HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: kammerer@cwis.unomaha.edu (Al Kammerer)
Subject: Re: kayak poems review (add your own on any watercraft) / Marek
Organization: University of Nebraska at Omaha
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 20:33:53 GMT


Tucked below the skin of the estuary,
Each of our two families skimming surfaces
Of the dark, languid waters,
Like confused lodestones pointing 
To parts of Narragansett Bay.

Past the clam diggers raking the mud
Below the sand for steamers,
Past an island stop that stained our mouths
With wild blueberries, 
And through the public beach area by the sea.

Ignoring the whistles of legalistic lifeguards,
We kayaked steadily into the waves toward the buoy
That marked the edge of publicity
And any interference on our part with the laws
Of the commonwealth of Massacusetts.

Breathless from paddling to ignore
The whistling lifeguards, we stopped
At a sandbar where the river ends
Its slide to the ocean
And watched the lifeguard's disturbing approach.

Since he was the youngest of us,
Reno cried when the lifeguard started yelling
And telling us our technical transgression
Of maritime traffic, and was the only one of us
To call him an idiot before paddling back upstream.
From: satan@wpi.WPI.EDU (Matt Meyer)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Skew
Date: 22 Jan 1993 17:09:12 GMT
Organization: Worcester Polytechnic Institute
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: wpi.wpi.edu




hmmm...


				Skew

			in lieu of a word
			to express this lurid feel
			i offer segue


					
					- Matt Meyer
					  Copyright 1993






-- 
*******************************************************************************
* satan@wpi *Preacher or poet who was it wrote Give any one species too much 
*           *rope And they'll fuck it up.    - Roger Waters   
*******************************************************************************
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: MLK revisited / Sheryl
Date: 22 Jan 93 13:53:40 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

In article <1jn2gcINNk76@sumax.seattleu.edu> sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (   Wilde Dame) writes:
<
<Normally this type of poem would implicitly require a need for NO
<introduction, but because this is a working draft and because I would like
<to discuss it I will make a few comments before presenting it.
<
<First off, this is a work of irony.  As it says in the poem, this is also
<indicative of bitterness.  There are varying theories as to what the MLK
<holiday really means in the sociological context of the present day; one
<of them (which I intuitively agree with) says that the King who is
<presented as the pinnacle of Black selfhood is a very different King from
<the real one, but a far more politically safe one, and more easily
<attained.  This King is also largely a creation of white culture and
<norms, and therefore incomplete and even misstated.
<
<That in mind, comments and criticism (as well as earnest discussion)
<are greatly appreciated and encouraged.
<
I'll just skip to earnest discussion.  The poem itself does a good job of
angry, which is something that usually gets muffed by poets.  

I think that it is the white culture's assimilation of King's image that
does more to discredit him than anything else, even Hoover's alleged 
evidence of sexual misconduct.  King is not safe.  Nonviolent protest is
not safe.  Anyone who is fixed in his principles is unsafe to society.
I sincerely wish that people who want an innocuous well-wisher, someone
who just wants everything to work out ok but has no sense of how to
accomplish his goals, would look elsewhere.  King had more than a dream,
he had a plan.  And he was just as radical as Malcolm X.  

Yours,

Posthumous O'Toole

-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Safari
Date: 26 Jan 93 18:09:11 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                                Safari

The smallest column in the classified ads
of the Times in some big city
WANT ADVENTURE?
offering a lifetime adventure of your lifetime
they flew to Arabia
and were wisked deep into the desert and abandoned
to the screaming silence of the endless sun
it was only when he opened the envelope which said
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL IT IS TOO LATE
that he knew that it was
in the middle of the bright sand
the small group set to work writing poetry
in nine-foot high letters
that would be seen from the moon
they wrote and wrote
dropping one by one
they were poets
each and every
by the time they died
and nothing mattered.




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: Yogurt (C&C diet cola NOT welcome)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 01:40:54 GMT

-------------------------------------
Yogurt
                    by Jack Szwergold   
-------------------------------------

I wish I were yogurt.

Because even when yogurt
is eaten past its expiration date.

It still tastes like yogurt.


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dakota@world.std.com (Jim McKee)
Subject: untitled
Organization: The World Public Access UNIX, Brookline, MA
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1993 09:12:22 GMT



the daylight has fallen in upon me
  and i am lost
oh, that the night may return again
  to hide me in her cloak
for my soul is languishing
  and desires rest.

for ne'er will i belong to light
 'lest the night for now
   grant repose to a soul
    which seeks her not
rather, seeks the day.
Organization: Bar-Ilan University Computing Center, Israel
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 1993 14:03:25 IST
From: <X67107@BARILVM.BITNET>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: HELP: Name/Complete that Poem!

 bethp@milton.u.washington.edu (Beth Plotkin) says:



>We sailed the sea for seven years
>And nary saw a whale
>......
>But we had a darn good sail
>

 from... canto the second

They called him Camos Kazzmaroll
    and Kazzmaroll Kazzam
Of all the oaths he often swore
    His favourait was Shazam.

And it is said of Kazzmaroll
    That with the bones he'd never part
 The bones to roll, that was his trade;
    But with him it's an art.

  We sailed the seas for seven years
      and never saw a whale.
  But we did quaff a thousand beers,
      and many a bitter mug of ale.

  We sailed upon the Quantya
      Many a nautical mile,
  The winds did never stop their blow
      And fortune did rarely smile .

   The water was a-froth with sharks
      And we kept the meanest we fed;
   For the gagngplank upon the Qunatya
      Was every seaman's dread

   Both rouges and pirats fled before
      The flag the Quantya flew;
   As if were were a plage ship
      With lepers for a crew

verses ommited


   We sailed upon the Quantya
      Seven years both good and bad
   And when it smashed upon the rocks
      Not one of us were sad

    For never there was and never shall be
       A more rough and ready company;
    With most of the crew and a watery hell
       The Quantya, was a damn god sail.

                                    from D.Crymoil's
                                 Ballads And Epic Of The Sea
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
+------------------------  Axiomatic Avartar ------------------------+
+-----------       The Darkest Incarnation of Death     -------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Another muse
Date: 22 Jan 93 14:34:35 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054


	If You Don't End Your Poem Then Your Poem Doesn't End
	----------------------------------------------------------------

	A muse hovers over me,
	her name is Calliope.
	She doles out youth
	the way time doles out death--
	in rich abundance.
	I am dancing on my desk.
	I am dancing on my chair,
	epilepsy in my hair,
	trichinosis in my shoes.
	A poem is nothing and therefore
	has nothing to lose


	Posthumous O'Toole
	1/22/93


I don't think I've posted this yet.  My apologies if I have.  
-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: Otter (C&C welcome with bells on)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 06:01:42 GMT

-----------------------------------------------
Otter
                              by Jack Szwergold
-----------------------------------------------
So there I sat,
typing
and straining.
And wondering about the future
and all that it holds.

So I typed some more,
and though some more.
Until I felt the need for Pepsi,
so I went downstairs.

There behind the counter stood a
stoic woman, with the presonality of iceberg lettuce.
So I gave lettuce woman my money
and I said have a nice day
and she mumbled
and I went back upstairs.

But when I got upstairs
everyone had left
and I wandered around.

I thought about them.
ThenI got a headache.
So I opened my can of Pepsi,
and started to drink it.

After a while, I got bored.
So I made oragami frogs
and practiced eyecheese sculpture.

Then I got tired
so I layed down on the floor
and went to sleep.

And dreamt of a funky island
inhabited by otters,
and the otters would talk and say,
"Hey you!  Get off my lawn."
So I would be getting off their lawn,
and go into their house.

I asked the heae otter
"Yo, you got any Pepsi."
and he said
"What's it to you buddy."
So I took out a gun
and shot him.

And then I took the head otter
and made a hat out of him.
Suprisingly, the other otters liked me
even though I had just killed their leader
and was now making a hat out of him.

One otter came up to me
and said
"Hey!  Can you make me a belt!"
"Sure, I said" out of what
and the otter pulled out some kelp
and I said
"Okee Dokee.  But hey.  Can you open me my Pepsi"
"Sure." the otter said

So the otter grabbed the can
dived into the water
floated on his back
and started to pound on the can of Pepsi
with the little rock he carried in his pocket.

I screamed
"Nooo!  You're busting the can!  How can I drink it!"
and he said
"That'll teach you to ask an otter to open a can of Pepsi"

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@trauma.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: stone
Summary: cyberspace god
Keywords: japan
Organization: Gator Communications - Feeds-R-Us 219-289-3745 
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1993 08:02:49 GMT



finder's keepers
loser's weepers
find us    keep us
lose us    weep us

find us keep us lose us
sweep us

find hers keep us
lose hers deep us
finder's keepers  
loser's weepers

the fact is, if you fashion a god, an idol..it is
eventually you that turns to stone.

finder's keepers
losers, weepers......
find us, keep us
lose us, weep us.
-- 
           #  "talk to me about computer viruses............" 
           #  fax/voice:    219-277-8599     sara@gator.use.com
           #  data          219-273-2431     SGordon@Dockmaster.ncsc.mil
           #  fidomail      1:227/190        vfr@netcom.com
From: colette@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Colette Marine)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Central Valley / Richard Gassan
Date: 26 Jan 93 23:34:45 GMT
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.


Richard asked me to post this as he is unable to post.


Central Valley

That tree -- or was it this one,
which stood in a field dry in early summer,
and by which I once stood,
now stands surrounded by green grass,
and the redwood fences of a neighborhood.

This tree, or that one:
I can no longer see the sweep down to the
dry stream,
the waves of golden dry grass, the
earth cracked, the small hills.

The street here is wide, with smoothly rounded curbs. They
have the same contour as the small hills but
won't erode with the rains of winter.
They will carry that precious water into
storm drains, concrete ditches, canalized rivers,
maybe into the sea.

The water which lands on the green lawns
sprinkles like a permanent spring rain;
that water is wrung from the high mountains like
an old washcloth, wrung and thrown away.
This winter, maybe, the mountains will be white.

Water, and this field now green with spring
will soon dry and crack;
water, and this field will be scraped and coated with
asphalt and concrete; 
water: these houses of wood from the mountains will flood with it.

Richard Gassan (Gassan@ouvaxa.cats.ohiou.edu)
December 15, 1992
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: Contemporary poets Re: Adriene Rich
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Wed, 27 Jan 1993 16:45:31 GMT

In article <gB2ZXB2w165w@mind.ORG> trish_r@mind.ORG (Trish Rucker) writes:
>I love Rich's work.  Have you read her book of essays, ON LIES, SECRETS, 
>AND SILENCE?   If not, I highly recommend it!     What other contemporary 
>poets do you like?

I havn't read this book. But I will. 

I don't know that many contemporary poets. I do like to read though,
and so whenever someone mentions a name in this group I usually
save the article so I can look up the name later. 

Once I took a poetry class for a semester, and I saved the poems
the teacher ditto'd and brought for us to read, and that is how
I now about Adrienne Rich - He read "Diving into the Wreck" for
us. 

some other poems that we read together:  

Early poems with snow in them by Robert Bly

A very neat poem about "There is this space in the cave behind my
back that nobody is going to touch" -- and I will get back and
print the rest.

A poem by Galway Kinnel

Robert Haas

can't recall the other names.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ross@cc.gatech.edu (Rosario DSouza, J)
Subject: To The Evening - A Poem
Reply-To: ross@cc.gatech.edu (Rosario DSouza, J)
Organization: College of Computing, Georgia Tech
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 01:29:20 GMT

I wrote this poem a long time ago. I think it was just after I lost
a good friend, but found a new friend with whom I felt I could have
just as good a friendship with.

            To The Evening
            --------------

         O Evening, you are new,
         And full of pleasant song;
         I'm glad to find a friend in you,
         But will you be here long?

         You bring to mind such wondrous things,
         That make me like you so;
         O Evening, are you here to stay?
         Or will you also go?

         The Morning was just like you -
         Full of sweet new song;
         But 'fore I could know him true,
         I learnt that he had gone!

         O Evening, please, I beg you stay,
         As long as you would want;
         For I know that darkness comes,
         After you have gone.

(c) Copyright, Rosario D'Souza, Jan 1993.
All rights reserved.

Ross D'Souza
ross@cc.gatech.edu
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: Not-Poems, questions
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 1993 15:39:03 GMT






I wrote something, and then made a point of saying it was not a poem.
I want to explain a little because it brings in some questions I have.
I'd appreciate it if some pomo-ers or other appropriate-areas-of-studiers
give me some references or neat explanations.

here I present what does not have to do with my alleged pomo question:

1.  I said it was not a poem because I was being honest. it isn't.
2.  I said it was not a poem because if it was a poem I would be embarassed
    to claim it as my poem.
3.  I said it was not a poem because it is absurd to have a not poem in
    a format defined for poetry. It is my favorite style of funny.

take your pick exclusively or inclusively.

here be dragons:

the poem was designed from young memories from near the age of junior
high, high school. early high school. 
	It is strange to "pinpoint, um pin down, um....paperweight..um..."
memories with writing.

		[neato fun metaphor with scientific measurement.
		whoopee. affect experiment. weee. etc.]

I was never "conscious" of [making memories?]
when I was young. So that any remembering becomes fiction almost.

Because it is from memories it is not real. Writing from memories is
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^*
		       *[I would like to say that this phrase is
			like a joke for me, and has always been like a father
			to me]

effectively fiction. a construct. a model might be a good explanation
to predict the positions of planets but not be real. real is a weak
word to use I guess. "but not be correct" 

(forget discussion about the consequences of thinking real = correct. it might
have interesting connotations or whats,
but do let me say that if I say real == correct then
it is not exclusive. real is also == incorrect + argon)


the question, or request, if you missed it, is for references for
constructs. with regards to memories. I think.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: Hungover (C&C please...)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 1993 04:34:20 GMT

---------------------------------------------------------
Hungover
                                        by Jack Szwergold
---------------------------------------------------------
My eyes feel like uneaten prunes.
rancid
wrinkled
crinkly
General screwed up.
Non-functional.

8:00 AM
Turning over in my bed I can feel my back pop.
I stretch like a cat until the strain goes away.
The knots in my muscles can easily be felt.
I turn over and lay on my back
I stare at the ceiling.
I try to think why.
I begin to wonder.
I think too much.
Looping my thoughts.
Did I waste my time last night?
Was it good for me?
For her?
For us?
Two mutually faceless beings.
Talking to themselves.
Massaging their ego.

The taste of toothpaste makes me want to vomit.
reminds me of plaster.
and clay
and caulk.

The tap water only replaces one bad taste with another.
Lemonade is what I need.
No.
Evian water.
Gallons of it.
I can feel it work.
Bitterly good.

The Aadams Family comforts me.
So does Gidget.
Everything about Gidget is cool.
Even Larue and MoonDoggie.
Wish I lived in the 60s.
But I can't.
Another fuse blows.

I wake up two hours later,
still not fully synced.
My ears feel compressed and strained.
My eyes less like prunes
More like dehydrated turnips.

And thinking about that turnip made me think about my friends.
And the spirits came back.
And the guilt jacked-in.
And my emotions shorted-out again.
From: colette@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Colette Marine)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: REQUEST: Inaugural Poem
Date: 26 Jan 93 18:38:23 GMT
Article-I.D.: news.1993Jan26.183823.16278
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.


If this has gone around already, I apologize.  I've been distracted
a lot lately.  If someone could send me their copy of Angelou's
poem, or tell me where I can get it, I'd be grateful.  Thanks much.

colette
--
Colette D. Marine             |cdm@nwu.edu
Inst.for the Learning Sciences|or
Northwestern University       |marine@aristotle.ils.nwu.edu
-----------------------------------------------------------
It's a small world, but I wouldn't want to have to paint it

                  
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sfjr@wam.umd.edu (Sherri)
Subject: fingers
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Thu, 28 Jan 1993 22:07:49 GMT




This is something I'm working oon.  Responses would  be greatly appreciated.
Thank you...


	Each finger touches this,
	touches all,
	but only touches indirectly.
	Reaching out my arms to embrace 
	the small dark egg I brood upon,
	My arms return to me empty.
	If I could wish it,
	the space of my arms would fill with tulips,
	red tulips for black bowls
	that I'd set by every bedside
	and on every kitchen table.


Sherri
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: Damn the Onions!
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 07:36:35 GMT

(Michael I. Lichter) writes:
>
>		Damn the Onions!
>		-----------------------------------------
>
>		Call me Parsley.
>		Get it?
>		"Call me Parsley"?
>		Ha-ha-ha!
>
>		I'm an actor.
>		Daytime, I wait tables
>		at a Beverly Hills deli.
>		Nights, I'm myself, an artist.
>		Parsley.  In Tabouli.
>
>		You people, you
>		don't GIVE A SHIT about
>		real art, do you?
>		I mean a shit, a real
>		physical floating in
>		the toilet shit.
>		Hell, you wouldn't 
>		know real art if it
>		jumped up and bit you
>		in the FUCKING ASS!
>
>		You people kill me.
>		I mean, literally, you
>		people kill me dead.
>		Every night I'm performing,
>		I'm working my fucking 
>		ass off for you, being
>		Parsley in the Tabouli,
>		Parsley in the goddamn Tabouli.
>		You think I like that
>		vulgar bulgar wheat?  Those 
>		wimpy onions?  And those 
>		fucking tomatoes are 
>		so fucking full of themselves 
>		it's fucking ridiculous!  
>		But the kicker, the real KICKER
>		is being doused with 
>		goddamn oil and LEMON JUICE!
>
>		It's not that I don't 
>		like being part of a salad.
>		I like salad.  It's cooperation, 
>		global harmony in a bowl, 
>		a swelling symphonic movement.
>		It's sensous, like you want
>		to take a swim in it with
>		your lover and then fuck
>		on a water bed, the two of
>		you sparkling with bits of
>		wheat pasted in your hair,
>		and you going up and down
>		in waves, slipping and sloshing,
>		your own sticky salad.
>
>		And that's art, you
>		dumbshits.  That's ART.
>		Call me Parsley.
>		Ha!
>
>			Michael Lichter
>			January 22, 1993

I do like it.  It needs a cupful of mint, though, for every cupful of Mr.
or Ms. Parsley.  (He or she sounds very much like Lenny Bruce.)  Doubly
like it because you wrote it on the 22nd, and 22 is my totem and favorite
number.  But it needs fresh mintsky, mon...

				-- Marek
From: v131p9t3@ubvmsb.cc.buffalo.edu (Ninstar Cybermage: Black Phoenix Rising)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: +=[==--Jessicalight--==]=+
Date: 22 Jan 93 02:06:00 GMT
Organization: University at Buffalo
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41

Jessicalight

Daughter burning like a light
Giving joy to all my life
I hope that you can see in me
The gift of love I need to be.

I yelled when you needed to clean your room
You'll never know how much it hurt me
To see the light flicker and go out
If only for a little while
And the dimness of it now
As you uncertain ask"You Love me still,Daddy?"

Yes, Darling I do
My Little Jessicalight
I do love you
And hold you against the coming night.

Black Phoenix Guards a fledgling child
Not knowing how...


James Shank           	I		v131p9t3@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu
AKA: Ninstar Cybermage  A	or	shank@acsu.buffalo.edu
XINEOHPAEGAMREBYCRATSNINMMYOWNMANANDIBELIEVEINMYOWNWAYOFDOINGMYLIFEANDMYSIGNYAH
"Anyone with a .sig more than four lines long is a self important fool!"-Marek
"OOPS!  8-)" -Ninstar, on line 5 of his .sig
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: light     /  z.
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1993 09:59:51 GMT

In article <1993Jan24.033626.8906@zip.eecs.umich.edu> bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu (sayan bhattacharyya) writes:
>In article <1jt1i6INNhle@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen) writes:
>>
>>
>>            
>>              light
>>       ____________________
>>
>>
>>she washes the dishes
>>in the latest electronic dishwasher, 
>>cooks gourmet microwave dinners ...
>>dries clothes in a UV equipped electric dryer.
>>
>>( electricity ... statics ... electromagnetism )
>>
>
>
>Ah...the typical obsessive dependance of the Westerner
>on technology and materialism :)
>
>-Sayan Bhattacharyya.

Especially unbecoming of an island girl, or is it, the simple fiords... :)

				-- Marek

		"frosted flakes... and painted eggs.... customs will deny..."

				-- Kid Creole and the Coconuts