Other than poet-trumpet player, here are the verses of love Mayakovsky

Mayakovsky of love is welcome. Welcome the screeching of stamps, the trivial and the sublime in the same language – that move, ardent, imperiously crooked of the poet. And elbows are welcome, those with which, obediently while we enjoy this Einaudian anthology (Love poems 1913-1930parallel text, edited by Paola Ferretti, 170 pp., 14.50 euros), we will finally be able to make our way – so Angelo Maria Ripellino instructed us who said it fifty years ago (being deaf to teachers is or is not a mortal sin ?) – “among the crowds of know-it-all glossators who continue to impoverish this great poet of love, confining him solely to the political dimension”. An image that enemies have often disfigured without much courtesy. Bunin, for example. In his Cursed days, diary of the hated revolution, tells of a Mayakovsky described as a poet only in quotation marks. “That evening the flower of Russian intelligence had gathered” – wrote Bunin – “and of all he triumphed, Mayakovsky. Without our having invited him he approached, he slipped a chair between us and began to eat from our plates and drink from our goblets, his mouth as big as a trough. Foreign Minister Milyukov rose to give the official toast and Mayakovsky rushed towards him in the center of the table. Then he leapt into a chair and began yelling so obscenely that the minister gasped.”