Entomology in Verse

Zabolotsky updated :

..Lodeynikov bent over the leaves,
And at that moment he saw
a Huge worm
grab the leaf with its iron teeth and dive into the darkness.
So here it is, the harmony of nature,
So here they are, night voices!
So this is what the waters murmur in the dark,
What the forests sigh and whisper about!
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 was eating grass, the beetle was being pecked by a bird,
the ferret was drinking alcohol from a bird's head,
And
the Night creatures ' fearful faces looked out from the grass.
Nature's everlasting press
united death and being
In one tangle, but thought was powerless,
Before the cannabis caught fire!

I don't think this is from Nabokov's "Gift" yet...

Snow has disappeared into the ditches from the slopes,
and the Petersburg spring
is full of excitement and anemones
and the first butterflies.
But I don't need last year's Vanessa,
wilted over the winter,
lemongrass worthless,
flying through the transparent forest.
But I will look out for four
lovely gauze wings
of the most delicate moth in the world
among the spots of the white trunk.

Views on life

A Cockroach once said
to a small Louse:
“Our whole life is a complete deception,
I wash my feet!
We are being bullied, crushed, suffocated by everyone –
We will not die in any way!
We are not going to succeed in life,
Because life is a mess!”

Hearing the word “mess”,
Vozryvavuv in the same hour,
Said Voshka: "How so?
I don't understand you!
After all, life is really good!
Things will get better!"
... The Cockroach did not know that the Louse
was Pubic!

Complete misunderstanding

Once a cricket
stridulated In the toilet after a push.
He sang to his beloved about the tank
That flowed under the ceiling,
And very gently spoke
About the shape of the toilet seat...
However
, the daredevil Interrupted the admiring fervor.

And since his song was
not clear to everyone In the night,
someone got up: "What's up?
Problems, probably?”
Got the coveted dichlorvos...
Zilch-zilch... And no cricket!
And I went to sleep... Only drops of tears
Flowed down from the tank!

А.Б.

Just a little entomology. And a little poetry.

And yet Nabokov is out of competition
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
" Velvety black, with the warm tint of a ripe plum,
now it opens; through this living velvet
, a row of cornflower-blue grains glows sweetly
along a circular fringe, yellow as shaky rye.
Sat on the trunk, and breathe jagged tender wings,
then crouching down to the bark, then turning to the rays...
Oh, how they exult, how they twinkle divinely!
You will say: a blue-eyed night framed by two pale-yellow dawns.
Hello, oh, hello, dream of the northern birch grove!
Awe, and laughter, and the love of my eternal youth.
Yes, I will recognize you in Seraphim at the wondrous rendezvous,
I will recognize your wings, this sacred pattern."

I think the description of the butterfly is extremely accurate. You can find out. And of course, a slightly altered quatrain by Gumilev:
"...And I will not die in a summer bower
From gluttony and from the heat,
But with a heavenly butterfly in a net
On the top of a wild mountain."

And one more, a little sad general theological Nabokovskoe:

In paradise

My soul, beyond the distant death
your image is visible to me like this:
a provincial naturalist,
a lost crank in paradise.

There's a wild angel slumbering in the grove
, a half-peacock creature.
You inquisitively poke
a green umbrella in it,

thinking about how
you will write an article about it first,
then... but there is no magazine
and no readers in paradise.

And you stand there, still not believing
your silent grief:
about this blue sleepy beast
, who will you tell, who will you tell?

Where is the world and named roses,
a museum and stuffed birds?
And you look, you look through your tears
at the nameless wings.

And of course, the famous "Cockroach" by Nikolai Oleynikov, with an epigraph from Dostoevsky's "Demons": "A cockroach got into a glass. "

A cockroach is sitting in a glass,
sucking a red leg.
I got him. He's trapped.
And now he's waiting to be executed.

He throws a sad look
At the sofa With sad eyes,
Where with knives, with axes
Vivisectory2 are sitting........ etc.

And, in fact, the very fable of Captain Lebyadkin, from Dostoevsky:

"Once upon a time there was a cockroach,
a Cockroach from childhood,
And then it got into a glass
full of fly-eating ...

A cockroach took its place,
The flies murmured,
Our glass was very full
, and they shouted To Jupiter.
But while they were still shouting,
Nikifor, the most blessed old man, came up...

Further, as we remember, the author explains:

Nikifor takes the glass and, despite the shouting, throws the whole comedy, both flies and cockroach, into the tub, which should have been done long ago.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
- As for Nikifor, he depicts nature....

Oleynikov has a lot about insects, or with a mention..)
In general, to whom as - and me not that chernushny Harms.

Oleynikov has a lot about insects, or with a mention..)

My favorite:

FROM THE LIFE OF INSECTS

In the halls of the red currant
Live one hundred and seventeen beetles,
a beautiful Green grasshopper,
four fleas and fifteen crickets.
What air they breathe!
How satisfying and clean the food is!
How luxuriantly
the Currant sways its grapes above them!

(1934)

Well, the "Anti-Semitic Beetle" is also a cult item ...

Random discovery on the web (http://nostiog.narod.ru/gsm/bardi/stihi/sauflin.htm):
"Butterfly and Boy
" music and lyrics by Eldus Sayfulin (Dubna)

All the flowers and bushes have fluffed up their tails,
The summer is hot-quiet, grace.
Plunged into dreams of such beauty
, the Boy wants to catch a butterfly.
The boy is mischievous and pretty,
Like me in early childhood,
Jumps, jumps, falls, gets up again
And sings softly, through his teeth:

I'll catch you anyway,
Don't you dare think otherwise,
I'll still surprise all the guys
I know with the fullness of my powerful collection.
After all, I love the fauna very
much,which means I'm friends with the flora,
I'll pin you to the paper with a pin
Or better put you on glue.

Well, the butterfly in these matters knows a lot,
Over the little boy amuses himself to his heart's content,
And carelessly fluttering from flower to flower
Does not hurry to get into her net.
Then he sits down, then calls out again
And laughs at the poor child
Dodges the net and soars again
And says to him in a barely audible voice:

Why are you waving the net you fool
Still won't catch me
I'm just some worm
crawling on your belly, cursing your evil fate
I'm the beauty of the hot fields,
the Queen of the July day,
So throw out your stupid net you fool
Still won't catch me

I'm sitting under a bush in a simple robe,
Hiding behind a newspaper leaf
My childhood has passed, I'm light and light,
But what's good about that here.
The little boy, the little butterfly,
It's all like they're making fun
of each other, And I look at all the little
ones, And these are the thoughts in my brain:

I'm not going to die today
I've treated myself
with a chekushka Because yesterday morning, despite the heat,
I received an advance payment for last December,
And in my Khrushchev apartment
both water and gas were turned off,
So you can fly away from here quickly
, by God, I'm not up to you right now.
You fly, go down, run away from here quickly
, by God, I'm not up to you right now "

- gender-specific))


(c)3xyc
Rip the honey suitcase
Out of the vintage chest.
Eighteen lovely ladies
died in the drawing room.
They came to the churchyard
to choose graves.
Only the choice was not easy.
Everyone is tearfully beautiful.
Here is one opened mouth,
Glows neon.
And the captivating chant
Pours out like a chime.
And the other – the clouds
are torn by the top of the prism.
Rest for centuries
After the stormy trizna.
The third-weeps at dawn
with a fragrant tree.
There you will freeze in amber
like a bright swallowtail.
And the fourth is simple.
A pit in an open field.
Ladies ruffle their hair.
The ladies are howling with grief.
Rip the honey suitcase
Out of the old chest.
Eighteen lovely ladies
died in the drawing room.
They came to the churchyard
to choose graves.
Only the choice was not easy.
Everyone is tearfully beautiful.

..and one more thing, it's also so simple..

(c) (chelovek1)
================================================
the migratory man is characterized by a lack of wings
, a lack of teeth, but excessive strength of spirit
it flies from Moscow, leaving the temperate climate
behind the broad back that distinguishes true brujos.

and in the concrete head that looks like a gourd
, a gypsy orchestra, then the ringing deposits of gzhel
, a migratory peasant unfolds a samobranka
, eats cod, drinks wine... really –

he says to himself – am I really a migratory man?
and it flies faster and faster, just like an angel on wheels
or a crazy Yak, or a drunken Ship unmanned
or a Russian answer to any of the possible questions
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Mirror: http://termitnik.ru/poem/139750/