The transformation scene, where man is becoming insect and insect has become at least man and beyond that - a flying, godlike, shimmering, diaphanous, beautiful creature.
quote by Michael O'Donoghue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There’s a dragon fly
hanging at the mirror image of the window
catching the eye of a shrike
and the bird flashes past with stretched out claws
and for a moment the insect vibrates scared
and are swept away
by the bird that later twitters on the barbed wire
where it pierces the insect with a nail
and I am caught in the scene
and see the spreading its black wings
preparing for the next victim
and every insect that it spots
it catches.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Dragon Fly
that lingers at the mirror image of the window
is swept away
when every insect catches the eye of a butcher bird
and I am caught in the scene
where it pierces the insect on the barbed wire,
is swept away
where the insect looses its life
and the bird is preparing for its next victim
where it pierces the insect on the barbed wire
and I see the bird spreading its black wing
as it twitters on the barbed wire and slaps its wings
and the bird is preparing for its next victim
while each insect it catches so smartly
where it is set on each movement,
as it twitters on the barbed wire and slaps its wings
and the bird becomes a deadly thing
that lingers at the mirror image of the window
where it is set on each movement,
when every insect catches the eye of a butcher bird.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Lion and the Insect
The Lion lazily lies on the grass,
Purveying his kingdom of gold flowers
As they sway in the wind, but kingdoms pass
And so too does sunlight with the hours.
The Lion grips the land with a well-placed paw.
The Earth trembles slightly beneath his claws.
The Insect unfolds its transparent wings
To swim through thick, sweaty savannah air.
It floats in the soupy mirage heat brings,
Transfixed on flying from the lambent glare
Of the open sky's harsh, cloudless splendor.
The hungry Insect mustn't surrender.
The Lion fears the Insect and hides among
The gold flowers. He's unafraid to rest.
While he worries that, if his paw were stung,
He could lose control of his clenched int'rests,
Like a coward, the Lion waits all night
Until the Insect dies a parasite.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Six legs... but who can see them? .....[SHORT; Nature observations; Humor]or]bservation; Humor]
As I read an article about how we humans age,
I suddenly spied a comma crawling slowly ‘cross the page.
I knew it couldn't be a comma, but it WAS so small
that if it were much smaller, I'd NOT see it at all.
I'm sure it was an insect or some related critter.
I wonder if, on that page, it did leave some insect litter.
I tried to pick out the legs it'd have if an insect it truly were,
but my eyes, not being microscopes, could only see a moving blur.
poem by Bri Edwards
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O' Violence In The Mind Of Spinsters!
A tiny insect bite,
On the slender foot
Of adolescent girl!
Her feet are soft like petal,
The pain is so severe,
She gets lot of tears!
Soft nature in her disappears,
Smashed the insect to smears,
O' Violence in the mind of spinsters!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Car Washers (Fun Poem 34)
You pull into a car park
and they spring out of nowhere.
“Do you want your car washed
while you’re doing your shopping?
We do not charge a lot.”
My answer is no.
“Sorry mate but my car is under scientific study.
I am an insect- ornithologist.
I study bird droppings and insect splatters.
I get out every night with my tweezers,
take the remaining bits off,
and put them in a specimen jar.
I am also going in for
the dirtiest car of the year award.
I have won it three times already.
So you see my car does not need a wash thank you.”
They look at me somewhat strangely
before they go on their merry way.
Therefore, the next time you pull into a car park
and someone wants to wash your car.
Just tell them you are an insect-ornithologist
engaged in a scientific study.
They will never understand what you mean.
They might think you are somewhat strange,
but you will save yourself a packet.
Now that ain’t strange, that is wise.
(22 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
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The Spider
'OH, look at that great ugly spider!' said Ann;
And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan;
''Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be,
I wish that it would not come crawling on me. '
'Indeed,' said her mother, 'I'll venture to say,
The poor thing will try to keep out of your way;
For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain,
It has much more occasion than you to complain.
'But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear?
If it hurt you, there'd be some excuse for your fear;
But its little black legs, as it hurried away,
Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say.
'For them to fear us we must grant to be just,
Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust;
But certainly we have no cause for alarm;
For, were they to try, they could do us no harm.
'Now look! it has got to its home; do you see
What a delicate web it has spun in the tree?
Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you:
Come learn from this spider what patience can do!
'And when at your business you're tempted to play,
Recollect what you see in this insect to-day,
Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true,
That a poor little spider is wiser than you. '
poem by Ann Taylor
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So, when I say 'match the hatch', if the fish are taking the nymph, and you're actually producing a replica of a flying insect, you'll catch fresh air.
The Spider
"Oh, look at that great ugly spider!" said Ann;
And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan;
"'Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be,
I wish that it would not come crawling on me. "
"Indeed," said her mother, "I'll venture to say,
The poor thing will try to keep out of your way;
For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain,
It has much more occasion than you to complain.
"But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear?
If it hurt you, there'd be some excuse for your fear;
But its little black legs, as it hurried away,
Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say.
"For them to fear us we must grant to be just,
Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust;
But certainly we have no cause for alarm;
For, were they to try, they could do us no harm.
"Now look! it has got to its home; do you see
What a delicate web it has spun in the tree?
Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you:
Come learn from this spider what patience can do!
"And when at your business you're tempted to play,
Recollect what you see in this insect to-day,
Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true,
That a poor little spider is wiser than you. "
poem by Jane Taylor
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Insect
Insect.
On my blue lined writing pad a tiny insect walks,
it appears lost and hesitates before crossing a line,
lost in this vast wilderness of the unwritten.
I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues
itself to the paper and will not budge.
I cannot touch it tiny as it is I will surely squash it.
Nothing I can do for now, leave it to its own devise,
go watch TV. When I returned it has gone, a sheet
of paper with nothing written on is a lonely place
and has no story to tell.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Raspberries in My Driveway
Nature will bear the closest inspection . She invites us to lay our eyes level with her smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its plain.
-Thoreau
The raspberries
in my driveway
have always
been here
(for the whole eleven years
I have owned
but have not owned
this house),
yet
I have never
tasted them
before.
Always on a plane.
Always in the arms
of man, not God,
always too busy,
too fretful,
too worried
to see
that all along
my driveway
are red, red raspberries
for me to taste.
Shiny and red,
without hairs-
unlike the berries
from the market.
Little jewels-
I share them
with the birds!
On one perches
a tiny green insect.
I blow her off.
She flies!
I burst the raspberry
upon my tongue.
In my solitude
I commune
with raspberries,
with grasses,
with the world.
The world was always
there before,
but where
was I?
Ah raspberry-
if you are so beautiful
upon my ready tongue,
imagine
what wonders
lie in store for me!
poem by Erica Jong
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To-Day, This Insect
To-day, this insect, and the world I breathe,
Now that my symbols have outelbowed space,
Time at the city spectacles, and half
The dear, daft time I take to nudge the sentence,
In trust and tale I have divided sense,
Slapped down the guillotine, the blood-red double
Of head and tail made witnesses to this
Murder of Eden and green genesis.
The insect certain is the plague of fables.
This story's monster has a serpent caul,
Blind in the coil scrams round the blazing outline,
Measures his own length on the garden wall
And breaks his shell in the last shocked beginning;
A crocodile before the chrysalis,
Before the fall from love the flying heartbone,
Winged like a sabbath ass this children's piece
Uncredited blows Jericho on Eden.
The insect fable is the certain promise.
Death: death of Hamlet and the nightmare madmen,
An air-drawn windmill on a wooden horse,
John's beast, Job's patience, and the fibs of vision,
Greek in the Irish sea the ageless voice:
'Adam I love, my madmen's love is endless,
No tell-tale lover has an end more certain,
All legends' sweethearts on a tree of stories,
My cross of tales behind the fabulous curtain.'
poem by Dylan Thomas
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My Tiny Fellow Traveller
An insect shaped like a butterfly
Not really willing to die
For he feared to be flown
By the wind that was being blown
In the train I was travelling by
Which was passing through low and high
Leaving barren and tilled landscapes behind
And moving regularly ahead towards its goal to find;
The insect was too small
Trying his best to creep on a wall
Of flesh and blood which was of my
No other than but left thigh
On which he was creeping
To find a shelter or something
To be safe against the blowing wind
This he decided in his mind;
His wings blotted black and white
For me it's a fine sight
I was infatuated by the scene
And everything else was to me unscene
He still lay on my thigh
As if trying to be safer
But the wind was not getting slower
Nor did he pass anywhere by;
Meanwhile, the rain started
And even closer to me he shifted
I spread my palm on his body
To avoid wind and rain drops
When the rain and the wind ceased
And my train at its goal reached
He slipped somewhere away
Bidding me no thanks nor good bye.
poem by Indresh Kumar
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My beautiful rose flower
My beautiful rose flower, you look so beautiful, gorgeous and attractive, i don't know how to place you, you make my head go zigzag
people insult you, drag you to the ground, their reason is because they see you as an ordinary flower, to me you are much more precious than diamond, beautiful than the morning dew
Your red color attract various insect
Your pollen grain perfume or aroma is very fantastic to make them bow to eat , the bees bow at your feet, the butterfly bow at your feet, the flies bow at your feet
You feed the multitude of insect which makes you much more charitable and sought after by all
When hunger strike at night, makes me pale, headache knocking persistently on my head, given me no enough room to cry out,
tears running down my cheeks profusely with no stop gap to aid it up
The cloud has becloud their terrible mind full of evil without any restriction you will say
The wickedness of men will continue to hunt them unless they give up their evil plot, evil device they planned for you
My white shirt stained trying to defend you
I will continue to defend and protect you with my last blood against all odds, if i give up the ghost in the process at least i will stand fulfilled on earth, on my honor i will make it come to pass,
ho! my beautiful rose flower
poem by Olayemi Ayo
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PSYCHE: Butterfly and Soul;
Laid on the underside of a leaf,
Early stage is egg;
Thriving to exist;
Hatching from the eggshell,
Consuming leaves as caterpillar,
Creepy, hungry larva is the second stage;
Accumulating needs with greed;
Hiding itself in a cover of time is pupa
Still and suspended is the third stage;
Buried in a tomb;
Emerging as a beautiful winged-fly Imago,
Butterfly is the fourth and final stage;
As soul gets liberated from all bonds;
Basking in the Sun, it sets to fly
Ready to feed on sweet nectar of flowers
Meanwhile pollinating them;
It can live from a week to a year
It plays an important role in nature
Finding its mate and the cycle repeats;
Fairy for the plants, Angel of joy to us
Colourful, joyful, beautiful flying creature
A tiny insect whose fluttering wings has impact,
On the occurence of tornado;
A butterfly represents the true spirit of life,
Rightly called Pysche for the final attainment,
Psyche, the love of Eros achieved immortality,
A butterfly portrays the journey of soul;
Reaching for the sky, feeding on nectar;
Is what mortals want as soul in Heaven.
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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Lines To A Dragon Fly
Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of Moral, where the Dragon Fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.
Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and filmy wing,
Who with indifference givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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The Dragon-Fly
Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath a cool syringa’s scented shade,
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly,
Wanders as careless and content as I.
Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and filmy wing,
Who with indifference givest up
The water-lily’s golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Reflections On The Water
A Blue cloud
shaped like a bird
spreading its wings
on the water,
a clover leaf falls
creating some ripples
a fish jumping
trying to reach an
odd shaped flying
insect,
my face is crooked
waving like
a silk scarf
reflections of
half truths but
naked still
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Only myself in a crowded street
Only myself walking down the crowded street,
Everyone around me like statues in a park.
Here’s a car waiting to turn,
There’s an old man feeding the birds.
I can picture what there doing,
But their only paused.
As though the video is stopped,
They just stand there waiting for it to play.
This strange new world where all time has stopped,
Why have I been brought to this odd dimension?
Only I can move back and forth,
Only I can reach out and feel their stone cold hands.
Many questions left unanswered,
And no one there to ask.
Desperately I search,
For any sign of life.
Then strangely I see,
A little insect fly.
As though in this despair,
There is something there besides myself.
I follow the butterfly,
As though it is my one last hope.
It lands on a head,
Of one of these statue-like beings.
And suddenly they start moving,
As though given life.
The little flying insect,
Skips from one to another.
Each and every one that the butterfly touches,
Starts moving in their step.
Each action that I pictured,
Becomes real before my eyes.
Then the little butterfly flies,
Back into the sky.
Never to be seen again,
Or so I thought that day.
Then after years gone by,
And I turned old and fragile.
Laying in my bed,
Looking up into the sky.
I saw the little butterfly,
Fly down to where I lay.
Landed by my ear,
And softly spoke to me.
“It is time for you to leave, ”
Said the little butterfly.
“I’ll bring you to a place,
That will give you life once more.”
Then the little butterfly,
Flew onto my forehead.
And flew off to another stone planet,
Leaving my body statue-like.
poem by Jessica Kissner
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The Hogarth Experiment Part 5
Peter levelled the shotgun
at the insect as big as a sheep
and pulled the trigger and again.
The blast knocked
the beast away from his father.
He quickly reloaded
as another giant insect
came close to his father.
The creature spun sideways
as the shot hit it.
Both creatures rose to their feet.
His father picked up the pitchfork
and jammed it deep
into the first insects head.
The insect wobbled on its legs
before collapsing dead.
The other moved giant insect
towards the fallen insect.
Peter had reloaded the shotgun
and fired both barrels at the head
of the advancing insect.
The head of it seemed to explode.
Peter reloaded the shotgun again.
His father ran towards him
pushing out of the way
of another giant insect.
They scrambled to their feet
and ran to the farmhouse.
They bolted the door
and moved to the window.
What they saw astonished them.
More and more giant insects landed
and seem to examine the fallen ones.
They then lifted them into the air and flew off.
John looked at his son.
Their battle was over.
All the giant insects disappeared
along with the two they had killed.
John went across to the phone
and telephoned the police.
He told them what had happened,
half expecting them to laugh.
They asked for his address
and said they would be sending
some people out to him.
They told him to remain inside with his family
and keep the windows and doors
locked until they arrived.
An hour passed and several armoured personnel carriers
stopped in the farmyard.
A dozen or more troops
emerged from the vehicles.
The Officer in charge
deployed them around the vehicles
before he and a short spectacled man
came to the door of the farmhouse.
John Fairchild let them in.
The short spectacled man introduced himself
as Raymond Constantine from Cambridge University
where he taught about insects.
The reason why they took so long to get there
was that he had to be flown down from Cambridge.
He asked if they could describe the insects
that they had battled with.
As they old him, Constantine frowned.
He then asked how many did they see?
John wasn’t sure,
but he estimated over twenty.
Constantine face grew paler.
He knew what kind of insects
had attacked them
and that very thought of that worried him.
He then asked what size they were.
John’s answer frightened Constantine even more
when he told him they were as large as sheep.
Constantine turned to the Captain
and said they must get back to HQ.
He then turned to John
and warned him
that he must not go out in the daytime.
Evenings and at night were Ok,
but not during the day.
Constantine and the Captain then left.
On he journey back to HQ
Constantine kept his eyes on the skies.
The insect John Fairchild had told him about
were social insects
and lived in nests of up to ten thousand workers.
Their nests were in a hole the ground.
The problem was going to be to locate the nest
and kill all the occupants,
but mainly the queen.
She would have to be destroyed.
Several times, he thought he saw something,
but they were merely birds.
As the continued, deeper into the valley
a humming sound arose around them,
slowly getting louder and louder.
Constantine turned to the driver
and shouted at him to stop.
The sky turned from blue to black
as a mass of insects flew overhead.
Constantine’s face turned ashen
with horror at what he saw.
Several of the insects seemed
to be carrying human bodies.
Others had small animals.
Several of the soldiers left the armoured vehicles
and were firing at the insects.
Sudden they swarmed them.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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