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I recently purchased and reviewed full meeting poems by Igor Severyanin. And suddenly it seemed to hit me: he’s loud-mouthed Vladimir Mayakovsky- this is just an epigone of the burly-tender Igor Severyanin, only with a party-proletarian slant.
Igor Severyanin wrote about himself: “Your gentle, your only one,” and Vladimir Mayakovsky diligently dressed up as “Orator, loudmouth, leader.” Only Igor Severyanin really wanted to please decadently sophisticated women, and Vladimir Mayakovsky - the party elite. The All-Russian touring “chess” was first started by Igor Severyanin, and then Vladimir Mayakovsky became like him...
True, Vladimir Mayakovsky divided the poetic lines into “ladders,” but it seems to me that he did this only in order to newspaper sheets his poems took up as much space as possible, which means they turned out to be more noticeable...
But the verbal tricks that Vladimir Mayakovsky was proud of were first invented by Igor Severyanin.
And one interesting nuance.
After the October Revolution, a tournament of famous poets for the title of “King of Poets” took place. Igor Severyanin won this competition. But, according to eyewitnesses, Vladimir Mayakovsky was immensely upset, became very psychotic and constantly tried to retroactively challenge his opponent’s victory on formal grounds.
Lilya Brik considered Vladimir Mayakovsky to be a notorious “roarer.” It’s no wonder if, while you claim – and very successfully – the title of poetic genius, you secretly know to yourself that you are nothing more than an imitator...
By the way, in Soviet schools, Igor Severyanin, unlike the much more boring Valery Bryusov, was completely banned. Probably, they still felt or knew the truth...
It seems to me that unfortunate Vladimir Mayakovsky was painfully, breathtakingly envious...

Reviews

I read your thoughts with amazement.
Mayakovsky was a reformer poetic language, second, in fact, after A.S. Pushkin. His contribution to the development of Russian poetry is, indeed, comparable only to Pushkin. It seems to me that you, dear Author, paid attention only to the “cover” of the book with the title “Poetry of Mayakovsky” ... “Verbal twists” - hmm... You, dear one, would first become more deeply acquainted with such a phenomenon in Russian poetry, like futurism - then, perhaps, they would understand who invented what first. Instead of showing the whole world your amazing ignorance.)
And the conclusion about Mayakovsky’s envy is complete nonsense.
As for Lily Brik - that's the one who wanted to ride into history on someone else's horse. This rubbish destroyed half of Mayakovsky’s archive, trying to prove to everyone that she was his “only muse”, and only thanks to her Mayakovsky became a poet. Thank God that other archives have been preserved.
And it is known that Mayakovsky was an incorrigible romantic at heart, a gentle and reverent, reflective intellectual. That’s why he hid behind the mask of “an agitator, a loud-mouthed leader.”
And he sincerely believed in the revolution, and did not hypocritically pretend to be sympathetic or neutral, like many then. And no revolution would have happened if “something had not rotten in the Danish kingdom”...
P.S. On the contrary, I think that the Northerner was morbidly envious. (Of course, he received the title of “King of Poets” by accident, because Mayakovsky was simply late for the tournament then - this known fact, which for some reason they like to keep silent about). For, there is proof of this that Severyanin left about himself - when you read his sarcastic cycle “Medallions”, you are amazed at the particularly perverted (crossed out) poetic form in which he discusses his fellow writers, including greatest poets.
With a smile,

Thank you for smiling goodbye... Your smile is full compensation for accusing me of all kinds of fabrications, and at the same time of complete ignorance, which I “demonstrated to the whole world.” However, on the issue of my ignorance, I am completely bewildered and “the entire civilized world shares my bewilderment.”

On this issue, consensus is unattainable in principle. So, let's not argue. But I really liked your noble enthusiasm!

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Notes about Mayakovsky

Berlin. 1922 Autumn. October is coming to an end. The sun is shining. Freshly. Let's go to the side<…>.

Or don’t you recognize me, Igor Vasilyevich? - Mayakovsky’s joyful bass stops me. We hug. Both were very pleased with the meeting. With him is B. Pasternak. We turn into the nearest street and go into the nearest bar. We order something light and chat.

Mayakovsky says:

Passed through Narva. I remember: you live somewhere near her. I ask: “Where is Toila?” They say: “From st.<анции>Ieve towards the sea." He waited for Ieva, took off his hat and said out loud, looking towards the sea:

“Greetings, Igor Vasilyevich.”

On the day of the fifth anniversary of Soviet power in some big hall Berlin - celebration. Full hall. A. Tolstoy reads excerpts from Aelita. Mayakovsky and Kusikov read poetry. I also read “Spring Day”, “I Admire You, Youth...” Ovation. My surroundings are indignant.

Give me a few poems for Izvestia,” says Mayakovsky, “you will receive a fee of 1000 marks per line (in times of inflation). “I’m so glad that I would give it even without money, but my environment prevents me.” Argument: if for some reason you don’t return to your homeland immediately, those abroad will starve you to death.

In Berlin, V.V. stopped at Kurfürstenstr at the Kurfursten Hotel. We found three people in the room: he, Lilya and O.M. Briki. L. Yu. was, I remember, in a purple hood. Graceful and feminine. V. treated me to rum and pressed caviar, which he brought with him a whole tin.

One evening V. came to visit us on Gipsstr (Norden, Alexanderplatz). I stopped by completely alone and unexpectedly. We happened to be at home (very rare!). He brought as a gift a large basket of fruit and several bottles of Rhine.

It was that autumn when Yesenin and Isadora had just left before our arrival in America.

Mayakovsky and Kusikov took an active part in me at that time: they organized four of my books in “On the Eve”: “The Tragedy of the Titan,” “The Nightingale,” “The Royal Clown” and “Trout Rivers.” I received money for everything in advance, but only the first two were released. We often met at Kusikov's, at Tolstoy's, in our restaurants. I attended all Mayakovsky's evenings. They performed together in the Bulgarian student community.

Mayakovsky “tried” women: if they were “vulgar,” he was merciless; in the event of a “siege”, he looked for the reasons: if they did not “pose for virtue,” he withdrew with respect.

In Berlin, persuaded by friends, I wanted to return to the USSR without visiting Estonia. But F.M. never agreed, although her entire family had extreme left-wing views. Her brother, Georgiy, left in January 1919 along with the Red Army that retreated from Estonia and is now in charge of a collective farm in the Saratov region. The sisters (Linda and Olga) were put in prison in the same January by a white pack, where they spent two months. F.M. motivated her reluctance to go with personal reasons: “In Moscow, you will be surrounded by expansive Russian women and will be taken away from me. Besides, I may be forced to work, but I wish to be idle.”

I, who met her only a year ago, I confess, did not want to lose her then. There were big disputes.

On the eve of leaving for Estonia, when tickets for the train and boat to Tallinn had already been purchased and were in her purse, we were sitting in a restaurant in the evening: friends had organized a getaway party. There were Tolstoy, prof. A. N. Chumakov, Kusikov and others (Volodya had already left for Paris). The train to Stettin left at about six o'clock in the morning. My companion was afraid that we would stay too long and the tickets would lose their validity. She stated this out loud. Her friends remarked to her that this might be for the best, since they would always provide us with tickets to Moscow. Then she, completely frightened, jumped up and rushed into the dressing room, grabbing her coat as she went, and ran out into the street. Very excited by her action, I rushed after her, shouting to those who remained that I would catch her and return immediately. However, when I ran out into the street, I saw my companion literally rushing through the empty city and putting on her coat as she went. It was about three o'clock in the morning. We ran in this way through the entire huge city to our remote area. It was creepy, shameful and outrageous. I was still afraid to leave her: it seemed to me that either she would commit suicide or return to her homeland alone. And then it was too late to return to the restaurant. We left without saying goodbye to our drinking buddies. It’s a pity that I didn’t find the strength to part with her then: with this step I doomed myself to the stupid position in which I was all the years, guiltlessly guilty before the Union.

...Soon F.M. quarreled with Zlata and removed her from participating in our joint parties. Meanwhile, Zlata, a member of the German Communist Party, was in favor of my returning home. Her presence invigorated and made me happy. Our circle liked her as a sociable, informative, clever man. F.M.'s intelligence was nullified by her narrowness and unsurpassed stubbornness.

...I remember dinner at A.N. Tolstoy’s. Krandievskaya was expecting her second child. She treated us to a wonderful Italian salad (her specialty!) and Moscow pies, which were put on plates in 5-6 pieces!.. That evening there was Mayakovsky, and Kusikov, and the constant Annushka Chavchavadze, a sociable and pretty girl. Tolstoy loved cognac<…>. Nikita was 8–9 years old. The boy was very interesting - the pride of his parents.

Felissa Mikhailovna and I came to Berlin to “try our luck,” because there was nothing to eat in Toila and there was no more credit. We arrived, having previously corresponded with Zlata, who reappeared in my life 16 years later (since 1906). She read my “Poet of Despair” in the newspaper “Voice of Russia”, wrote to the editor (in Berlin), and they sent me a letter to Toila. This happened a year before our trip, i.e. in the fall of 1921, when I had just parted with Maria Vasilievna, with whom I had lived for 6 1/2 years, and got together (in August) with F.M. Zlata’s letter to me made a great impression, correspondence was resumed, I wrote (even before the meeting) “Falling Rapids.” O. Kirchner managed to publish it.

We arrived in Germany as beggars: me in a patched work jacket, F.M. in a blanket coat. Zlata arranged an hour with a dog trainer friend, a former circus rider, on Gipsstr . A week or two later I sold books to the Nakanune publishing house and already had big millions. (At that time the harp was worth one million.)

We wandered around the Berlin taverns,
We were surprised at the gigantic fools,
Vodka drinkers from a tub and a bucket,
Tearing at the throat that is at least compressed, but cheerful.
To remember the walking emigration:
The flame of "grace" that promises us "yat"
Yes, the quarter, yes, the war, and the prison.
From the impudent and purulent in due time
We got rid of it and don't want it anymore
We managed it ourselves and we’re not going to Poland...

For now, I had to get money. And so Livshits (recommendation by Gzovskaya and Gaidarov) organized an evening of poetry for me in the large hall of the Philharmonic, which was sold out. It was a tremendous success, the “police hour” was broken, the lights went out in the hall, and I read everything “encore” (by candlelight!), although the highest police official stood next to me on the stage, offering to end the evening, but the audience did not let me go. I released Boris Verin-Bashkirov and A. Kusikov at my evening. Both had opposing views, but they had poems

Sofia Sergeevna Shamardina (“Sonka”), a Minsk resident, a student of the Higher Bestuzhev Courses, was liked by both me and Mayakovsky. I talk about my “romance” with her in “Bells of the Cathedral of the Senses.” I later learned about the connection with V.V. from her herself. In explaining the torn chapters of “Bells of the Cathedral of Senses,” I note that the three of us (she, V.R. Khovin and I) returned together from Odessa, St. Petersburg. From the station I took her, half ill, to my place at Srednyaya Podyacheskaya, where she immediately fell ill, asking A.V. Rumanov (the St. Petersburg representative of the Russian Word) to be called to her. When he arrived, having spoken with her privately, after a visit from the doctor he had sent, she was sent to a hospital on Voznesensky Avenue (opposite the church). The official name of the disease is kidney inflammation. After being discharged from the hospital, Sonka came to me and frankly admitted that she was supposed to have a child from V.V. With an honorable story, she explained all the ambiguities found in “Bells of the Cathedral of the Senses.”

When Volodya and I lived in Simferopol (Londonsky Hotel), Valentina Ivanovna Gadzevich (poet Valentina Solntseva), an employee of the St. Petersburg medical institute, sent me a telegram from Tambov that my parents agree to our marriage. I was passionate and ready to “get married.” V.V. tried to dissuade me for a long time in vain. Finally, he admitted that the girl had lured him too and even exposed herself in front of him. I believed his every word and that’s why I broke up with her. Volodya was a true friend.

Vladimir Ivanovich Sidorov (Vadim Bayan) is a merchant from Simferopol. In “Bells of the Cathedral of Senses” I call him “Selim Buyan”. He published the book “Lirionettes and Barcarolles” (?!) in the publishing house<ательстве>Wolf, having paid heavily for the “stamp”. He suggested that I write a preface. I wrote exactly five mocking lines. The fee is 125 rubles! A kind, gentle, stupid, funny, thoughtful person. He performed at our Crimean evenings in a tailcoat with a blue moire ribbon across his shirt (“from the shoulder to the appendix”). He had a mother, an ugly sister and a “husband with his wife.” All of them, while treating them, said: “Take it”... He told me that, having once liquidated his mistress, he took away from her the astrakhan sack he had bought: “I won’t buy another one next...” Unsurpassed!

He offered me a tour of Crimea. I agreed under the condition that Mayakovsky, Burliuk and Ignatiev speak.

Volodya and I traveled to Simferopol from Moscow together. Sat for the most part in the dining car and talked endlessly over a glass of red wine.

We first stayed with Sidorov, then moved to a hotel, where the bills were paid by the merchant. We lived in the same room - me and V.V. He loved, I remember sleeping naked under a blanket. In the mornings I demanded a samovar, buns, and butter in my room. V.V. immediately “shamed” me:

What are you ashamed of? Demand that the bottle be frozen, demand cognac, caviar, etc. Remember that it is not we who are ruining Sidorov, but he who is ruining us: we give him with our names much more than he gives us with his merchant money. - I listened to V.V., I agreed with him. One day, however, the merchant could not stand the assumed role of patron of the arts and, embarrassed and blushing, timidly pointed out to us a large account. And then Volodya burst out: what didn’t he say to Sidorov!..

All work, my dear, must be paid for, and isn’t it hard to drag untalented people into literature by the ears? Well, my dear, let’s face it, you don’t shine with talent. And besides, we allowed you to perform together with us, and that’s worth something. We are not friends with you, but a deal. You hired us to nominate you, we carry out the order. You did not set a maximum payment for us, limiting yourself to the vague: “Travel expenses, hotel accommodation, entertainment, etc.” So, take the trouble to pay the bills at the hotel and in the evenings in the shanty, whatever we find necessary to do, we take in only what we need, we don’t stock up “for future use.” In general, putting forward mediocrity is already a kind of compromise with conscience. But, mind you, we do not advertise or recommend you - we only give you a place next to us on the stage. And we value this place extremely dearly. And therefore one of two things: either you, having realized it, throw away your petty-bourgeois greed or get the hell out!

We drank champagne at the Bristol almost every night. Our evenings were brightened up by a certain Greek woman, Lyudmila Kerem, an intelligent little brown-haired girl, and the café singer Britanova, sweet and decent. They usually drank six bottles each, snacking on burnt almonds and salt.

Vladimir drank very little: sometimes a few glasses, mostly wine, but he loved brand champagne<…>. One day we took a road trip to Yalta. When we got into the car, we wanted to drink some cognac on the way. Sidorov gave the order, and we were served what we requested on a tray in the car. The car doors were open, and passers-by watched in amazement as the futurists helped themselves before heading out. We also stopped in Gurzuf and Alupka to warm up. We arrived in Yalta late in the evening. It was snowing. The room was cool. We went to some club to dance. Crimea covered with snow!..

...Burliuk arrived. I. V. Ignatiev (“Pet<ербургский>herald") did not arrive: he got married in St. Petersburg, got married and stabbed himself to death.

From Simferopol we drove to Sevastopol. Mayakovsky and Burliuk promised me to perform everywhere in an ordinary suit and Burliuk not to paint his face. However, in Kerch they could not stand it. Mayakovsky put on an orange jacket, and Burliuk wore a cherry tailcoat with a green velvet vest. This came as a complete surprise to me. I lost my temper, they hardly persuaded me to perform, but immediately after the evening I left for St. Petersburg. At home he wrote “The Crimean Tragic Comedy”, which - in revenge - he read at his evenings. Mayakovsky didn’t even think of getting angry: he learned it by heart and often read it out loud in front of me, chuckling good-naturedly. He apparently liked this piece, like many of my poems in general, of which he knew many by heart. In Berlin, when we had just met, he was already reading me my new poems: “Their culture” (from “Minstrel”) and “I dream about what does not exist” (from the newspaper).

The complete unification of "Ego" and "Kubo" has always been prevented and external signs like colored clothes and whiteness on the cheeks. If not for this detail, futurism would have been thought of together under the motto of truly “universal” (My “Ego” was called “universal”). There were no quarrels between me and Volodya: there were only temporary differences. None of us wanted to give in to each other: “Young and green”... It’s a pity!

In March 1918, in the auditorium Polytechnic Museum I was elected “King of Poets.” Mayakovsky went on stage: “Down with kings - now they are not in fashion.” My fans protested, a scandal was brewing. Annoyed, I pushed everyone away. Mayakovsky told me: “Don’t be angry: I pulled them back - I didn’t offend you. This is not the time to play with toys...

V. and I sometimes visited Bronislava Rundt in Moscow, the sister of Bryusov’s wife Ioanna Matveevna.

Volodya told me: “It’s time for you to stop hanging around European lackeys. There can only be one way - home."

In Berlin we often met with Henrik Wisnapu, his wife Ing, Aug. Gailit, Gzovskaya, Gaidai, Z. Vengerova, Minsky, Boguslavskaya, I. Puni, Kostanov, Verin, who lived near Munich from S.S. Prokofiev and who often came to us.

We spent a total of three months in Berlin (returned home on Christmas Eve). I am forced to admit with bitterness that this was the era of Homeric drinking... As a consequence - a weakening of the will, the slightest excitability, a frivolous attitude towards the deep tasks of life.

It turns out that I loved Mayakovsky very much and truly. I finally realized this in 1930, when the news of his death shocked me. He never read my message to him, written in January 1923, immediately upon returning from Berlin. And how many times I was going to send him this poem to Moscow, but I didn’t know the address; sending it to “space” is not in my rules.

VLADIMIR MAYAKOVSKY

My friend, Vladimir Mayakovsky,
In the old years, a mischievous man,
I fucking loved teasing the crowd
Sticking his tongue out at her.
He walked around in a wide yellow jacket,
Then he put on a cherry tailcoat.
It seemed to be calling: “Disaster,
Bourgeois, your dank darkness!
In unwieldy lines -
Now half a fathom, now an inch -
He generously invested reproaches
To the one who called poetry “rhyme”...
His rolling, tribunal,
Crowd driven bass
Thundered throughout the greasy fatherland,
Where is the priest, the gendarme and the swineherd.
During those years of the black regime
We have created a tornado in art.
Volodya! Do you remember the mountains of Crimea
And Kerch, crumpled in boredom?
Oh remember, remember, colobrader
Memories of distant MSU,
To Gurzuf and Yalta, my Volodya,
A trip in a snowstorm
In a car from the shores of Salgir
With snacks and cognac,
And this banker's wallet,
Suddenly it became our wallet!.
Do you remember our Valentine,
What almost became only mine!?.
Thanks to you I took out
From the heart of the “girl from fairies”...
And finally, you remember Sonka,
Almost mine, completely yours,
Such a naughty girl
Such a gentle snake?..
Oh, if you, Vladimir, remember
All these quick strokes
You are bigger for me, bigger
Throw response verses!

...I strain my memory: no, for some reason Volodya and I never talked about the revolution, although we both harbored it in our souls, and our speeches - even separately - were clearly revolutionary in nature.

It’s strange: now I don’t remember how we met Volodya: either someone brought him to me, or we met at one of the countless debate evenings in St. Petersburg. Then he often came to see me easily. He was always kind to me, very attentive in heart and benevolent to me. And this has always been the case. R eyes knew how to tell the truth without insulting; praised without flattery. From the very first days of our acquaintance, it happened naturally that we began to call each other “you.” I must admit that I have been on a first-name basis with few people.

...I now regret that at one time I underestimated its depth and goodness: together, we obviously could have done more than each of us could have done separately. What hampered me was my youthful obstinacy and arrogance, my stupid narcissism, and some general slipping around my surroundings. This largely applies to women. In the latter case, the consequences were sometimes irreparable and distorted life, painfully and negatively affecting creativity.

...My memory is fading and weakening - I state with sorrow. Even my memory, so reliable. In my memoirs I want to be precise, to write only what I really remember, what really happened. That’s why I can draw so little.

...Volodya drew me with charcoal. Size about arshin. The portrait always hung in my office (St. Petersburg). Leaving for Toila (January 28, 1918), he gave for safekeeping (expecting to return by the fall), as well as all the books with autographs, and photos, and albums with letters and poems of his contemporaries, to B. Verin-Bashkirov, who a few months later fled to Finland and leaving everything to the mercy of fate. His address: Kalashnikovskaya embankment, 52, own house. Where are all these relics?

Igor Severyanin came to Moscow in February 1918 from the Estonian village of Toila to participate in the evening of election of the “King of Poets.” The high-profile event took place in Large audience Polytechnic Museum. Anyone could take part in it. Most of all there were futurist poets. The main and strongest of them was Vladimir Mayakovsky.

Mayakovsky began to compose “A Cloud in Pants”, reciting Severyanin

By the time of the election of the “King of Poets,” Mayakovsky and Severyanin had been friends, argued and competed with each other for five years. The young poets were introduced by Sofia Shamardina, whom they both courted. In 1913, a collection of poems, “The Thundering Cup,” was published, which brought Igor Severyanin big success. In the same year, Mayakovsky wrote a cycle of four poems, “I,” already containing many lyrical devices that would glorify the “agitator, loudmouth leader.” In November of the same year, the poets began performing together and went on tour around Russian province among the futurists. Their poems, manner of communicating with the public, behavior on stage and even clothing styles were sharply different. Mayakovsky in a yellow jacket chopped the air with loud rhymes, and Severyanin in a tuxedo and with a cane in his hands softly sang poetry.

Vladimir Mayakovsky

According to the futurist poet Vasily Kamensky, the opening lines of Mayakovsky’s poem “A Cloud in Pants” originated when its author absentmindedly looked out the train window and repeated the beginning of the Severyanin poem: “It was by the sea...”. Soon Mayakovsky began to gloomily recite: “It was, / It was in Odessa...”.

Mayakovsky remembered the northerner again in The Cloud. He spoke very unflatteringly about his colleague:

And from cigar smoke
liqueur glass
Severyanin’s drunken face stretched out.
How dare you call yourself a poet
and, little gray one, chirp like a quail!
Today
necessary
brass knuckles
cut into the world's skull!

The caustic phrases hit Severyanin painfully, but the poets quarreled even before these lines were written, during the futuristic tour. Mayakovsky began to be irritated by Severyanin’s narcissism, his mysterious silence and aristocratic manners. In turn, Severyanin was furious at Mayakovsky’s boorish behavior and his mockery. After 1914, each of them went their own way - there was no talk of joint tours. The gap between the two poets was widened by the outbreak of the First World War, and then October Revolution. A correspondence skirmish began between them.

Mayakovsky in the poem “To You”:

If he, brought to slaughter,
Suddenly I saw, wounded,
Like you, with your lip smeared in the cutlet,
Lustfully humming the Northerner!

The Northerner accepted the challenge and wrote the poem “My Answer,” where he alludes to Mayakovsky less crudely and more subtly:

Doesn't mean being a satirist yet -
Giving angry advice
To the famous lyric poets
Seek military victories...

Igor Severyanin

The evening of the election of the “King of Poets” again brought Mayakovsky and Severyanin together on the same stage. Large audience The Polytechnic Museum was filled to capacity. From the memoirs of a contemporary: “It was crowded on the stage, like on a tram. The speakers were crowded, and young people who couldn’t fit in the aisle stood. They looked straight into the readers’ mouths.”

Mayakovsky read pieces from the poem “A Cloud in Pants” and the poem “Our March”. From memory younger sister Lili Brik Elsa Triolet, he “was in an absolute frenzy, almost losing his voice in his altercation with the audience.” At such speeches, Mayakovsky often tried to explain the function of poetry after 1917. “True poetry must serve the cause of the proletarian revolution,” he said. - Although Yesenin’s “birches” are good, you won’t go against the white bandits with them. You won’t be able to go into battle with the elegant products of the Northerner either.” The public at the Polytechnic openly expressed their delight or protest to Mayakovsky, shouted verdicts of disapproval, hooted, and burst into applause.

The northerner did not explain anything to anyone, did not get into arguments, and behaved absolutely calmly throughout the evening. Tall, pale, dressed in a black cloak, he looked aloof. He read his poems from the collection “The Thundering Cup”, swaying and holding a red rose in front of him. During his recitation, the hall of the Polytechnic froze. When the poet finished, a long, unabating ovation broke out.

Mayakovsky's speech at the Polytechnic Museum

Immediately after Severyanin’s speech, the counting of votes began. Mayakovsky, who adored excitement and competition, was overwhelmed with excitement. Many were sure that it was he who would win - a magnificent pop poet, fiery, sharp, keeping up with the times. However, the audience unexpectedly chose Severyanin’s musical, hypnotizing lyrics. More people voted for him. Mayakovsky was named “viceroy”, Konstantin Balmont took third place.

The evening ended with a playful coronation of the winner - he was presented with a robe and a royal wreath. The northerner accepted them as if he were really being elevated to the rank of a torch of Russian poetry. Also in 1918, he wrote the poem “The King’s Rescript”, ending with the lines:

I have been chosen as the king of poets -
May there be light for the subjects!

The poetic duel ended with the comic coronation of the winner

According to Severyanin’s recollections, Mayakovsky, after the results were announced, raised in the hall big noise. He went onto the stage and shouted “Down with kings - they are no longer in fashion.” Severyanin’s fans protested, and a scandal was brewing. “Irritated, I pushed everyone away,” wrote the “king of poets.” “Mayakovsky told me: “Don’t be angry, I pulled them back - I didn’t offend you.” This is not the time to play with toys...”

At the beginning of March, the Northerner returned to Toila. After conclusion Treaty of Brest-Litovsk and Estonia gained independence, the poet ended up in exile. His name will soon disappear from the poetic horizon. He will die in Tallinn in 1941. Great glory, disappointment and a much more frantic, tragic and broken fate awaited Mayakovsky. With a “bullet point at its end.”