with carnage!
Hey you!
Sky!
Take off your hat!
I'm coming!

The universe is sleeping
putting on a paw
with the mites of stars a huge ear.

Analysis of the poem "A Cloud in Pants" by Mayakovsky

"A Cloud in Trousers" is one of the most famous and popular works of Mayakovsky, which gives an idea of distinctive features his talent and worldview. The poet worked on it for about a year and a half and first presented it to the public in 1915. L. Brik was present at the author's reading, who made an indelible impression on Mayakovsky. He dedicated his poem to her. This was the beginning of a long, painful romance.

The poem was originally called The Thirteen Apostles and was much larger in length. Because of too harsh statements about the church, the work was banned by the censorship and underwent significant author's revision.

The verse refers to love lyrics, since the plot is based on the expectation of the lyric hero of his beloved. This agonizing expectation turns into hatred when the hero learns that the beloved is going to get married. The rest of the poem is the philosophical reflection of the author, a description of the feelings that overwhelm him.

"A cloud in pants" gives the maximum idea of ​​those expressive techniques that Mayakovsky used: custom size, the abundant use of neologisms and distorted words, inaccurate and torn rhyme, original metaphors and comparisons.

The long wait for Mary turns into a real torture for the poet. Behind the laconic description of the passage of time ("Eight. Nine. Ten.") Hides hard-suppressed anger and impatience. The lyric hero meets the news of the upcoming marriage of Mary outwardly calmly, but a gigantic feeling of anger and hatred towards the world around him “stubbornly escapes” from his soul.

Mayakovsky expresses this feeling against the vulgarity and abomination of bourgeois society. If earlier the creative process seemed to him a relatively simple matter, now, looking at the disgusting reality, he cannot express his feelings. All the bright words died, only "bastard and ... it seems," borscht "remained. This statement of the poet is very significant. He never lacked words and at any time created new ones.

Anger leads the poet to the idea of ​​a merciless reprisal against an imperfect society. He calls to take up arms and gray weekdays "to paint with blood on holidays."

Mayakovsky throughout the entire poem highlights the importance of his "I". This is not only a manifestation of selfishness, but also an assertion of the priority of an individual over the interests and opinions of an inert crowd. The apotheosis of this thought is the author's recognition of himself as the "thirteenth apostle" and the approach to Jesus Christ.

At the end of the poem, the author again turns to Mary with a humiliated, rude entreaty. He openly asks the woman to give her body. Refusal leads to a new outburst of rage. The dissatisfied poet looks forward to his death in anticipation of a conversation with God. He accuses the creator of impotence and threatens to destroy the entire paradise. This threat conveys the poet's mood to the maximum extent and emphasizes his irreconcilable character.

The poem "A Cloud in Pants" was completed by July 1915. Its appearance in print has become far from an ordinary event for Russian poetry and everything Russian society... In it, the poet appears as the "thirteenth apostle" (the first title of the poem, banned by the censorship), personifying the coming revolution, encroaching on the foundations of the bourgeois world order. According to Mayakovsky himself, it was the result of "a strengthened consciousness of the imminent revolution."
As a direct response to the imperialist war, the poem reflected the strength of millions who were spontaneously rising against capitalism and already realizing their path to struggle. Gradually, the old world was destroyed in the name of creating a new one, death in the name of birth.
V.V. Mayakovsky began his poem in the first half of 1914, after visiting Odessa during his Black Sea tour. In Odessa, Mayakovsky fell in love with young Maria Denisova, a girl of extraordinary charm and strong character... I fell in love unrequitedly, suffered from this, and already on the way to the next city in the train carriage I read the first lines of the poem to my friends ...
However, the outbreak of the imperialist war pushed aside this plan. But when an epiphany regarding the war came and the poet discovered the origins of a world catastrophe, he realized that he was ready to continue working on the poem, but in a completely different understanding of life in general. It is noticeable that the love drama develops into the drama of life. At the same time, the poet himself defined the meaning of the work as follows: “down with your love”, “down with your art”, “down with your system”, “down with your religion” - four shouts of four parts ”. At the very beginning of the poem, in its preface, the offensive power of youth is affirmed:
I have not a single gray hair in my soul, And there is no senile tenderness in it! Enorming the world with the power of voice, Ida is handsome, twenty-two years old.
In the first chapter of the poem, the theme of love is the main one. Youth and love go hand in hand. The love drama that serves as the plot point is unusual. In a love triangle, there is no successful, happy rival that Mary fell in love with. She does not speak at all when explaining whether she loves or dislikes, she only reports:
You know, I'm getting married.
She is the Mona Lisa, "which must be stolen!" And she was stolen, bought, deceived by wealth, money / comfort ... Any of these assumptions can be true. In the triangle, the third character includes the bourgeois life-order, where the relationship between a man and a woman is based on profit, self-interest, buying and selling, but not on love. It can be seen that the hero of the poem suffers deeply. Suffering and despair push him to rebellion, and his suffering spills out on such a powerful lyrical wave that can flood a person, drawing him into a stream of unprecedented passions. This is where paradoxical metaphors are born:
I hear: quietly, like a patient out of bed, a nerve jumped.
Or:
Mama! Vaga son is perfectly ill! Mama! His heart is on fire.
Or:
I’ll deflate my eyes dazzled by barrels, Let me lean on my ribs.
The structure of the first chapter, like the entire poem, is distinguished by aggressive vocabulary, street rudeness and deliberate anti-aestheticism. Blasphemy reveals anarchist tendencies, the rebellious element of the poem. Mayakovsky's hero is a powerful image of denial, rebellion. The first chapter of the poem is permeated with the theme of love, but this love is unrequited and therefore very strong:
Will there be love or not? Which is big or tiny. ? Again, in love, I’ll go out into the game, Fire illuminating the eyebrow bend.
The hero's love is such a powerful impulse that it incinerates him internally. But this feeling is not autonomous; it takes on the character of a social drama. Praying for pure love, not spoiled by any selfishness, the poet transfers all the passion of denial to the bourgeois world order. In it, he sees evil that distorts morality, and does not want to accept it anymore.
Mayakovsky with extraordinary power affirms the youth of a new world, a new path:
Down with your love! Down with your art! Down with your formation! Down with your religion
These four "Down with!" help to comprehend the ideological meaning of the poem. But in the real movement of images, they all shout about one thing: with his poem, Mayakovsky got to the main, essential evil, irritated by the general misfortunes and all the misfortunes of the hero of the poem. The poet connects the personal experiences of the lyrical hero with the experiences of the whole country.
The mighty voice of the poet, speaking on behalf of many, the scale of generalizations, the truth and strength of feeling give Mayakovsky a high style, solemn intonation. The poem, with its direct appeal to the oppressed and disadvantaged, with its assertions of the great mission of the poet-apostle, with its principled opposition of lively colloquial speech, the "beauty" and emasculation of the language of decadent literature, objectively inherited and, in its own way, developed the revolutionary democratic traditions rejected by the poets of decadence. The poem "A Cloud in Pants" is a work written by a person who sincerely believes in the idea of ​​revolution, in a wonderful bright future, in the inevitability of happiness. It is this sincerity that is the reason that even now the poem by V. Mayakovsky remains an excellent example artistic word reflecting the comprehension old life and the transition to a new one.