A Night With Mayakovsky (and Ethan Hawke)

Last night I attended MoMA's "Night Wraps the Sky," a reading of materials by and about the poet Vladimir Mayakovsky. What made the night interesting was the variety of readers: poet Ron Padgett, filmmaker Michael Almereyda, railroad laborer Clement V. Joseph (I ain't making this shit up) and my favorite artistic, sensitive and kinda douchey actor, Sir Ethan Hawke.

Everyone read from Almereyda's new book, a collection of poems, autobiographical entries, essays on the poet and more. If you don't know the fascinating story of Mayakovsky's life, here is a very abbreviated bio: He began as a Russian Futurist, known for his over-the-top persona and flamboyant Bohemian ways. Events like World War I drove him further into politics, until he eventually became known as the unofficial poet laureate of the revolution. He was also known for his unorthodox romance with Lili Brik, who was married to his publisher and friend Osip Brik. After years of spouting didactic poems and passionate agitprop, he began to see the folly of Stalin's new Russia. Upset at how the state he helped create was now stifling his own work (and preventing him from leaving the country to visit a new lover in France), he shot himself in the heart.

What strikes me about Mayakovsky is how he combines such fire and bravado in his lyricism; someone described his work as an "intimate yell." The readers all did a fantastic job of bringing his words to life, especially Mr. Hawke, who despite not being able to contribute much in terms of knowledge about the poet, gave the most passionate and theatrical readings of his work, no doubt something the conspicuous Mayakovsky would have approved of. Below is the text of one of his more gentle poems, written in the year of his death. Despite its quiet and resigned tone, lines like the last one concerning "The ages, history, and all creation" point to his grandiose view of his place in the world and the uncompromising way he went about asserting it.

Past One O'Clock   

Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.