HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: squacken@zephyr.cair.du.edu (The Black Dreaming Unicorn)
Subject: The Dance Or Remembrance/BLACKMIST 
Organization: University of Denver
Date: Fri, 10 Apr 92 03:55:39 GMT

      *The Dance of Remembrance*

We do the dance to remember
to reminisce about the ancient past
to dance closer to the future
we dream that the dance will last

We do the dance of remembrance
and give our love to the sky
we do our dance for the living
and for those who soon will die

We do the dance to remember
all the long lost tales
to remember what our life was like
when we lived in the mountain vales

We do the dance of remembrance
so we do not forget out dreams
and remember the time we lived as one
with nature by the mountain streams.

We do the dance to remebmer
What we were before
to see what we are becoming
and what our life is for...
        4/9/92   Written By  BlackMist

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: n2412@cray.com (Joe Green)
Subject: Re: The Business of Poetry
Organization: Cray Research, Inc.
Date: 14 Apr 92 10:12:57 CDT

In article <7710408@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM> daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom) writes:
>In rec.arts.poems, sharon@jpl-devvax.jpl.nasa.gov (Sharon Hopkins) writes:
>
>> In article <1992Apr10.131536.28619@hemlock.cray.com> n2412@cray.com (Joe Green) writes:
>> >
>
>This discussion has actually been fascinating, but Sharon framed
>a question that has been on my mind.
>
>I think that I agree with what I understand of many of Joes' points,
>but I really wonder where that leaves us.  I, too, am greatly
>offended by the commodification of EVERYTHING, but where do we
>go?  Do we need new myths to create a better world or will the
>new myths just lead us into more carnage.  Perhpas Sharon
>was not trying to express this cynicism.

Maybe a start is to remove poetry from the realm of the commodity.
I've seen the possibility during my time in Bangladesh.  Also I think it
is necessary to try to understand just what our current myths are
and what their effect is.  Currently -- and for a long time --
we loathe embodiment -- life in time that ends in death.  This loathing
is transferred (in a complicated way) to a loathing of Nature, of woman,
of what is outside our corporate body and the result is a longing
for apocolypse (Marxist or otherwise) in which there is no
differentiation and everything is known by one knower.  The longing
for Paradise, the longing for an Eternity in which (of course)
time is banished, the conviction that this world is fallen, and
the inabilty to escape from mimetic desire (the desire which fastens
on an object belonging to another) are what need to be understood
and possibly overcome.  


>
>Joe claims to know the problem.  He claims to focus our eyes
>on the prize that may yield solution.  But I am forced to
>wonder if we are looking at THE problem or merely A problem.

Yeah -- suspicion always correct I think.





>


-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: squacken@zephyr.cair.du.edu (The Black Dreaming Unicorn)
Subject: Somewhere IN the Silence 
Organization: University of Denver
Date: Thu, 16 Apr 92 19:59:48 GMT

  *Something In the Silence*


I felt something
 in the silence.
Something alive
 but with no substance.

It had sharp claws
 but had no hands
It stood behind me
 but had no legs to stand

I felt something
 hidden in the silence
it was waiting for me
 full of hate and violence

I could not see it
 but I felt it there
I could sence its presence
 silently waiting here

I know it is out there
 But I can not spot it
always watching me
 waiting in the silence

With out a sound,
 it reached for me
I tried to run
 I tried to scream
 
With my screams
 I broke the silence
and held at bay,
 this thing of violence...

    written by blackmist
   4/16/92
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: culture shock
From: kupixel@oread.cc.ukans.edu
Date: 12 Apr 92 21:44:54 CST
Organization: University of Kansas Academic Computing Serces

"Culture Shock"

        The little girl she
        Seemed so small and frail she
        Held something in her hand she
        Offered it to me something
        Fragile almost not real in its
        Delicacy
        A rose! I realized, and a
        Pretty one at that.
        Careful of the thorns I
        Seized the rose in my
        Palm and crushed the petals inot
        Dust she looked at me with sad
        Eyes brimming with tears "What's
        Wrong with you?" I
        Asked but she said
        Nothing I asked again but still no
        Words she ran away crying I
        Threw the dust after her I don't
        Need her anyway she just doesn't
        Understand.

kupixel@oread.cc.ukans.edu
From: zola@milton.u.washington.edu (Rebecca Louise Lowell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: insects
Keywords: bugs
Date: 13 Apr 92 23:48:01 GMT
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle

(Joe Green) writes:
>
	[...]

>
>	And, like Gods everywhere,
>	They are always hungry.
>

   "You received gifts from me; they were accepted.
    But you don't understand how to think about the dead.
    The smell of winter apples, of hoarfrost, and of linen.
    There are nothing but gifts on this poor, poor Earth."

			-Czeslaw Milosz


%-%
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: glj27240@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu (the cult of Carrie )
Subject: Re: Reserving Rights on your poetry
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana
Date: Wed, 15 Apr 1992 20:47:52 GMT

jaguar@netcom.com (Elaine Pang) writes:

>This makes me wonder how much poetry really gets stolen... are we paranoid?

unfortunately, incredibly, i think so.  this school has some 35,000 students,
i've sat in on a few meetings of one of the student-run magazies (there are
two of poetry, etc.), am aware of the number of submissions -- and that number
excludes two groups, those (large i venture) who don't send their stuff into
the magazines, and a large percentage of those who take rhetoric and writing
classes.  despite the apparent prolific number of 'young poets' and writers
here, i have never seen another post from this school post to this newsgroup
their poems.  i was ready to believe that other reasons were largely the
fault of this; yet even just last week i spoke to one rhetoric student who
had not know of this system and her first response (after 'oh! that's pretty
cool...) was an expression of just this paranoia - "well people are probably
afraid their ideas 'll get stolen".  

at this age, i think paranoia is precisely the term.

-- 
							 
                                                  the cult of Carrie 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: Mr_Fixit@umcvmb.missouri.edu (Phil Leith)
Subject: Another Poem
Reply-To: ccphil@umcvmb.missouri.edu
Organization: Computer Spectrum - University of Missouri, Columbia
Date: Thu, 16 Apr 1992 16:55:00 GMT

this is only a test
it is for the best
a step in my quest
to address
the rest
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: n2412@cray.com (Joe Green)
Subject: insects
Keywords: bugs
Date: 13 Apr 92 12:36:36 CDT




			Insect Clerks

	Lo!  The Gods and Godesses of the new mythology.
	The Godesses are crocodiles in communion dresses!
	They wear Adolf of Dachau designer jeans!
	They wear necklaces of bird skeletons!
	The Gods wear shrouds of petroleum jelly!
	They brilliantine their hair.
	They turn their mild, Belsen eyes on you
	"May I help you sir?" O do not stare!
	At secret luncheons they devour lark's hearts.
	They devour the intestines of mummys.
	They prefer larks three to one.
	Three to one.
	They have never murdered a baby
	Who didn't deserve it.

	Listen O listen!
	Hear the twitching of their delicate attennae!
	Haie!  They come!  They come!
	Dragging their long 
				and swelling abdomens!

	The insect clerks of Neiman Marcus! 
	The insect clerks of Neiman Marcus! 
	The insect clerks of Neiman Marcus! 

	Beware their dread ovipositors!
	Beware their dread ovipositors!
	Beware their dread ovipositors!

	The insect clerks have come.

	There are trapdoors in Cosmetics!
	There are trapdoors in Lingerie!
	There are trapdoors in Men's Accessories!
	There is a secret button in the elevator.

	Nightly they descend into vast catacombs.
	Buffy!  Meagan!  Tom!  Wesley!
	They hang upside down!
	They copulate like bats!
	They whisper to each others in tha languages
	Of prehistoric fungi!
	And, like Gods everywhere,
	They are always hungry.

	O Holy Mother!
	The store is closing!
	They know who you are!
	Run! O RUN!

	There is a trapdoor in Customer Service.

	Down you go
			down
				down
					down
	They carry you effortlessly through the tunnels.

	They carry you past rooms.
	Rooms where small blue clouds weep!
	Rooms full of angel guts!
	Rooms full of bearded foetuses in bronze caskets.
	Rooms where your wife makes love to eels!
	(Your wife has a certain eel sex appeal)
	Rooms where sores run naked on chandeliers!
	Rooms where sewage rats read poetry
	In pink peignoirs!

	O what is this big room?
	It is the Mad Queen's chamber.
	It is the throneroom of hearts.
	It looks.  It looks.
	The inside of your brain.

	The indifferent mandibles let you drop
	To the marble floor.
	

	They quietly suck out your eyes.
	And then
			Ah! Then!
	The Mad Queen comes.
	Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!

	The dread ovipositer.

	You lay paralyzed.

	You look out into the "Crevices of Night."

	After 80,000 years
				your tears
	turn to pearls.

	Oh, those were pearls that were his eyes.
	Nothing of him but doth suffer.
	
-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: comptec91072@camins.camosun.bc.ca
Subject: I See You America
Organization: Camosun College
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 1992 22:38:09 GMT




                    _ ___ ___ _______

Troubled times for troubled minds
Locked together, intertwined
With false dreams liberally sprinkled
By infected needles in collapsed veins

Spiralling down, coming around
And you realize you're alone
With shattered hopes, lovingly cherished
By a broken heart, in a sold out soul

Give me your self righteous
Indignant huddled masses
And I'll give you a child
With the look of lost innocence
Still freshly reflected in her eyes

I will show you a mother
Who goes without so her child
Can have a pair of shoes for school.
I will open the doors of reality.

I hear you regurgitate foul poison
Sermons of racism and hate
I feel your decay
I smell the stench rising
From your all-so-righteous attitude
Packaged together in a three piece suit.
I see you America
From: kumar@ug.cs.dal.ca (kumar yelubandi)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: RE:  The two planets
Date: 15 Apr 92 13:09:08 GMT
Organization: Math, Stats & CS, Dalhousie University, Halifax, NS, Canada

>Subject: Re: Two Lonely Planets
>Message-ID: <1992Apr15.071512.5417@ecst.csuchico.edu>
I have to applaud this poem publicly. I think that it is so very rare that
>such a type of poem is done as successfully as this one. Maybe its the 
>way it attributes human qualities to the main subjects of the poem (sun 

   I agree...great poem...finishes off with insightful observation

>
>			Jason

>
>P.S. If someone reads this who knows what the word is that means to give 
>     human attributes to inanimate objects is please tell me, its really 
>     bugging me that I can't remember the word.

				     
       The word I believe is "anthropomorphism"


    Kumar

-- 
                                  *******************************************
   Kumar Yelubandi                 **  I don't believe in a lot           **
   (good wines > good times!)      **  of things. And I quit thinking     **
   ...in the year 2525...          **  six years ago...so don't bother me ** 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ghouse@gauss.cs.jhu.edu (Mujtaba Ghouse)
Subject: Re: vision
Organization: Johns Hopkins Computer Science Department, Baltimore, MD
Date: Sat, 11 Apr 1992 17:01:38 GMT

ghouse@gauss.cs.jhu.edu (Mujtaba Ghouse) writes:


>I have visions in the night,
>hear voices from afar.
>But this is no mystic light,
>no awful truth of awesome might.
>They tell me to buy a car,
>a soap, a drink, some new delight,
>saying: "You need this to be desired!"
>They need me or they'll be fired
>For I'm the product they consume
>Casting lies as bait they look
>The rest of us they wish to hook.
>With action, `toons, they sell perfumes,
>and over all the TV loom,

that should be       
>and over all the TV looms,
sorry

>as we consumers it consumes.

>comments and criticism please,

>-Mujtaba Ghouse

>"One in a million chances happen nine times out of ten." -from
>`Guards! Guards!' by Terry Pratchett.
From: dfs30@duts.ccc.amdahl.com (Denise Solis)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem--Pilgrims' Pride
Date: 9 Apr 92 16:18:30 GMT
Reply-To: dfs30@DUTS.ccc.amdahl.com (Denise)
Organization: Amdahl Corporation, Sunnyvale CA

In article <702666278.1@mdf.FidoNet> Ralph.Cherubini@f10.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org (Ralph Cherubini) writes:
>
>                            Pilgrims' Pride
>
>And what of the Founding Mothers,
>who reached the shores and died,
>too,
>after hard winters and unaccustomed food,
>new diseases and wild?
>What of them,
>writhing in miscarried childbirth,
>what celebration now trumpets forth:
>WE, WHO ALL CAME FROM MOTHERS!

> * Origin: Connect America #5, Austin, Tx, 512-459-3351 (1:382/10.0)

Not to put down your thoughts but I thought I'd write what your poem
moved inside me.


             You came here
             to the land of my people
             and we thought you came
             to share the earth
             and live a good life
             We saw you starving
             and taught you to hunt wild turkey,
             to grow maize
             and to live off the goodness
             of our mother, the Earth
             But you came
             and called us unholy
             you brought disease
             and killed our children
             you brought us religion
             and mocked our gods.
             And if it wasn't enough
             you built your animal pens
             on sacred ground
             and your homes on the bones
             of our ancestors.
             You perceived yourselfs
             our teachers
             but your blindness
             all but destroyed us.
             We walk a foreign land now
             looking behind
             at the destruction
             left by the lofty white man.
             Is this a heritage to be proud of?

--
=========================================================================
  All poetry posted is Copyright protected, anything else is just talk.
  "Tis true; theres magic in the web of it." dfs30@DUTS.ccc.amdahl.com
=========================================================================
From: crystal@glia.biostr.washington.edu (crystal)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Kaleidoscope Eyes
Date: 13 Apr 92 22:49:51 GMT
Organization: University of Washington


 
         Kaleidoscope Eyes 
 
Seen through the eyes of a kaleidoscope
Even a messy desk looks beautiful.
The refractive lens transcends
One plane of awareness rarely contemplated.
 
My keyboard takes on the look
Of a thousand ripe sunflower seeds.
The ceiling light with its hundred eyes
Watches my every move as well as itself.
 
Blue-black Stellar jay feathers make up my jacket.
Or are they peacock? No, wait, they've changed to pheasant.
My anenome-like hand beckons me to crawl inside the tube
And see just which avian I have become.
 
I smile at the unpredictable animation
Of a multi-colored cat's face, oblivious.
The motion of autumn leaves in the wind
Never gives the same design twice.
 
Chacopyrite, quartz and a fossil or two
Add a feather, a flower and a scarf
To the tapestry that creates itself
Then vanishes in a blink.
 
I see the world with new eyes
And rejoice in its chaotic precision.
How can one not help but smile
At the fractal that is life?
 
 
12-15-91
 
 
Inspired by a toy I bought in Memphis. The kind that has nothing inside, just
refracts everything you point it at.  Much nicer than the usual pre-filled
ones, and hard to use without smiling.  :>
 
 
Crystal
  :>
 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: shaker@ee.umanitoba.ca (Faria Shaker)
Subject: Peace is there
Followup-To: None
Keywords: Peace
Organization: Elect & Comp Engineering, U of Manitoba, Winnipeg, Manitoba,Canada
Date: Fri, 17 Apr 1992 16:59:31 GMT

The poem that follows is composed by my sister Sourin. Presently,she is 
in Iran studying English literture. Her mother tongue is Persian. I hope
you enjoy reading this poem. I would be pleased to know your opinion about
it. 

"Peace is there"

When I sit at ease
In the shade of the apple tree
And let my dreams fly and soar
To those far-fetched lands so light so free,

Peace is there.

When daffodils are not pressed 
Under the boots of man
When larks sing the song 
Of love and life so far as they can,

Peace is there.

When the surge of life 
Flows through the sea of my soul 
When my mind flies and soars
To show me the ways to my goal,

Peace is there.

When throughout the long, chilly nights of winter
My mother's sitting beside the hearth and knitting
When the magic of poetry touches my heart
And through my fingers the flood of words is seeping,

Peace is there.



Sourin Shaker.   
From: Ralph.Cherubini@f10.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org (Ralph Cherubini)
Sender: uucp@p0.f39.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Grave Topics
Date: 11 Apr 92 08:49:22 EST

                                Grave Topics

 

I would speak of grave topics this day,

of halitosis and underarm pits,

about the importance of being sterile,

of cleanliness and the absence of filth,

these things, all,

topics of enduring interest to some.

I would speak, but have nothing to say,

the commercials having taken all available words,

leaving me free to move on to other topics.

 

There is the earth,

and how man is remaking it in his image,

the trash within making its gradual way

into reflection by the trash without,

as the single external world we have to share

comes to mirror the wasteland within so many,

and enthusiasts fight this transformation

as if it were error and mistake,

NO

it is truth and wholeness,

it is honest,

as reflection can only be,

a picture in which we live

of the misery and emptiness inside,

of carelessness and welfare dependency of the mind

and more,

of the soul,

the modern irresponsible soul

which blames everything on "them"

and denies ownership,

claiming to "only follow orders,"

the corporate mind,

which is an ant mind,

a shared sleep of thousands,

each supporting a common dream

which no individual member experiences,

which no person remembers.

 

Do not believe the enthusiasts

when they tell you of lies,

man can only live truth,

which comes from within,

can only paint what is,

and if it is foreign to you,

study it,

that you too, may know truth.

And if you find it to be a hateful truth,

well, live another,

but do not turn away to accusations.

Truth is all we can know.


 * Origin: Connect America #1, multiline, 512-459-3351 (1:382/10.0)
From: rhh@alice.att.com (r hardin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Ides of April
Date: 16 Apr 92 13:10:19 GMT
Organization: AT&T Bell Laboratories, Murray Hill NJ



>than bleeding bleating: et tu, IRS?

The ides are the 13th except MMJO  march may july october
Caesar made the same mistake.
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevin Denelsbeck)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Veldt Sonnet (revision)
Date: 14 Apr 92 17:35:33 GMT

I posted a sonnet a few weeks ago that got a couple of specific responses,
each concerned with the closing couplet (a lot of alliteration in my
writing, yes!).  Anyway, I changed things around a little bit.  So, here's
"take two":

		Veldt Sonnet

        "Give me a signal when you're ready," she said
        "Okay," I answered, as I surveyed the ground
        Then, with a glance (and a nod of my head)
        I pushed down the plunger and blew up the mound.

        Millions of termites instantly dead
        Chunks of their castle scattered around
        Intricate masonry suddenly spread
        Into dust, with a boom, and a settling sound.

        Silence ensued as the particles fled
        Explosively freed from what insects had bound
        Aimlessly following where the wind led
        (And the wind is a monarch that madness has crowned).

	A moral: even a miniature mansion
	Should always allow for rapid expansion.

---------
Kev @ UNC
4/14/92

-- 
Kev @ UNC (denelsbe@cs.unc.edu)

	We demand... 40 million helicopters, and a dollar!
				-- Gen. Chow, _Dinosaurs_
Organization: University of Illinois at Chicago
Date: Wednesday, 8 Apr 1992 23:25:15 CDT
From: <U56295@uicvm.uic.edu>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a short poem

This is one of my first poems and the only one I have commited to memory, plus
the first I have ever posted.

         Silent Night

         I walked and heard no sound
         I knew it could not be ever-lasting
         And sure enough, in a blink of an eye
         It was already in the passing.

 e-mail me if you have any comments or suggestions
 ________________________________________________________________________
   Joe
 ________________________________________________________________________
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Wok Tell, Aiken et al
Date: 13 Apr 92 18:03:15 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

kumar yelubandi writes:

> A piece of addvyes for unix users:
> 
>     Never type "rm *" after the unix prompt...actually, I was trying
>     to get rid of a zip file in my news directory with the command
>     "rm *.zip". But I accidentally hit return after the asterisk and
>     well...the rest is history. *sigh*

alias rm echo Moving to $HOME/.wastebasket;ls -1 !*;mv -i !* $HOME/.wastebasket

> To Tom:     I'm touched that you actually collect my art. I thought that

I don't collect what you post, but I thought you would say something
like this. I just save things I think might come in useful later.
 
>             poem had kissed the cinder box long ago. As the poem reveals,
>             you had the potential to be a Shelley, or some great poet

Not me! You were wrong then. Your poem "revealed" an untruth.

>             with some great things to say. But time has proven me wrong
>             yet again *sigh*.  Stick to the sandbox. You can't do much 
> 	      damage there; and I heard the expectations aren't as high.

Just doodling in the sand with the back of my hand... No damage. :)


tom

	

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: comptec91072@camins.camosun.bc.ca
Subject: screw you cop
Organization: Camosun College
Date: Wed, 15 Apr 1992 18:08:40 GMT

.pg
.nf
.c
^&Screw You Cop\& (Mike Laur)
.s1
I scream all night, but it gets me no where
They want to send me to the electric chair
I'm not a good boy as you can probably tell
They want me talk and I give them hell
.s1
I got something that they can't take away
A smartass mouth and I got something to say
Thrown on the floor with the handcuffs on tight
Have fun punk 'cause you're staying the night
.s2
It takes a lot more than this to break my soul
Tommorrow in the morning know I'm leaving this hole
Try as they might they can't make me stay
Screw you cop! Is all I say.
.s1
They want me to talk, they want me to sing
But I'm not telling them anything.
Try as they might they can't make me stay
Screw you cop! Is all I say.
.s2
Any chance I've hand I've probably blown
On to the floor again I'm roughly thrown.
So I just lie back, get a little sleep
But those handcuffs are cutting in real deep.
.s1
"Serves you right! he says "you long-haired homo!"
I yell back "Man, show's how much you know
You calling me a homo, well that ain't right
When you daughter and you fatass wife I had the other night!"
.s1
I try to get up and spat at his feet
Then I caught a billy-club with my teeth.
I think of a place to stick his big club.
Into his face I spit a little blood.
.s1
He comes in the cell to give me a little more
Now I think my jaw is broken and my ribs are sore
I swallow some blood and start to cough
He just smiles through the bars, I know he's getting off.
.pg