Entomology in Verse

M. V. Lomonosov

Poems composed on the road to Peterhof
when I was on my way to ask
for the academy's privilege in 1761,
having been there many times before for the same thing.

Dear grasshopper, if you are much blessed,
If you are more blessed before people with happiness!
You pass your life between the soft grass
And enjoy the honeydew.
Though in the eyes of many you are a despicable creature,
Yet in truth you are a king before us;
You are an angel in the flesh, or rather, you are disembodied!
You ride and sing, free, carefree,
What you see is all yours; everywhere in your home,
You don't ask for anything, you don't owe anyone.

Summer 1761

This is an excerpt from a poem by Nabokov. I will be grateful for its full version.

'On Discovering a Butterfly'

I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer - and I want no other fame.

Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
in the secluded stronghold where we keep
type specimens it will transcend its dust.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immortality of this
red label on a little butterfly.

- Vladimir Nabokov

Oh, no wonder Danilevsky was a direct descendant of Pushkin

This is an excerpt from a poem by Nabokov. I will be grateful for its full version.

Please tell me, what is a more complete version? I searched the Web, and found only what you brought.
Thank You

This is an excerpt from a poem by Nabokov. I will be grateful for its full version.

'On Discovering a Butterfly'

I found it and I named it,
......................
......................

red label on a little butterfly.

- Vladimir Nabokov

By the way, I learned for the first time from this poem that "holotypes" are given a red label.

Please tell me, what is a more complete version? I searched the Web, and found only what you brought.
Thanks

On http://listserv.ucsb.edu/lsv-cgi-bin/wa?A2...nabokv-l&P=8841 there is another verse:
I found it in a legendary land
all rocks and lavender and tufted grass,
where it was settled on some sodden sand,
hard by the torrent of montains pass.
As I understand it, it's from the same poem.

Yes, you're right, there's probably something else.

By the way, I learned for the first time from this poem that "holotypes" are given a red label.

The red label is pinned not only for holotypes, but in general for any type specimens.

Excerpts from Erasmus Darwin's poem "The Temple of Nature" (1803) translated by N. A. Kholodkovsky.

On the tender mulberry tree, which in the spring
In Italy flutters its leaves
greedily Aspires to the sun - without worries
, a flock of nondescript mulberry worms
Lives, feeding, and, not knowing love,
Diligently nibbles fresh leaves;
But here, changing, rotating its head
And decorating
Its bed with a muslin canopy, the worm winds a cocoon,
Where it is from storms and storms. protected from the sun;
For twelve days he sleeps, anticipating
Flower honey and dreaming of love;
Then he is awakened by a young desire,
He leaves his motionless sleep ,
And now in ecstasy he rushes, winged,
To find his other sex; a couple of lovers
They flutter through the flowers together,
Blissful in their joy.

***
An evil gadfly in the body of a horse, bull,
or Deer places a worm;
The worm digs, nibbles under the warm skin
, And, having grown up, comes out into the light of God.
The winged rider,in order to
provide a Nutritious supply to the offspring,
Hurries, stabbing the sting many times,
to drill more caterpillars;
Finding shelter in the foster mother,
the Larvae devour her living flesh.
Dragonflies steel jaws mercilessly
Swarm insects hungrily exterminate,
And the armies of bees air a hundredfold
In battle each other stings smite.

***

The wasp, the thin builder, creates
Rows of honeycombs surrounded by paper;The
skilled bee is not threatened
by Winter: it equips
Rows of yaks from wax and accumulates honey in them;
And the evil spider is a work
of Immeasurable subtlety of the net;
So that the eggs are soft,
the kingling lines the nest tray with moss;
The silkworm Larvae,
preparing for the transformation, twist the leaves with a sticky thread
And, by rotating the head, to pupate
In the spheres of the silk sphere create.
Say: Are all these aspirations the
fruit of a mere touch?
Through imitation, have children taken over from
Their fathers
, or have generations memorized traditions without words?
Did it arise in ancient times gray-haired
In the larva of a midge or in a barely noticeable
Tick, being stored as a treasured treasure
Through changes of forms, so that in time to develop its
Useful in the present and suitable-
A living connection of animals and people!
So humble thyself in thy proud pride
, and ever remember, selfish spirit,
That the worm is thy kinsman, and thy brother the ant!

Pictures:

__.JPG — (10.44к)

Verse of a non-specialist-V. S. Vysotsky. However, the name is not entomological....

Lyubimov, responding to the reproaches of others, said about Vysotsky (in the last years of his life V. S.): "... so what if he is a drunk... but he is also a genius in our theater "(on Taganka).

Herbarium

CODEDashing proletarians,
Having eaten vodka with a keel,
Hurry to their underground
To establish a struggle
, And I lie in the herbarium,
Pinned to the board with a hairpin,
And I scratch wood with my fingers until it hurts
.

I'm curled up on a nail,
But I don't change my position.
There are dung beetles
And small dragonflies
all around, familiar to me From my childhood: I
caught them, dug them,
Crushed them — but now I've fallen into the insects
myself.

Under all the exhibits —
Enamel slats,
Everything is strictly scientific,
The class and type are indicated.
I
was lying in a glass jar with these guys,
We fought — it's for the best:
I found out who is poisonous


I imagine
Myself in a big bed,
But above me is written:
"Never seen before."
I was a" homo "reader,
I was a" sapiens",
My class was a mammal,
and the species was already forgotten.

The gun was blowing in my face, and whether I
was wearing a pea jacket or a robe, I was
rushing
Back to the hut, bloodstained.
And on you! — they put
me in visual aids —
I'm angry and dumbfounded,
Hanging on the wall.

I am decorated as if I were married,
I am ashamed, as a student,
Solid bumblebees are buzzing,
That I must obey.
And the butterflies giggle
At the strange exhibit,
The Centipedes chuckle,
And the pupae quip.


My former
Two-legged, intelligent brethren move cautiously towards me:
Two write — three in the mind.
They will prescribe izhitsa,
Their eyes are not gentle —
One disgustedly poked at me
And brought out a resume:

"So, no Contacts have been established with him
— and we are not waiting for them-
That is why, citizens,
he is lying with the insects.
His mind is not developed,
he is always in trouble—
and here he can only
turn around on his navel."

They take it, don't they? "
I wasn't found in a field!"
This is a stupid mistake —
You will see a flaw:
They will punish those who are confused,
Force them to pay them off,
And I will fall into the subgroup
At least of monkeys.

No, it wasn't a mistake — the action
was performed on me,
So that I began to grovel
Down my belly, up my back.
Here I am, decked out,
Drawn,
and deliberately classified
as a creeping bug.

The worm won't bow to me,
And the gadflies and horseflies
Have a distaste
for dung — eating-
Swaggering creatures,
Content with gossip,
And I need companionship
With my own kind.

I warmed up a dystrophic cricket-
A flea blurted out, a nit,
And lo and behold-two grated bedbugs
From the third subspecies!
The cricket, half-strangled
, Half-whistled,
But for the peace disturbed
By two nails sat down.

Or maybe everything will be aired
And melted down by the sun,
After all, prosperity is
not a chopping block, they say.
All slyubitsya yes will endure,
I even began to like
a Young sedge
And a silkworm cocoon.

Yes, I am happy with wasps —
They do not smell like a dog,
Among them there are individuals
with an aspen waist.
And, by the way, suddenly from the cocoons
something
will be born that also has a curl
And that has a breast.

The spider is hungry for my brain,
Bedbugs are swarming — there is no rozdykh,

The Beautiful wasp dances as a bride.
Let something brew,
And then-at least for three nails,
And with three nails, as usual,
The Road — to heaven.

In my frowning brain
, Fear pours down my wrinkles:
The hornet will become my brother-in-law,
But what will I become my son?
I
really don't want the drone to be my father-in-law!
It's time, it's time
to Strain yourself and resurrect!

When alive we were poked
with prickly pins,
bees waved their wings,
ants squeaked.
We have all suffered together,
We are all pierced with needles-
Let us forget who we were,
my Comrades!

I'm a little arrogant,
But I have a lump of bitterness in my throat:
Understand, I am a biped.
Got caught by the insects,
But who will save us, help us out,
Who will take us off the board?
Follow me, get out of my hairpins,
Fellow beetles!

And, as always in history,
We arched our backs at once,
Even though the wasps were gundosil-
But who is strong is right.
We
first drove the Bedbugs out of our territory
and threw the spiders
Behind an old bookcase.

The scandal will settle down later,
but everyone is at home,
and things don't seem
to be going well.
And I-I enjoy the bath
Without any hard feelings...
It's a pity,
Another one is already nailed over my plank.1976



This post was edited by Adamov-08.01.2008 17: 27

I'm sending you my verse:

I love entomology
when it comes to beetles.

I really, really like these moments.
I'll fill up the stain with ethyl acetate,
Go catch beetles,
Which is very pleasant to me.
I walk through the woods
In my tarpaulin boots.
And I think, of course, only about beetles.

Dmitry Demidov "Entomology"

Recently, on one site of children's poems, I found this poem.
Sergey Makhotin 1983.

Beetle
What a beetle I met in the forest!
He stamped like a bull and shook his horns,
And he was very serious and formidable –
I even gave way to him.

I don't know its name yet,
but I won't forget the forest beetle.

I'll go to the library in town
,find my beetle from my drawings,Find
out where it's found, how it lives,
Why it needs wings, and what it chews.

And the pages will make a noise like grass,
And the trams will ring like birds.
I'll tell everyone about my beetle.
How nice that I didn't offend him.

Oswald Geer.

Glancing through the window of knowledge,
Into the realm of ancient shadows,
Instead of ghosts, we will see
Only the creatures of our days.
The darkness and horrors of Pluto,
the Sphinxes, the harpies of the terrible chorus,
And the chimeras of hellfire
Will not confuse the inquisitive eye.

There are crickets chirping in the field,
a dragonfly singing in the bushes.
Sonorous midges
Dance in the sun's rays ...
Here-little musicians
Are scattered among the sands;
The noise of fun announces
the Distance of deserted shores…

No! In the silent dungeons
Where we imagine the kingdom of the Orc
, A host of former creatures Slumber
, Immured, motionless.
They also enjoyed life, the sun, and the blue sky
...
Now in the gloom of the sullen rocks
their days pass without end.

From the book"Butterflies of the World: The most beautiful and Famous" by L. V. Kaabak and A. V. Sochivko:

You're right -
I'm so cute with just an airy outline.
All my velvet with its lively twinkle is
just two wings.
Don't ask: where did you come from?
Where am I in a hurry?
Here on a flower I have easily descended,
And here-I breathe.

Athanasius Fet

Everything will be the same: a table, a bench
and an image, ancient and simple.
And
a Colored butterfly in silk will also fly in,
Flutter, rustle and flutter
across the blue ceiling.

Ivan Bunin
And finally, my favorite:

Flying from shadow to light,
She herself and shadow and light,
Where was she born,
Almost devoid of signs?
She flies, squatting,
She must be from China,
There are no similar ones here,
She is from those forgotten years,
Where a drop of small azure is
like a blue sea in the eye.

Arseny Tarkovsky

Poems by the outstanding entomologist Andrey Petrovich Semenov-Tian-Shansky (http://www.zin.ru/Animalia/Coleoptera/rus/semenov.htm), however, not about insects.

And this evening is quiet and clear,
And the blue firmament is clear,
And the garden that has fallen asleep is silent,
And the golden sunset is burning;
But there is no maturity in this pale evening
, no fire
That you see in the victorious sunset
of a day lit by Labor.

***

In this realm of eternal inevitability,
Where life is given to us for death,
Keep the keys of the vastness
That is reflected in your soul.

Carry a pure
And living soul in the world to the end of the journey,
so
that another may follow it more surely by its silvery path.

1919

Wonderful Dmitry Alexandrovich Prigov.

My brother is a cockroach and my sister is a fly
Dear ones, what are you whispering in my ear?

Yeah, I understand that I'm a scoundrel
, that I'm pushing you, and our common Father

In the sky he puts his binoculars to his eyes
And notices everything and puts it in a book

So no, don't get your hopes up - when I would have written
down What everyone asked of him from birth

Then life on earth would have been ruined a long time ago He writes down
in the book what is needed for the case

***

As I am a dirty mighty-
Cockroaches of a flock of clouds
I drive tirelessly
That the cockroaches marvel
at my Tirelessness:
Is it not disgusting to myself?
Of course, it's disgusting
But what can you do

***

Here it's raining, a cockroach
and I are sitting at a wet window
And looking into the distance, where
the desired country Rises out of the fog
Like a kind of exorbitant smoke
I say to some nega:
What, hairy, let's fly away! -"
I can't, I can only run
-
Well, run, run

***

Here is a cockroach with an open wing
On the wall running playfully
What do you need, wing, my dear? --
Yes, in order to please God
, He likes, they say, the winged
ones Besides, it's not hard -
That's the true answer: if it's not hard
for us, then why not please others

***

What is the soul of a
Poor cockroach and lives
Handles-legs, legs-
thin handles and a stomach

That's why he's so unscrupulous
There's no place for the soul to live
in it Somewhere out there it's wrapped in a box
of cotton wool

***

What the fuck
is this, I beat them, burn them tirelessly -

The same cockroaches have appeared again

Without paying attention that they are being destroyed
, Lord! -"Do they really love
Me
, Lord?"

It was the first time, for God's
sake!
No tears!

Then there's my favorite:
I. Bunin
THE LAST BUMBLEBEE

Black velvet bumblebee, golden shoulder strap,
Mournfully humming a singing string,
Why do you fly into the human habitation
And seem to yearn with me?

Outside the window is light and heat, the windowsills are bright,
Serene and hot the last days,
Fly, stay-and in the dried Tatarka,
On a red pillow, fall asleep.

It is not given to you to know human thoughts
That the fields have long been deserted,
That the gloomy wind
of the Golden dry bumblebee will soon blow away in the weeds!

Now that we're talking about bumblebees...

Here, do not judge strictly, piled when engaged in bumblebees


Flying, buzzing and flapping with four wings,
A furry, fearsome beast,
Entered me through the open door
And a short distance between us

Hungry, he decided to eat honey
That I got it for tea quite recently
, It would be nice for me to share it with a friend
And I also poured tea for him

However, he refused tea
, ate honey and flew out of the window
, But he will still look in anyway-
I have a lot of honey left.

V. Nabokov


Nocturnal butterflies


I remember the evenings at the beginning of the fall of leaves,
the night depth of the yearning garden,
where the oak tree alone is still thick with leaves,
and the misty dense darkness melts
under its branches, and the tender nocturnal
birds still fly to it in the purple sleepy hour:
invisible eyelashes flutter in the dark
, fluffy ghosts flutter...
I am preparing a bait for you,
night butterflies:
anticipating a successful catch in the morning,
I mix drunk beer in half
with warmed molasses, then add rum.

And in the garden I go out to the mists, wonders,
and sticky gold I smear on the damp
oak trunk, and the brush drips juice,
creeps along the cracks, shiny and fragrant...
The saffron ball of the moon rises from behind a cloud,
and the oak tree, my accomplice, is wide and tall.
He has absorbed more than one earthly dream;
I am waiting in the purple haze, and he is waiting with me.

And then, mysteriously-suddenly, like the fall
of a star, thoughtfully-silently, like the flight
of a flower cannon-one, then another
small shadow glides, turning white and blinking:
gray moths are born in the darkness.
I point the circle of a pocket light bulb at the trunk
and see: five nocturnal birds take in the dope juice,
blissfully releasing their twisted proboscis
and raising their gray wings on a pink lining
, numb, and suddenly, with a flutter of their wings,
they disappear into the darkness - and again
they fly easily to the sweet smell. I stand in front of the trunk,
carefully watch their semi-explicit outfit,
color and pattern, and, having chosen a moth,
I splash the smooth
whitish gauze of a wide net over the bark itself.

A wonderful watch! The delight of remembering!
The soul is worried... Latin names
swirl in my head, and the night is warm, muddy...
Hanging in the swollen gloom of the lemon moon huge.
In the distance, between the branches, behind the flower beds, behind the dark
landing, three windows in the manor house are lit.
From there, at the proper hour, you can call out to me,
say that it's time to go to bed, and look out of the window
and see: a black garden, a careful flashlight,
a whitish spot of a glimpse of a net...

And I return with my prize of air:
life still knocks on the walls of the box,
ether pours on the cotton wool, cold, sweetly stuffy,
under my breast I take a little moth, -
it weakens, it goes out, - a winged man,
and in the cork gap between the lime boards
of capture I carefully stick in a row.

Go to sleep, little wings, big-eyed heads,
and the thinnest ties!..
Here is a plump silkworm,
pockmarked like a dead leaf, here are the wings of a black
owl with a pearl izhitsa on a knotted vein,
here is a tiny fan with a fringe of light,
here is a meek old man, a nun in a dark cassock,
and here is their princess, the bride of the breeze:
two ribbons of velvet on pink satin,
a flamingo fluff on the tip of her belly...

Thank you, gentle ones!.. As the years passed,
you melted with warmth and flared up again.
I felt an indescribable love,
dreamily bending over your rows
in glass boxes, fragrant and dry,
like the light leaves of large faded bibles
with faded flowers embedded in them...
I don't know, moths, perhaps you have perished;
mildew and moth have entered, worms have eaten
up, wings and legs and legs have broken -
or rough hands have opened the cherished scale
and the glass has cracked - and you are turned
into a colored handful of fragrant dust...

I do not know, gentle ones, but from a strange land
I look into the depths of a longing garden;
I remember evenings at the beginning of the fall of leaves,
and my oak in the meadow, and the smell of honey,
and the yellow moon above the black branches,
and I cry, and fly, and in the twilight I
hover with you and breathe under the tender leaves.

Here are some of my favorites:

1
In the land of wonders, in the land of living plants,
Breathing Imperfect wisdom,
Why do you ask for new impressions
And new storms, inquisitive soul?
Do not be deceived by the ghost of peace:
Sometimes life is deceptive in appearance.
The hour will come, and the fatal morning
of Your dreams, sparkling, will blind.
2
Lodeynikov
was lying in the garden, covering his face with his hands. It was already evening.
Below,
the cattle were walking home, tapping thin bells, and quietly babbling
their indistinct memories.
The cold breath of grass
drifted along the road. The beetle was flying.
Lodeynikov opened his face and looked
at the grass. The grass
was like a wall of vessels before him. And every vessel
Glowed with veins and flesh.
All this flesh trembled and grew up, and Gud
Walked on the ground. With a click at the joints,
a slap, a flutter of movement,
the Vast forest of grass stretched out to the right,
Where the sun fell, glowing.
And it was a battle of grass, a silent battle of plants,
Some stretching out like a greasy pipe
And spreading their leaves, others crumpling themselves,
And their tense joints secreted
Thick mucus. Others were crawling through the gap
between other people's sheets. And still others, as in bed,
Lay down on the neighbor and pulled
Take it back, so that you're exhausted.
And at that moment, the beetle blew a tune.
Lodeynikov woke up.
The misty horn of the moon rose over the village,
And gradually
the Rustle of grass and silence turned into a song.
Nature sang. The forest lifted its face
and sang along with the meadow. The river's pure body
rang all over, like a ringing ring.

Grasshoppers were shaking Their dry legs in the white mist,
Beetles were standing in black armfuls,
Their voices were like twigs.

The handsome Sokolov was walking through the meadow with his transparent glasses shining,
Playing a thoughtful guitar.
His flowers touched his boots
and bent down. The little creatures
plopped down on his chest
And bounced wildly,
But Sokolov stepped on
the debris And continued on his way steadily.
Lodeynikov began to cry. The fireflies
around him lit their lamps,
But his mind, alas, was playing hide
-and-seek with itself, contrary to reason.
3
In his hut, sitting at the table,
he pondered, filled with sorrow.
It was already dusk.
Night birds screamed piteously all around.
From the windows of the hut came a wavering light,
And in the band of uncertain radiance
Stood apple trees, as if
they had emerged from the darkness of ancient years.
The wavering light from the windows spilled
And fell so that each petal
Among the misty leaves stood
out in a Transparent cup, open to the east
, And all the wonderful and lovely plants
Reminded each of us
of Nature's perfect creation,
Woven for the perfect eye.
Lodeynikov bent over the leaves,
And at that moment he saw a
Huge worm
Seize the leaf with its iron teeth and plunge into the darkness,
So here it is, the harmony of nature,
So here they are, the voices of the night!
So this is what the waters rustle in the dark
, What the forests whisper about as they breathe in!
Lodeynikov listened. Over the garden
came the vague rustle of a thousand deaths.
Nature, which turned into hell,
did its business without any fuss.
The beetle ate the grass, the beetle was pecked by a bird,
the Ferret drank the brain from the bird's head,
And the fearful faces
of the Nocturnal creatures looked out from the grass.
Nature's eternal press
united death and being
In one tangle, but thought was powerless
to unite its two mysteries.
But the light of the moon came from behind the eaves,
And
the owner's Heiress Larisa
, wearing a cloth hat, came out on the porch with her gray face rouged.
She wasn't interested in Lodeynikov:
She wanted fun, happiness, and songs —
He was sullen and boring. A
swarm of girls danced across the river.
Sokolov went there with his guitar.
To him, to him! He sang songs,
mocked every couple
, and kissed the beauties like a god.
In the
harsh autumn, the late view is sad.
Silent plants sleep mournfully.
Over the roofs of a deserted village
, the Dawn of heaven burns painfully.
The doors of small huts have closed,
The Garden is empty, the fields are lifeless
, The frozen ground Around the trees
Is covered with a pile of shiny curls,
And the sky is frowning, and the wind rushes towards us,
bending the tree's shirt in half.
Oh, listen, listen to the flapping of shirts!
After all, in every tree sits the mighty Bach
And in every stone Hannibal lurks...
And now Lodeynikov can't sleep at night:
In the orchestras of storms, he hears before him
the Melody of the forests, longing and passionate...
At the station, one stormy day
, he said goodbye to Larisa Molodaya.
How poor Larissa has changed!
All that her youth was beautiful
for, by a strange whim, She
gave to a Chance acquaintance.
Even in the soul of the cold Sokolov
, the trace of her last tears has not dried up, —
The autumn whirlwind broke into the world of the past,
Broke it, scattered it and carried it away.
Oh, Lara, Lara, silly Lara,
who could help you, my beauty?
Through your life passed his guitar
And this voice-slow as night.
The oaks rustled so sweetly that night
, The lilacs bloomed, the cherry blossoms bloomed,
And so the night singers sang to you,
As if you really were a bride.
As if
this sparkling garden was really covered with a silver veil...
Only bittern screamed across the river
until dawn and wept profusely.
From the depths of the silent carriage,
All hunched over like a feeble old
man, Lodeynikov looked sadly and lovingly
at the sweet face for the last time.
And the train started. But the voices
of the plants followed, swaying and trembling,
And through the heavy gloom
of the trees The immortal soul of the Plant world rushed forward
. Hour after hour
passed by. And in the midst of the fields
, a huge city sprang up all at once,
Suddenly lit up with millions of lights.
The elements of the disparate world
now merged into a single consonantal chorus,
as if
a new conductor was entering nature while trying out forest instruments.
He gave the organs of the rocks the appearance of stopes,
the orchestras of the rivers-the iron run of turbines
And, having warded off the predator from robberies,
Triumphed like a wise giant.
And in the discordant voices of nature
, the first harmonious sound was already interwoven,
As if the waters suddenly felt
That their grave illness was not fatal.
It was as if the herbs suddenly felt
That there was a sun of eternal days in the world,
That they were not right in the whole universe,
But only he was the great sorcerer.
Harsh autumn sad late view,
But in the middle of the night sky
It burns, your star, nature,
And with it my soul burns.

"Lodeynikov" N. Zabolotsky

Mandelstam's famous and mysterious poem is not just about insects)

Lamarck


There was an old man, shy as a boy,
Clumsy, timid patriarch...
Who is a swordsman for the honor of nature?
Well, of course, the fiery Lamarck.

If all living things are just a blot
On a short day

's washout, I'll take the last step on Lamarck's mobile ladder.

I will descend to the ringworms and the barnacles,
Rustling among the lizards and snakes,
Along the elastic gangplanks, along the slopes, I will
shrink, I will disappear like a Proteus.

I'll wear a mantle of horn,
Refuse hot blood,
Grow suckers, and curl into the foam
of the Ocean.

We passed through the ranks of insects
With pouring glasses of eyes.
He said: nature is all broken,
There is no vision - you see for the last time.

He said: enough of the fullness of sound, -
You should have loved Mozart in vain:
The spider's deafness is coming,
Here the failure is stronger than our strength.

And nature retreated from us
, as if she didn't need us,
And she put the longitudinal brain
like a sword in a dark sheath.

And she forgot the drawbridge,
Too late to lower it for those
with a green grave,
Red breath, and flexible laughter...

7-9 May 1932

Good topic.
I love Khlebnikov:

Krylyshkuya zolotopismom
Thinnest veins,
Grasshopper in the back of the belly laid
Coastal many herbs and faiths
.
I want to quote fragments of poems by the most modern poets (whom I do not always admire, but who knows who they will become in 20 years) - those who are now considered the poetic elite of Russia.

V. Salimov

How many flaps of wings does a moth
need to cross the river?
To dispel my melancholy,
I walk around the globe...

PS (damn, at least I finished " shuffling my foot in the sand...")
* * *
D.Rumyantsev

The violinist

A butterfly perched on her shoulder.
Is there a silver net in her hand?

The meadow of the ramp is gilded with creaking varnish.
And the pause grows like a grain of corn.

But again satanets, the sound breaks:
in the snares of the hall - a butterfly, no-a beetle,

where
the ear follows the tendril of the bow with the eyes of a spider.

PS (great, Dima!)

****
B. Tokmakov

A cricket sings all night
and keeps me awake.
Fuck you to Basa!

PS (this is the idea of remembering insects in Basho's poetry )

THE CONDUCTOR AND THE TARANTULA
(k.Bars)
The Fable

In the mountains of Gishpania, a heavy carriage
With a conductor went on a voyage.
Gishpanka, sitting down in it, immediately fell asleep;
And her husband, meanwhile, seeing the tarantula,
Cried out: "Conductor, stop!
Come quickly! Oh, my God! "
The conductor hurries to the cry
And immediately drives
out the cattle with a broom, saying:" You didn't pay any money for the place! "
And immediately crushed it with his heel.

Dear reader! put your depanses in advance,
So that you don't dare to take the stage for nothing,
And try not to
go on a journey without money at all;
Otherwise it will happen to you as to an insect
that you know.
* * *
P.S. And this is my answer, so to speak:

Culture is growing, knowledge is getting stronger -
Conductors distinguish animals.
Now "cattle" are not called spiders,
But cranks who have sat down without a ticket*.

(it is clear that there should be a different word here...)

The fly sat down on the jam
That's all the poem.

Beetles eat the bark of trees
Eat pollen of spring flowers
Eat manure and calla lilies of people
Here is such a mess!

Sleeps a mosquito, sleeps and a fly
Does not buzz; over the ear deaf
Sweetly sleep all today
Rests the whole of nature

Buzzing buzzing
Pretending pretending
Sleeping quietly beetle on the die

Butterflies are resting on pins peacefully
Soldiers are standing at attention
The Praying mantis has not been praying to God
for a long time Everyone is building up out of themselves, but it's time to calm down

You see a butterfly's wing-
It lights
up with All the unprecedented colors it is filled
with scales the wing closes like masks
Overflow from one to another
Restless so
it will Flutter its wings and fly
away But a wonderful memory will inspire more than once!

About ordinary people:

Crawled out a cockroach
Was like a bedbug
Moved the legs of a spider
Maybe the wings were and it was a midge,
But large, however, like a tablespoon
I'm not lying, it was the size of a fist
And maybe a pot, I was afraid so
Now I can not recover from the moral shock
Of insectophobia I will be treated at the Doc.

I walk down the street with a satisfied face,
I meet a beetle with an "armored skin"
I see and he smiles too
, Climbed on my hand my winged passerby
In the wreck slowly climbed up
Buzzing, flying away, sent "hello".

- I gave birth on May 9 on the border of Dagestan and Kalmykia on the bank of the Kuma River 5 years ago...

In the reeds of the mosquito country,
Where the noonday streams flow,
I wandered without longing or guilt,
Giving kisses to the winds...

The cuckoo counted the years for me,
My name was flying flocks..., -
I forgot about you forever.
About deception such not dreaming.

And when the horizon turned black -
And the moon rose out of the sagebrush-

I went to the entomological front; I haven't returned to this day.

This post was edited by Andreas - 08/23/2008 18: 57

From dorm folklore, quatrains about cockroaches, I probably have fifty of them.

Prussians live in the house
as big as tanks,
They are not shy about me,
Although almost all of them are females

I killed cockroaches,
Sat down to brew gulls,
And then I was sad-
There was no one to talk to

He threw up drunk on the floor,turned on the TV, and sat down while I watched football.




I put the cockroach
In a matchbox
And pressed it down a little bit-
It caused some testicles.

A cockroach rides in a bag -
A long road -
There are no Prussians at home-
There will soon be a lot of them.

The guests in my room
Beat cockroaches,
and then I beat
These hooligans.

School delusional partly entomological folklore:

A worm crawls up the wall
, scraping my whole knee.
Well, let it crawl:
A fly is also a helicopter!

heard in the late 90's...

Dedicated to all those bitten by ticks...


There is a wood bug-
an inconspicuous Bastard !
They say people get bitten
by secret places !
I didn't believe it, stupid,
I sat down in the prickly grass
And forgot and didn't notice
This creeping thing !

Tick! Tick! Bloodsucker !
In a hummock lurked,
I was sitting, and he seriously
Told Me (well, you understand)
Where is it stuck !

Tick! Tick! Crocodile!
Pink ass !
The skin is completely bitten
through And sticks out like a cork !

What am I going to do with this bastard
I want to shoot myself !
Here are friends, girls nearby,
You will say-they will laugh !
I took a flashlight, got into the tent,
Took off my pants, And I'm tormented,
And I sit there, stealthily pulling
This creeping thing !

Pulled, pulled, contrived,
Thread, garrote !
Twisting, squirming,
Picking with a pin !
Tore out by the roots, went out to the people
Drank on the occasion !
I'll stay alive, I won't forget
This creeping thing !

Tick ! Tick! Crocodile!
The predator is insatiable !
Thank God you weren
't encephalitic !

Vladislav Shadrin 1990

Verse about a tick from DISAF ( I can't log in!)

For children-
Peter Sinyavsky.

A great scientific discovery


Baleen insects
are not without whiskers.
Insects with noses
are not without noses.

Virtual audience


I met a beetle in one of the woods
Cute wasp.
"Oh, what a fashionista!
Pozhvol'te pozhnakomitsya.

Uvazaemyy prokhozyy,
Ah on hundred this pokhoz!
You have no idea
how much you're yelling!

And the beautiful wasp
Flew into the sky.
A poor citizen,
Probably from a Foreign country.

Beetle with annoyance pretzels
On the glade rushes.
– You should have been so
gutted!"

No matter how you find yourself
in this situation again –
You need to urgently study a
Foreign language.

Zhukological March


There are gilded
And green beetles in the world.
Scientists study them
through magnifying glasses and glasses.

The Academy of Sciences is not made up of idle people.
There are such academicians-
They know every bug.
Baleen insects
are not without whiskers,
and snout-nosed insects
are not without noses.
Famous usologists
Write books about mustaches.
Famous nosologists
write books about noses.


Twenty-five professors


Twenty-five professors
Studied mosquitoes.
And they asked the mosquitoes
not to bite the professors.

What happens after the os


Once a hero
Teased a swarm of wasps.

What happens after the OS?
Just slits for tears.

The frog


An old woman was walking along the edge of the forest,
and a frog was coming towards her.
A frog was walking along the edge of the forest,
and an old woman was walking towards it.

"Oh, what a frog! The
old lady screamed.
"Oh, what an old lady! The
frog screamed.


Please don't tell me more about insects, I'm sorry. It's just my nephew's favorite, so I brought it for the collection.

Especially strong - " What happens after os?Only slits for tears" I LAUGHED!!!

I didn't know where to post it...
I just wanted to make my colleagues laugh...
Who is the author I still don't understand (I. Koshkin?)

Laughing gopher in an uncomfortable hole.
A bug landed on the back of the car.
The hedgehog laughs, runs around the hill,
The fool has completely gone off the rails!

Birds fly in strange circles,
And a filly whinnies, foaming at the mouth.
The centipede kicks its legs.
The mole's laughter brings tears to his eyes.

Squirrels laugh and fall from trees.
An owl hoots amusingly in a hollow tree.
Rook laughs until the feathers fall out.
And a fly with a cricket tipsy.

Grasshoppers laughing in the grass somewhere,
Mouse, snake, lizard and aphid...

It was a hot, dry summer.
The hemp fields were burning...

This post was edited by Papaver - 13.04.2010 23: 14