HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: where and when / Marie Coffin
Date: 16 Nov 92 01:21:46 GMT
Article-I.D.: IASTATE.1992Nov15.192146
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University


	where and when
	----------------------------------------------
	
	where is this child?
	her little legs are rooted 
	to the tarmac
	two sticks with knots for knees.
	the pavement throws heat at her
	she braces against it
	and the loudspeaker blares.
	orange swimsuit is tight.
	the straps dig into bony shoulders
	and the wet weight pulls.
	
	when is this time?
	it is a magic day.
	forever mrs. robinson will mean
	the presence of comforting adults
	and loud tin music will play summer.
	
	this is the beginning of memory
	the end of safety.
	soon she will be shown the edge
	of the forest.
	
	
Marie Coffin
November 15, 1992
	
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Lesson from Falstaff
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 1992 19:07:19 GMT

oh, some variety of my nonsense:




Lesson from Falstaff
--------------------


Sustained and stained
by artful scene,
he can't complain
that he who made him 
made him mean.





Alex L. Karan




(and Jimmy Buffet sounds sooo nice now)

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dove@leland.Stanford.EDU (The White Blackbird)
Subject: love,forgive me for having run so far
Organization: Nevermore, Inc.
Date: Sat, 21 Nov 92 04:34:21 GMT

Hi all,

this is my first attempt at a sonnet.  i don't even know if i got the
form right.  it's written in an e.e. cummings style.  please please
please let me know what you think.

thanx,
-=dav

--------------------------------
	
	love,forgive me for having run so far
	away;hearts are fragile things,and it is
	in seeing you from me so distant--like star
	s--that i lose my small secret hope this
	silent heart of a dream that sometimes you
	somewhere deep might remember a me that
	loved you(eyes smile laugh life)more than spring new
	ly turned upon the snow calling forth what
	an undying stillborn god could not force
	from a frozen earth--roses bright as tears
	that dance too greenly to the wildly coarse
	chords of a symphonic sun despite fears.

	and,then,when you come to the end of it,
	might even love me back . . . a little bit.

				-=dav
				  8:30 nov. 20, 1992

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: PROWSE@Meena.CC.URegina.CA (Natalie)
Subject: this one guy in my small town
Date: Mon, 23 Nov 1992 23:45:35 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.24
Organization: University of Regina, Regina, Sask., Canada


		this one guy in my small town.
		---------------------------------------------------------

		you pride yourself an actor,
		a strutting, rutting lion.
		you play it soft and vulnerable,
		but the curtain falls heavily
		on their hearts.
		feigning love, you beguile. 
		all the while
		to the males,
		you flaunt a trail of tarnished trophies.
		you think no woman
		is beyond the reach 
		of your perfidious paw.

		crass. in public you laugh
		at them. telling tales 
		to other men.
		puerile. cruel.
		a boasting betrayal. 
		talk that serves no purpose
		but to stoke it. stroke it. ego.
        	you preen. so pleased. so pleased. 
		so very pleased
		with your own prowess.

		it's not that you have had so many.
		i find no wrong in that.
		what i detest. despise. reject. 
		is the insincerity.
		the deceitful image you project.
		you don't just fuck  
		their bodies,
		you fuck with their minds.
 		their hearts.
		in you, hidden, i can see: 
	    	no appreciation. no admiration.
		no love of women. no love of sex.
		just love of acquisition.

		childish of me, perhaps,
		i delight to play the part.
		but not the one you'd write for me.	
		in defiance, truculence, i cast my lance. 
                i throw a glance. 
		i dance your dance, round and round.  
		i ttttantalize. tease. torment.
		ssssoft... sexy... seductive.
		i let you close.  so close.
		(i make you want me.)
		so heavingly breathingly close.
		close enough to feel my heat.
		close enough to smell sweat.
		but never. not ever. 
		close enough to taste it.

			- Natalie / November 23, 1992



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(prowse@meena.cc.uregina.ca   |	"I wonder if you think about me,
		              |	 Once upon a time, in your wildest dreams."
			      |					-Moody Blues
From: block@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com (Rolling Thunder)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Where's Last week's Posts?
Date: 16 Nov 92 06:57:02 EST



What happened to last weeks posts?
From: tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk (Tim Love)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poetry Readings - are they worth it?
Date: 19 Nov 92 14:01:12 GMT
Organization: cam.eng

We have quite a few Poetry Readings in Cambridge. Last year Holub
read but I didn't go. I've come to avoid lesser poets too -- I'd 
rather buy the book. In spring, Les Murray is visiting. Should I go, 
if only to support the cause?

Even the performance poets I've heard soon get tedious. Maybe the 
problem is that I take too long to appreciate poems. Yet I like 
readings where many poets are presenting their stuff. 

Am I missing out? Does anyone like poetry readings?
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: general; use of anger in shakespearean sonnets? was Re: nothing
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1992 16:02:53 GMT

In article <1992Nov16.205325.1293@scott.skidmore.edu> gschlesi@scott.skidmore.edu (Christopher Robin) writes:
>sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy) writes:

...
>most of us agree upon a lot of things whether naturally or through
>enculturation nobody really knows (or maybe they do and are just
>hiding it from me). ***

>sense to the person.  Also they like a blending of form and function
>so to speak.  A poem about anger should not be stuck into
>Shakespearean Sonnet form etc.

	This one I am not sure If I will agree with you and have to
ask you why.

>> (perhaps I should look up how people have arguments and talk to each
>> other. I started reading "refutations...blahblah" 
blahblabhlahbalhbalbh deleted.
>> about patterns of people talking to each other.
         ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
>Interesting babble, but what are you trying to say, or are you not
>really trying to say anything at all?  Too many parenthesis spoil the
>soup.

My apologies. It's a habit. See your comment I ****'d. This is what I
was aproxiamately babbling about. I am interested in WHAT it is that
people agree about and WHY. and WHAT people HAVE to agree about in
order to be able to communicate. I mentioned Aristotle's book that
I started reading because he talks about patterns of communication,
although, a specialized communiction. Hopefull I can find a book
discussing in a general way, communication or assumptions of
communication and so on. And that is why I was babbling so much.


about people agreeing, some of it is physical I assume. There are probably
texts about why people see space the way they do and so on. This makes
an interesting topic and if anyone would care to send me some book
suggestions I would appreciate it, otherwise I'll be looking on my own
when I get aroudn to it and if anyone is interested I'll mail the list
of books to them. (of course, you must understand that I procrastinate
grandly)
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu (sayan bhattacharyya)
Subject: Turtles in the Ganges (Stereotypical Western tastelessness)
Organization: University of Michigan EECS Dept., Ann Arbor, MI
Date: Sat, 21 Nov 1992 18:17:56 GMT

In article <2780@tau-ceti.isc-br.com> cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams) writes:
>
>
>
>		
>
>			Turtles In the Ganges Eat Our Flesh
>
>
>		To die in Varanasi and be
>		burned along the Ganges 
>		is the dream of every Hindu. 
>		But 530 Lbs of wood it takes
>		to cremate one whole person.
>		Often the poor cannot afford 
>		this it's $12 that's two 
>		weeks wages and the dead don't 
>		pay their way. Sometimes partial
>		burns then. And the corpora
>		floating down the Ganges river
>		partly toasted foul the view
>		and wouldn't you know that some
>		enterprising turtle farmer would
>		come to solve the problem. 
>		Snapping turtles! 
>		Bred to eat the dead! 
>		They won't bite your toe 
>		when you're swimming in the 
>		slurry, but if your pyre fire 
>		flickers early and your pieces 
>		are made flotsam then it's 
>		"turtles to the rescue!" in the 
>		Ganges river flow.
>
>
>
>
>		Cecil Williams
>		11/02/92
>		**************
>
>		


I think that this tasteless poem panders to the typical Western
stereotypes about India, and picks on certain grisly facts of
Indian reality for their 'shock value' to hold the passing
attention of the jaded reader. I consider poems as the above 
to be on par with sensational and yellow tabloid journalism.

It was amusing to to read about the 'enterprising' turtle 
farmer. Doubtless, an American entrepreneur, or maybe an
entrepreneur funded by World Bank loans to set up his business ?

-Sayan Bhattacharyya.
-- 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sayan Bhattacharyya          |   Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.
Artificial Intelligence Lab  |
The University of Michigan   |
From: mas4@ns1.cc.lehigh.edu (MICHAEL ANTHONY STRAUSS)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Stimpee's Deep Thoughts II     -Stimpee
Date: 20 Nov 92 01:36:47 GMT
Organization: Lehigh University

Sometimes I like to stick a hamster up my ass.  Soon It suffocates and dies.
When he dies, he has convulsions.  It gives me a boner.

-Stimpee
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Friends of RAP
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Mon, 23 Nov 1992 13:50:25 GMT

We have seen this happen before.
Some voices hide only ears
and hunger for their place in our scene.

There is nothing we can say.
It comes to this:
It must be your blitheringly stupid Polack mind that licences you to use
the noxious "boy" appellation, little fellow.  For all you know, I might
be black, my Russian name notwithstanding.  Kindly curb your repugnant
racist instincts, or this is going to get ugly quick.
 
which I beleive, in its hypocrisy and violence
is what the net represents at its worst.
I am going to research rules about networking,
but I honestly think this sort of thing should NOT go on here.

Lets give them nothing.
If they don't care, it won't matter.
If they do, let them fry.

Ignore the idiots. Lest we become them.

Alex
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Dying
Date: 16 Nov 92 18:12:58 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland


There are no more spellos in my conclusion
There are no more dark hours of morning
These eyes that have only closed to blink
These guts that have only carried pills
Feel like files read for the last time
I hand you fifty sheets of paper
saying "measure me by this"
I give you my password
You take it by the handle
For I have sharpened it well
There will be no pain
When Bunweasel dies
Only a big poo.

-m.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mccullou@cae.wisc.edu (Mark McCullough)
Subject: Punctuation?
Organization: U of Wisconsin-Madison College of Engineering
Date: 5 Nov 92 16:32:59 CST

I know that many people who I have done C&C for on poetry will jump on
me for asking, but does anyone have any thoughts as to the value of
punctuation in poetry?  I got into a mild argument with some people 
(nothing new for me I know), who seemed to think that punctuation isn't
really needed at all.  I hold to the belief that it really helps the
poem to have proper punctuation, but can anyone argue the other side?
Or some alternate viewpoint?  Lets not hold ourselves to two valued
logic here.
:)M^2

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ekankaan@kaira.hut.fi (Eero Kankaanp{{)
Subject: Re: Digestive Ignorance
Organization: Reader's Digestion 
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 1992 22:33:25 GMT

 ..about Truth etc..
>!>>   I find this difficult to swallow.  Before you can speak about
>!>How coarse and ignoble are those who confine themselves to the
>!>pleasures of eating and drinking!
>!    What?
>Why do you say it's difficult to swallow?   A figure of speech, no
>doubt.
>There's a confusion between figurative taste and actual tasting, is there not?

 It has become a characteristic of mine to save all the r.a.p. stuff
 in one file and then print it.
 When I'm feeling empty inside I just eat some of it.
 I think it's all cholestrol free. Excluding flames.
 
 a bit of my sauerkraut:
 some vedgetables, some garlic,
 some cream, pepa and a pinch of salt does the trick
 add any ingredient tasty or not
 to make it a sufficient lot
 shaken, not stirred
 make sense, a salad, not war
 metal wind makes me so dizzy, shaken, it occurred, 
 to my sauerkraut.

  Bulbus Omnibus
.
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: there'll never be
Date: 15 Nov 92 21:50:49
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu


There'll never be another song
like the songs we sang that last year,
there in the place where we banded together,
hoping to finish, to escape the bonds which tied us.
There'll never be another friendship 
like the friendship which bound us
the comeraderie of suffering,
of endless hours spent looking
under the magnifying lens,
search for the endless flaws within us.
There'll never be another night
like the nights spent sweating,
under the heated lights,
character resting lightly on us,
rehearsals dancing through our memories
keeping us moving, going, thinking,
even when disasters rested on us.
There'll never be another ending
like the endings three times past;
fountains in one place,
fear left in another,
then through new eyes, in the end of all ends,
regret and malaise.
There'll never be another love
like the first love I've left behind,
that of the makeup,
the hours spent learning and worrying,
cramming, laughing,
weeping,
knowing.
There'll never be another time
when I will look at my hands, 
and know them as mine,
as completely and only mine,
holding my future,
and only my future;
there'll never be another

--Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu)
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: blue funk / Marek (Re: asdf)
Date: 15 Nov 92 21:49:15 GMT
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park

In article <1992Nov15.212749.733@news.acns.nwu.edu> marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:


in regards to "blue funk"

...I used it
>because I needed a counterbalance to white noise and it popped in.  Blue
>funk connotes a state of extreme agitation or fury.  I suppose it would be
>just opposite of serenity that comes from rootedness.

	I think you are trying to tease me. It should be pink funk or
brown funk.

>>I think it's common. I feel like this all the time. especially when
>>I'm martin
>
>Sheila, do you mean [Martin, Martian, Martini'd]?  Context matters.

	Yeah, that's what I said when I reposted a Martin story
last week. and part of a poem.
	Martin feels like this a lot. 



>their time to Take It In.  Contemplate.  Digest.  Think.  Maybe even, Respond.

>				-- Marek

I confess. sometimes I flush very quickly. (...obBook: E Jong. "Fear
of Flying". flushing quickly must be an Italian thing)
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ekankaan@kaira.hut.fi (Eero Kankaanp{{)
Subject: gtown
Organization:  Freud Marx Engels & Jung Institute Of Observation 
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 1992 02:36:01 GMT


     Farside Observer v.1.3 - Gtown     

    walls with ivy. brick walls. literary litter on the sidewalk. cozy.
    windows. piles of books showing to a random passerby.
    campus just like it should be i guess but dont care.
    you are the attraction. gravitation. ursa minor is not far.
    english major i suppose ? how about engineering ? 
    teach me hydraulicks. aureole shining.
    your scarse pink jogging suite i wish to see close
    you dare just turn my head, and yours, fair?
    and race away.
    your place, or your place ? hers is closer.
    my ode, should i rehearse ? 
    you should have seen me, new running shoes on.
    talking about the first rays of the spring.
    in the shower. afterglow arter the show. afterjogging.
    georgetown washing wanton you were. 

     sid sidewalker on the pavement,
     where beggars wait their payment
    .
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Frank)
Subject: for stephanie steele, correct address?
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 1992 18:56:17 GMT

I must have the wrong mail address.
steele@chip.aem.umn.edu?
it keeps bouncing.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: suggestions for Alex / Marek (Re: Artifacts)
Date: 19 Nov 92 18:20:59 GMT
Article-I.D.: news.1992Nov19.182059.20441
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.

In article <1992Nov19.170939.24802@midway.uchicago.edu> alk4@midway.uchicago.edu writes:
>
>Oh...its soooo easy.
>
>
>
>
>Artifacts
>---------
> 
>
>in a trash can 
>near her bed
>
>a wasted rose 
>and a condom full of love
>
>
>
>Alex L. Karan 
>(does this even hold on its own?)
>

Um, no.  The sparseness makes it easy to pick apart, though.

1)  why wasted rose?  A dead rose, a wilted rose, a wasted away rose, a
    dessicated rose, a parched rose, a rose -- yes, but a wasted rose
    implies that the rose is a tool, an implement, an opportunity that
    failed.  But did it?  From the context either the she in the poem (to
    quote the lovable way Joe Green refers to women, on whose behalf he
    fought so fiercely in Veitnam an in rap, but I digress...) got the
    rose herself or had it given.  If the former, it is irrelevant to the
    condom stuff that follows, if she was given the rose, the condom stuff
    that follows ties the rose to the condom stuff.  Judging from the mere
    presence of the condom in the poem, the rose was not wasted.  It served
    its purpose.  But that is a bit too crass for me , and I don't know if
    it was intended so I will not say more about that.  Either way,
    a "wasted rose" does not follow.  

2)  Condom full of love?  Alex, I feel inadequate all of a sudden.  I use
    the Ramses with tip, with Spermicide, you know, the ones in the silver
    box with the purple trim (most of the time, anyway), and I have *never*
    even come close to filling one.  I think it would take a minotaur, or at
    least one of Marie's ISU ruminanats -- probably one of the more
    experimental ones...  I think this image is rather imprecise. :)

3)  Full of love, is a cliche and badly placed.  Why not full of life
    instead, or full of jism, or full of dead life?, or full of dying?,
    or just, wryly and ironically, "a fullfilled condom"?

The piece has a feel of a failed haiku.  It also appears to try to make a
moralizing point and I think, if anything, makes unwarranted meal of a
fucked girls aesthetics.  Personally, I think fucked girls have every
reason to have nice poetry written for them, poetry that attempts to find
their views, rather than seeking juxtapositions of corny symbols that, on
my reflection, are rather uncommunicative.  This is acase of a poem that
tries to be something that it is not.

But I enjoyed reading it, because it helped me focus my thoughts on the
subject, so thank you, Alex and by all means rewrite it if you care to.

				-- Marek
From: ccsdgdc@sunlab1.bath.ac.uk (Douglas Clark)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Maclay Hall
Date: 16 Nov 92 13:32:27 GMT
Organization: Bath University Computing Services, UK





Maclay Hall

I am of the last generation born to Empire.
I spent three years living in Maclay Hall
at the University of Glasgow.
We were the last.

Highlanders and English,
Africans and Indians.
There was a common spirit.
Sitting on top of the world.

The sun never went down
on Kelvingrove Park.
Dave McCall was King of the Annexe.
Table tennis and squash.

Championship putting. Bowls.
Captain Charles Law at the helm.
It was the morning to the Afterword
When the dark night sweeps the classics away.

I am of the last generation born to Empire.
`I sing of arms and of the man.'
For thirty years I have sought the Grail.
No farther off than Maclay Hall.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Finally
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 92 15:15:34 GMT

                              Finally

                They have found one
                finally
                after all these years
                have now photographic evidence
                of the insatiability of a Black Hole
                greedy gullet
                massive like a billion suns
                not on a diet plan
                only out for itself
                hiding in every galaxy
                our end in sight:
                a tidy snack for a furnace
                from which no light escapes.





-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: talkphilmisc was Re: Phil's apprentice
Keywords: scholar newsgroups
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Mon, 23 Nov 1992 19:24:26 GMT

In article <75922@hydra.gatech.EDU> gt7244c@prism.gatech.EDU (John G'alt) writes:
>   Talk.philo.misc was a little more promising, though.
>   Opinions vary.
>
>John G'alt
>-- 
>John Greenawalt, gt7244c@prism.gatech.edu whooptydoo yes I'm a number
>I am the difference between  |  "All the poetry in the trunk you kept your
>      A poet at heart        |   life in/ I knew that it would come to 
>  And a poet at genitals.    |   light one day."             -CB

I tried talk.philosophy.misc. I created a kill file for anything cross
posted to a religion group or anything referring to Ayn Rand.
There wasn't much left afterwards.

rec.arts.books is interesting. but I was dissapointed on a recent
thread - a fellow requested suggestions for surreal novels set near
WWII - and people responded. But no one responded surreally.


-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: bzahniser@hayes.com
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Report from the sleep front
Date: 17 Nov 92 13:38:05 EDT
Organization: Hayes Microcomputer Products, Norcross, GA

It moved slowly throught the air,
one of those VTOL type aircraft
then something wrong
it
s             f 
 p               l 
   u       f           i
      n  o                      k
                                          e
                                                           a
                                                   r                n
                                           e    
                                   m                                           g
                        o                                                      
             o                 
 b
 
 
and crashed.
 
I sent my son to call 911
I went to the aircraft
there were pieces of bodies everywhere.
Inside, one a table
as if there had just been an operation
a leg
detached
and nearby
a thin body
a woman
unmoving,
I moved out of the plane
through a landscape of broken
still bodies.
There was no life anywhere to be seen
just this disaster
here in my life
here in the middle of nowhere.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems