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 Flies as Art
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| Susan R Walter |
Posted on 07-03-2008 15:42
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 Member Location: Touraine du Sud, central France Posts: 1802 Joined: 14.01.06 |
Flybot: a new exhibit at MoMA http://moma.org/e...mind/#/88/ Susan |
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| Andre |
Posted on 07-03-2008 19:21
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 Member Location: Tilburg, the Netherlands Posts: 2111 Joined: 18.07.04 |
A Maria Sibylla Merian exhibit at "het Rembrandtshuis", Amsterdam! www.rembrandthuis.nl Edited by Andre on 07-03-2008 19:22 |
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| Kahis |
Posted on 07-03-2008 20:06
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 Member Location: Helsinki, Finland Posts: 1999 Joined: 02.09.04 |
Why do so many museums make all-Flash homepages? Flash has some uses, but all-Flash pages should be banned 
Kahis |
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| Susan R Walter |
Posted on 10-03-2008 23:10
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Member Location: Touraine du Sud, central France Posts: 1802 Joined: 14.01.06 |
Oh, I know what you mean Jere - so tedious
Susan |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 14-03-2008 12:23
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 Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
What about flies in other forms of art, poetry, sculpture, opera (der flydermouse for instance), well maybe not, but also flies in humour. The most famous fly poem is of course William Blake's, Little fly Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death, Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die. Edited by Gordon on 14-03-2008 15:08 |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 14-03-2008 12:36
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
Or of course you might like this little known parody, in appreciation of Joyce Kilmer of course. I think that I shall never spy a poem as lovely as a fly. A fly whose hungry mouth is pressed against my warm and pulsing breast. A fly that thinks all day of blood with morals that are utter crud. A fly that may in summer give malaria to all that live, whose only gift to me is pain that only worsens with the rain. Poems are made by fools like I but only God can make a fly. Edited by Gordon on 14-03-2008 15:03 |
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| Susan R Walter |
Posted on 14-03-2008 14:51
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Member Location: Touraine du Sud, central France Posts: 1802 Joined: 14.01.06 |
Thank you Gordon 
Susan |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 14-03-2008 15:09
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
The Sciomyzidae by Gordon Ramel 2008 The fascinating Sciomyzidae live out their lives by some old pond or stream, and in the night their hungry larvae dream of fresh snail flesh for breakfast lunch and tea. During the day the adults wander free on often fuscate and attractive wings searching for flowers and other tasty things, as well as mates to share their repartee. The thought of escargot eternally alive, uncooked, bereft of garlic source does not inspire me, but then of course I?m not a fly to live so frugally, or flit so freely through the summer?s haze and die untouched by winter?s bitter days. |
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| Tony T |
Posted on 14-03-2008 16:07
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 Member Location: New Brunswick, Canada Posts: 662 Joined: 08.02.07 |
Chrysops ?J.G. Needham, 1930 The first of 4 stanzas: Beautiful flies With shining eyes Of deep green hue and marvelous size With golden sheen On bars of green And depths of opalescent that glow between: Such are the eyes Of these beautiful flies. |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 14-03-2008 16:23
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
Dying by Emily Dickinson I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm. The eyes beside had wrung them dry, And breaths were gathering sure For that last onset, when the king Be witnessed in his power. I willed my keepsakes, signed away What portion of me I Could make assignable,-and then There interposed a fly, With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me; And then the windows failed, and then I could not see to see. |
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| John Bratton |
Posted on 14-03-2008 18:20
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Member Location: Menai Bridge, North Wales, UK Posts: 650 Joined: 17.10.06 |
Made up by John Hegley on BBC Radio 4 afew years ago, to commemorate the anniversary of some historical figure. I can't remember who. Any guesses? There once was an olive-skinned man Who came from Rome, not Milan. He went somewhere hotter And before long he got a Bite from an Anopheles mosquito before antimalarials had even began. |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 14-03-2008 19:04
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
Sorry John, I have no idea who he could have been having a go at, but I know i would like to see the other three stanzas of the J.G. Needham poem Chrysops hint hint  Tony.In the mean time here is another of my own sonnets Chloropidae Who knows of the Chloropids? They?re so small, full-stops with wings, there?s little more to see if you should chance to find one flying free, most of the time they are not seen at all. Alas, this weakness of our human eyes robs us of so much beauty I could cry were it not that our human minds can fly; my microscope unveils a sweet surprise. What was a dot is now a fly complete in all its parts, perfected and sublime. The wonder of it lifts me out of time into a moment so intense, replete with joy and free from stress and pain, it lures me back to life time and again. |
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| Tony T |
Posted on 14-03-2008 21:10
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Member Location: New Brunswick, Canada Posts: 662 Joined: 08.02.07 |
Gordon wrote: I know i would like to see the other three stanzas of the J.G. Needham poem Chrysops Chrysops ?J.G. Needham, 1930 The second of 4 stanzas: Beautiful wings! The green-head sings A silent song as she swings and swings And circles about Now in, now out. So swift that their pattern flutters out In vanishing rings- Oh, beautiful wings! |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 15-03-2008 08:36
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
Ok, now I just want to see the other two stanzas, There once was an internet forum for flies and the folks what adore 'em where each passin' fly was allowed to say Hi, and no human would dare to ignore 'em Its supposed to be dialectical |
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| Tony T |
Posted on 15-03-2008 15:01
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Member Location: New Brunswick, Canada Posts: 662 Joined: 08.02.07 |
Whereas the 1st 2 stanzas conjure up an image of a deer fly, these last 2 would be more applicable to a mosquito. Chrysops ?J.G. Needham, 1930 The last 2 of 4 stanzas: Beautiful feet So trim, so neat So lightly bearing her form petite As light as air So unaware They rest unnoticed upon a hair: Such are the feet Of this being petite. Beatutiful sprite Of form so light So trim, so airy, so expedite So big a terror For such a mite So quick to see, so prone to bite How does she carry Her appetite? |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 16-03-2008 17:37
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
Thanks Tony, it is very nice. |
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| Jan Zwaaneveld |
Posted on 16-03-2008 20:25
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Member Location: Leerdam, Netherlands Posts: 721 Joined: 20.02.06 |
Julian Beever, street fly: http://users.skyn...er/fly.htm http://slamenietd...web-log.nl |
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| Gordon |
Posted on 18-03-2008 08:51
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Member Location: Lake Kerkini, Greece Posts: 1099 Joined: 02.01.08 |
From http://users.skynet.be/J.Beever/fly.htm
Gordon attached the following image:  [79.78Kb] |
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| jorgemotalmeida |
Posted on 18-03-2008 11:26
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 Member Location: Viseu - PORTUGAL Posts: 9295 Joined: 05.06.06 |
Susan, gave me a great idea! Thanks for this thread! |
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| John Bratton |
Posted on 03-04-2008 19:12
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Member Location: Menai Bridge, North Wales, UK Posts: 650 Joined: 17.10.06 |
Winter Gnats (Under the Dance) by Matthew Oates, 14 Feb. 2008 Gradual, beneath the dying of the day, At the wood?s edge, sunward, Where the world seems slowly ending, The dance of the winter gnats ignites. Within a shaft of ebbing sunshine, They gather, merge, divide, reform, Rise, gyrate, fall, ascend again, Till all are under the solemn dance To the unheard music of finality. Slowly, as an evening vapour suffuses Low over a dissolving field, Other particles join the dance; Myriad, minute and obscure, Miniscule flies, living dust, To coalesce as miasma, fade and vanish. Then drift, spirit, drift In winterine aimlessness, Suggesting all and everything To dancers in the mystery of faith, That drift into the undying, And are seen and felt no more. Who watched this dance, but I? Who drew the broken trails of spider silk In horizontal stillness from dead thistle heads, Pointing towards some purposeful end? But ask not: what orchestrates this dance? By Flisteridge Wood, Upper Minety, north Wilts, Sunday January 27th & Sunday February 10th 2008 There is more similar at www.vineproject.org.uk |
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