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Flybot: a new exhibit at MoMA

http://moma.org/e...mind/#/88/

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A Maria Sibylla Merian exhibit at "het Rembrandtshuis", Amsterdam!
www.rembrandthuis.nl

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Why do so many museums make all-Flash homepages? Flash has some uses, but all-Flash pages should be banned :@

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Oh, I know what you mean Jere - so tedious :@

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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.

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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.

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Thank you Gordon :D

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Thanks Tony, it is very nice.

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Julian Beever, street fly:
http://users.skyn...er/fly.htm

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From http://users.skynet.be/J.Beever/fly.htm

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Susan, gave me a great idea! Thanks for this thread! :D

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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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Mycetophilidae

How straight of limb they stand, how tall and strong,
their armour clean and polished as if new,
an humble people these, and ancient too,
part of the world to which we all belong.
Born to the Earth, nurtured within the soil,
they shun dry towns, but love our moors and woods
where they can dine on well recycled goods;
and to the gods of green and damp they?re loyal.
As adults they use only what is free,
a flower?s wine, a dewdrop from a leaf,
their lives are bright and clear, though sadly brief;
they do no harm at all that I can see.
Who called them gnats? These warriors of light,
to me each one?s a brave and noble knight.

not written on the fly (my pencils too big)

Gordon

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Chironomids

Chironomids are funny things,
the adults never feed,
they only seem to live to fly,
in swarms and then to breed.

They hold communion in the grass
then rise on mass just as I pass.
The air it veritably sings
with the whirring of their wings.

And a million more chironomids
are out courting on the lake,
leaving countless clumps of eggs
behind them in their wake.

So next year there will be again,
more Chironomids than words on Zen.

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Obscure-fly poetry! I love it! Since I am the new editor of Fly Times (the newsletter for the North American Diperists Society), I put in a fly poem - an Ode to Minettia flaveola. (this is a lauxaniid) Hey - if I'm editor, I can put in a poem, right? It is on page 2 of the April 2008 Fly Times, complete with pictures - http://www.nadsdiptera.org/News/FlyTimes/issue40.pdf


:)

Steve

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Just to let you all know that I am still alive. In China now, no more land of eternal summer:|

A Fly

The micro-architecture is profound
each finely textured ridge, each joint and hair
perfect in every detail. Who has found
within the earth a gem that can compare?
And see! One wonder with another crowned
it lives, and with its wings swims through the air.
Such fearless magic surely must astound
even a mind sore dulled by earthly care.
It is a pleasure for the soul's delight
as grand a marvel as has ever been.
The poet strives in vain, but still must try
to bring such beauty to the common light
and call himself well blessed to know he's seen
the glory that upholds the humble Fly.

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Shakespeare on a Fly

Titus Andronicus Act 3, Scene 2, Lines 55-80

Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.
Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart;
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
A deed of death, done on the innocent,
Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone;
I see, thou art not for my company.
Mar. Alas! my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Tit. But how if that fly had a father and a mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly,
That, with his pretty buzzing melody,

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Music is art, too. Here a song which converts one of the already mentioned poems into music:
https://www.youtu...jdsC7lbEMY

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And have you listened to this great interpretation as a song? (by Cosmo Sheldrake, music is art, too!):
https://www.youtu...jdsC7lbEMY (Or search for Cosmo Sheldrake: Fly)