The Bees and Flies
A Farmer of the Augustan Age
Perused in Virgil's golden page
The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene's son--
How the dank sea-god showed the swain
Means to restore his hives again.
More briefly, how a slaughtered bull
Breeds honey by the bellyful.
The egregious rustic put to death
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed
With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having well performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
Nor waited long. The God of Day
Impartial, quickening with his ray
Evil and good alike, beheld
The carcass--and the carcass swelled.
Big with new birth the belly heaves
Beneath its screen of scented leaves.
Past any doubt, the bull conceives!
The farmer bids men bring more hives
To house the profit that arrives;
Prepares on pan and key and kettle,
Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;
But when to crown the work he goes,
Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!
Where are the honest toilers? Where
The gravid mistress of their care?
A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
But not a sign or sound of bees.
Worms of the riper grave unhid
By any kindly coffin-lid,
Obscene and shameless to the light,
Seethe in insatiate appetite,
Through putrid offal, while above
The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,
Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Related quotes
Big Balls
well i married a farmer nicknamed
"Big Balls"
nope it is not what you think at all
It started way back
when he was a city kid
who has never seen a cow
visiting his cousins on the farm
helping with chores
playing in the field
with wonder he stared
at this bull with its huge sack
hanging from its belly
too shy and not wanting to sound stupid
magnus as my husband was babtised
waited for the opportune moment
so with uncle and cousins
out in the camp
branding the animals
magnus could contain himself no more
"Wow! That bull's got "Big Balls"
roars of laughter as all eyes
looked to where he was pointing
their oldest and biggest cow.
ever since this day everybody
and now a farmer himself
he goes by the nickname "Big Balls"
poem by Persian Khushi
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Lesson From the Bees
Our close friend I remember
Moonlighting tale of the past
Bees is always busy
Bees produce honey
Hard-work produces the sweetest food
Diligence is a god quality
Cohort in the crude village life
Moonlighting tales of the past
Bees produce honey
Bees can guide their hives
Security produces the sweetest food
Security is a good quality
Our close friend I remember
Moonlighting tale of the past
Bees can guide their hives
Bees can stingy intruders
Defense produces the sweetest meal
Defense is a good quality
Our close friend I remember
Moonlighting tale of the past
Mind your business
Guard your vision like bees
Diligence, security, and defense
Learn good lesson from the bees
poem by Michael Popoola
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The Joke At Golgotha
try going to golgotha
and see
if you can find a joke there
try your wits and humour
on skulls
and carcass
and crosses and
crucifixions
yes the carcass
funny
you can see her ass.
(ha ha ha)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When we were small children
When we were small children
about five and four
my dad had died
of cancer
and I and my brother
had to stay during the day
with the Von Hörsten’s
when my mother drove away to work.
Uncle Hendrik was a farmer,
but also with his brother Fritz
wrote story books
and his string of children
who was much older
and bigger than us
(four boys and two girls)
kept us busy
since boys had to stay out of the house.
So it went that we
rode horses unsaddled,
tread on silage
and the second oldest Gardiël
was always on our case,
had put us on donkeys
and the lot of them laughed
while the animals run moody
into rocks
and my brother fell
and got some bruises and cuts.
One day the cornfield
was cut stubble high
to get feed for the cattle
and the breeding bull Kittennel
(a black and malicious animal)
were chased into the crush-pen
and Gardiël forced us on that bull
before he chased it
with a horse
into the cornfield.
On the other side of the field
beyond the border wire
his brothers waved a red flag
up and down and up and down
and Kittennel snored though his nose,
in anger shook his body,
kicked up dust
before he got direction
capering
and storming with full force
at the red flag.
The stubbles flashed
past his feet
and looked like spears
standing upright
and we were afraid
of being pierced
and we rode Kittennel
and no bull
could throw us down that day.
[Reference: The word uncle used here out of respect and local custom and not to point out family relationship.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sonnet: Alas, ’Tis a Nasty World Today!
The horrors of my yester-years are fresh;
The frescoes flash upon my Sylvian screen;
It was not easy breaking up the mesh;
What trials, tribulations through, I’ve been!
This world is nasty without any doubt;
Most people live just selfish, shameless lives;
An elephant could kill its own mahout!
Men make money like bees, honey in hives.
Our problems come from within and without;
The world won’t spare a beggar by the road;
None come to help however much you shout;
Most people need whip-lashes to just goad.
Nevertheless, you cannot blame your God;
All evil men will one day get His rod!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-11-2006
poem by John Celes
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A Bull For Me
I think, Sirs, and most inimitable Ladies
I think I prefer to look at a bull
The sketch of a bull, the head of a bull perhaps
even if but a study by an artist
rather than some fancy prophet in glorious paint
or in grand chapel or some miracle recounted
in paint and colors and with consummate skill
or even God descending
ah, all these do not take my fancy
they smack too much of the Elevated;
there’s too much
of the grandstanding in these
Grand Divine Themes
but the face of a bull, ah give me a sketch
of the face of a bull
just the bull, all marks of nature in it
and just itself
no symbolism, no conceit, no artifice
no High sounding theology, no Revelation
but just animal nature in its nudity
being a bull
just animal, its eyes and mouth and horns
just all coming together to form one creature
a portrait of a bull anytime for me
Sirs and most inimitable Ladies
none of the Holy Ones and the Great Prophets
and the Mighty and the Divine
and the Grand-Looking:
no bull for me, please;
just the plain head of a bull, as it is
poem by Raj Arumugam
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By the horn
Heightened excitement and a little fear
The matador faces a bull, with a crowd behind him it lessens his care
Frustrated, harnessed to entertain
Frantic charging with poor aim
Targeting this red rag, the bull has missed
While the matador plays to the crowd and blows a kiss
A stroke of luck, our bull has made contact
While the matador feels sheepish, the crowd witnessed the fact
Carried by his breeches he's tossed up high
Oohs, aahs, the crowd sees his breeches torn
He attempts to cover his modesty as they are exposed by a horn
Heartened, our bull charges again and delivers a better aim
Escape is on hand as the matador takes flight and is tossed into the stand.
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
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The Bullfighter Was A Lady
(words & music by sid tepper - roy c. bennett)
Pedro the bull was a killer
King of the bullfighter ringer
Hed wipe up the floor with each brave matador
And have matador stew for his dinner
He heard the crowd shouting ol
But he met his master that day
The bullfighter was a lady
And it was true love at first sight
Her red cape was waving but pedro was shaking (or shaving? )
He wanted to date her that night
Ol
Pedro the bull he was smitten
First time the love bug had bitten
He once was a mad bull, a wild and a bad bull
But now he was mild as a kitten
The people were starting to hiss
But pedro just wanted to kiss
The bullfighter was a lady
And pedro he liked what he saw
He floated on air with a rose in his hair
As he waltzed with that sweet matador
His fate was a bad one, his tale is a sad one
Its hanging right over her door
Ol!
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lyric four bulls
Woman walked in forest alone
Met man
Man aroused appetite for her
Man ran and knocked his head on tree
Tail grew out
Hairy jaw grew in mouth
Hind legs grew
Man metamorphosed because was
Lion cannibal
Tried to attack man
Woman asked cannibal
‘’where’re your four
red and white bulls’’
‘’Do you know them’’
‘’Yes, you sing their
Oldest lyric’’
Cannibal laughed
In hoarse voice
Sang,
‘’One red and white spotted bull is sold
One red and white bull spotted is stolen
One red and white spotted bull is swallowed
One red and white spotted bull is scattered
On earth, scattered on earth, on earth, on earth……………….., cannibal sang tune of ‘’scattered on earth’’ happily for long and until
He napped and woman disappeared.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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My Bees: An Allegory
"O bees, sweet bees!" I said, "that nearest field
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles.
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells."
Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield,
I set, and patient for the autumn's yield
Of sweet I waited.
When the village bells
Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells
The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed
My hive.
Alas! no snowy honey there
Was stored. My wicked bees had borne away
Their queen and left no trace.
That very day,
An idle drone who sauntered through the air
I tracked and followed, and he led me where
My truant bees and stolen honey lay.
Twice faithless bees! They had sought out to eat
Rank, bitter herbs. The honey was not sweet.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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The Farmer And The Stray Dog
the farmer arrives
bringing with him his
viand and rice
places it in the corner
of his hut,
the stray dog
gets in through its
sense of smell
and finds its catch
the farmer's
viand and rice
the catch is taken
far away
the farmer
is not angry for soon
a woman with a long
black hair arrives
bringing him
his broiled fish
and newly cooked rice
the woman is not
his wife
and there they are
under the shade of
the mango tree
the stray dog watches
as this story unfolds
to the final chapter
inside the hut
on such a very dark night
the dog is clever
and it knows the ending
the farmer is not angry
for dogs. mind you,
never tell.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Similis Smiles
Like the moon, he speaks - a silver-
tongued devil dressed in black,
his words slithering across my skin
like rain on the rhombus of a diamondback.
Similis smiles like a vacant house,
like the death of a dappled dove;
and like stains in a broken China cup,
he is at the bottom when it comes to love.
For his heart is like a mangled mass,
a mountain crumbled as grains of sand.
Like a tear to the eye, he clouds the sight,
like a veil of fog across the land.
The senses are stifled from his desert air,
like pressing fingers around my throat.
He slips like a stone, a rolling stone,
into the great ache of life's emote.
Like the grave, he is full of bones -
the ancient sorrow of hapless isles.
He is a carcass of man, an empty shell;
and like a leper, Similis smiles.
Note: A simile is a figure of speech in which two essentially unlike things are compared, often in a phrase introduced by like or as as in: He was as strong as a bull. (Latin, neuter of similis, like.) Thus, the name, Similis Smiles.
poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell
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The Carcass
Remember that object we saw, dear soul,
In the sweetness of a summer morn:
At a bend of the path a loathsome carrion
On a bed with pebbles strewn,
With legs raised like a lustful woman,
Burning and sweating poisons,
It spread open, nonchalant and scornful,
Its belly, ripe with exhalations.
The sun shone onto the rotting heap,
As if to bring it to the boil,
And tender a hundredfold to vast Nature
All that together she had joined;
And the sky watched that superb carcass
Like a flower blossom out.
The stench was so strong that on the grass
You thought you would pass out.
Flies hummed upon the putrid belly,
Whence larvae in black battalions spread
And like a heavy liquid flowed
Along the tatters deliquescing.
All together it unfurled, and rose like a wave
And bubbling it sprang forth;
One might have believed that, with a faint breath filled,
The body, multiplying, lived.
And this world gave out a strange music
Like of running water and of wind,
Or of grain in a winnow
Rhythmically shaken and tossed.
Form was erased and all but a vision,
A sketch slow to take shape
On a forgotten canvas, which the artist finishes
From memory alone.
Behind the rocks a fretting bitch
Looked at us with fierce mien
Anxious to retrieve from the corpse
A morsel that she had dropped.
Yet to this rot you shall be like,
To this horrid corruption,
Star of my eyes, sun of desire,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes, such you shall be, you, queen of all graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath the grass and waxy flowers,
To mold among the skeletons.
Then, oh my beauty! You must tell the vermin,
As it eats you up with kisses,
That I have preserved the form and essence divine
Of my decayed loves.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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27th January
The secret of your great strength,
The secret of your great love,
The secret of your great romance,
And like the seven braids of my head;
But to Edward the son of Louis i will write out my mind.
She fell in love and he fell in love,
And in the valley of romance they spent the night;
For he was a mighty man of valour!
To the plain of love and to the plain of aroma,
To the plain of passion and to the plain of romance,
And to wander on the hills of unity to see afar;
But she was a virgin with the muse of Mozart.
The bay of love and the muse of love,
To bewail her virginity in the name of peace;
And with 27th January to fulfil her dreams,
But the muse of marriage came into force.
Morrow, narrow, arrow, sparrow, borrow;
And like a message skin deep!
But she was a special treasure to him.
A cow, a bull, a lamb, a goat;
She was a virgin and he made love with her;
But she was very special to him.
Take up a work in the garden of love and go down deep!
And be joyful in the city of love;
For the swarm of the bees and honey are like,
The sweet songs of love heard on 27th January.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A government, for protecting business only, is but a carcass, and soon falls by its own corruption and decay.
quote by Amos Bronson Alcott
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To His lady,
IMPLORING HER TO BE TRUE
MISTRESS of me, mistress of all the arts
And charms that sway men's hot ungoverned hearts,
Receive their tribute--smile at their defeat;
I do not ask that you should spare them, sweet.
Only I ask that in the secret shrine
No prayers be heard, no offering laid, but mine.
Each man who sees your eyes must needs lay down
Low at your feet the votive myrtle crown:
Let them bring crowns to die beneath your feet;
I, only I, must bring the crown you wear
Shadowing the sombre glory of your hair.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Crazy Bull
Look out, here comes a crazy bull
He is crazy
Hide behind the fence, my love
He is coming fast
Just toss me your jacket
And I will fight him for you
Toro, Toro, Toro
Enter the arena
everyone
Is watching me now
Toro, Toro, Toro
Crazy bull
Little by little
I am taming you
They are going to open up the gates
To his pen
So this beaten bull can leave
Now he returns back home
Looking like a lamb
Toro, Toro, Toro
poem by Mercedes Zoller
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No Bulls-Hit
Pink rain fell on the matador's hat
As the bull she'd slain lay beneath her feet
Its mouth a gap its nostrils still flared
And its life and tearblood rushed from his splayed chest
No tears or words were used as slowly her blade was drawn from flesh
And when the spray of rain did cleanse the blood
The blade gleamed like cupid's cursed arrows
And the edges seemed sharper than its irony
She stood there with the bull's scarred heart lying out an offering
And slowly she turned claiming his death for her game
She is a matador and evasion is her game
The nearer came the bull the better fun for her
Till finally straight on he near caught her
Now he lays dead.
poem by Evan Histed
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Jiving Around Other Hives
If bees perceived themselves,
To be the honey brought inside the hive...
Instead of playing a part,
Of making that sweet taste come alive.
The realness of the honey,
Would not exist.
And no one would experience the taste of it.
No one would crave the sensation to be kissed.
And all that is that is taken for granted,
From our minds would be dismissed.
So you aint the honey.
You just the bee.
Together we make the honey.
And you may believe,
You can have your honey without me.
But I will tell you right now,
Wherever you go...
Thinking you're all that,
You will realize all you attract alone are flies.
Buzzing artificially jiving around other hives.
Believing I wait for you to come back from that trap.
And that honey you made with me...
Is a taste I guarantee you will miss.
But slipping back to unpack your crap...
With me,
Aint gon happen'.
To me...
You've become just another,
Wannabe fly by!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Early Works - Good Luck?
Here I sit in solemn repose
while some old bag looks down her nose
words echo around me
and I begin to snort and wheeze
like a bull ready to charge,
but I must be calm.
They talk in riddles
to confuse and fiddle
then I feel my good luck charm in my hand.
My aim is steady,
my shot is sure
and I return to my solemn repose, a
s the old bag looks cross-eyed
at my lucky charm stuck up her nose.
There is chaos everywhere
no one knows what to do,
I still sit in solemn repose
and the old bag is still cross-eyed
looking down her nose.
There is nothing they can do
and the case is dropped, wow, wow.
The old bag goes to hospital ho, ho
my lucky charm still up her nose.
The sun comes up in the morning
and I am still free as a bird.
Free as a bird, the word.
The air smells like dog muck
something you trod in to bring you luck!
10 October 2002
poem by David Harris
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