HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: jtrue@acpub.duke.edu (john)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: more causal cartography / jtrue
Date: 14 Sep 92 01:46:27 GMT

(A)
There are serrations
in spacetime
out here in the margins,
where I'm daydreaming nightmares
of death by autoclave.

Amibidextrous,
I bury my summer of chromosomes
with two spades.
I have a small trowel
in my back pocket to prepare
the topsoil for next spring's
alleged violets.

(B)
We used to spend
our bodies for each other
like currency.
Only now, the Dollar's weak
and your fresh crisp Marks
are in high demand.

(C)
On this morning that speaks
of Autumn
(promises, promises),
I trade in yet another
set of optics.
(Ahh, to return again
to the rose-colored capillary beds
of my own eyes.)

These airs,
laced with menthol,
relieve the wracking a little.
Whether mazes of throbbing alveoli
or hopeless dungeons of causality,
the gray-purple color of the walls
is the same.

(D)
And in one big immunocompromise,
we sign two different treaties,
never asking each other's terms.
In this war we've written,
neither of us will take
the stage or breath
a single line.
So it will be cancelled
on account of rain.
The momuments are already built.
They are scattered all 
around us;
fallout,
nearly immortal,
nearly lethal.

-jtrue1992

c/c/f welcome
jtrue@acpub.duke.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Hinges
From: jabolliger@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu
Date: 11 Sep 92 16:55:03 EST

In article <1992Sep10.113221@IASTATE.EDU>, frank@IASTATE.EDU (Frank A Poduska) writes:
>        two rusty hinges
>        creaking in an autumn breeze -
>        Oh! twilight stillness
> 
> --
> Frank Poduska                 frank@iastate.edu

Frank I like this.  Here is another for fall.

	On the hill crows call
	black leaves sitting in the trees
	Released they fly up.

Jean Ann
Sept. 1992

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poetry,rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
From: twain@milton.u.washington.edu (Barbara Hlavin)
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 23:02:41 GMT

In article <1992Sep10.213928.29227@news.unomaha.edu> kammerer@cwis.unomaha.edu (Al Kammerer) writes:

[nothing]

==============

I'd suggest blank verse.
From: justin@neptune.brisnet.org.au (freaky acid planet)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: <none>
Date: Mon, 07 Sep 1992 13:00:51 GMT
Reply-To: justin%neptune%meteor@bunyip.cc.uq.oz.au
Distribution: world
Organization: to timeless to tell in time




deep eyes
with many facets
showing colourful reflections
of yourself
like the crystal you admire



--
i want to be more like the ocean
From: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM (George O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Waterdreams
Date: 12 Sep 1992 01:11:24 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems
Distribution: world
Reply-To: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM
NNTP-Posting-Host: inkstone

		Water Dreams


	I dreamed of water
	again, after all
	the dry years.
	
	The lake, and the cottage
	on the other side.
	The road with too many cars
	to cross, and how
	will I get there?
	And the penguin 
	that squirmed its way
	into my car, bit
	my hand, and took me
        all his places:
	    cave, junkyard,
	    blond hair and
	    unwilling hitchhiker.
	
	And they all came back,
	those years of water
	dreams, surrounding
	me now.
	
		Paddling a deep round lake,
		willow strands hanging
		over the wall, touching
		the water; brushing
		the sides of my canoe.
		
		Navigating swampy channels
		flower-lined and mossy
		banked,	in an old wooden 
		Chris-Craft, hurrying into town,
		to market, to sell our
		water-gathered goods.
		
		The rush and pound
		of dark waves eating
		sandstone cliffs,
		leaving a single house,
		with an old Chinese man
		painting symbols, untouched.
	
	I found her then,
	but almost never
	could hold the memory.


September 10, 1992


(signed!) George O'Toole

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jmc@SAIL.Stanford.EDU (John McCarthy)
Subject: Re: TO RALPH@WIXER.CACTUS...
Reply-To: jmc@cs.Stanford.EDU
Organization: Computer Science Department, Stanford University
Date: 14 Sep 92 20:16:26

Ralph Cherubini puts out a lot of poems, and mostly I don't much
care for them, but today I really liked one.  If you keep looking,
maybe some day you will read one of his you like.  After all one
is better off, the more one does enjoy, rather than the more one
can find reasons to scorn.
--
John McCarthy, Computer Science Department, Stanford, CA 94305
*
He who refuses to do arithmetic is doomed to talk nonsense.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tolman%mindblow.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman)
Subject: Latex
Date: 7 Sep 92 11:56:05 MDT
Organization: University of Utah, CompSci Dept


Latex was written
to capture students like prisoners
and trap them in obscure commands
which they must utter to escape

/end{document}
From: RVESTERM@vma.cc.nd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem--Sudden
Date: 12 Sep 92 18:12:30 GMT
 <2609@tau-ceti.isc-br.com> <1992Sep12.051349.14484@leland.Stanford.EDU>


reminds me of the wonderful followup to "there once was a man from crewe/whose
limericks stopped at line two." :


                  there once was a man from verdun.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Title follows
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 92 19:05:28 GMT


                        Title follows

It was after
certain
sure thing
no doubt
perhaps they have
something
to do with
one another.


(Transcript of conversation of man and woman islander on the verge of
discovering the connection between sexual intercourse and pregnancy)
From: tony@swrinde.nde.swri.edu (Anthony R. Benitez)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Summer Candle
Date: 14 Sep 92 12:44:02 GMT
Organization: Southwest Research Institute, San Antonio, Texas


Summer Candle

Wind low some far away valley,
Billowing fragrant breath sweet
and rich the vapor pouring forth
Cloudy visions languishing deep.

Shrouds the light dims eventide
Ghosts rushing forth their embrace
Hush forest the rustling limbs
Wheeling kiss on intent glance.

Forth the mind's frame bent thought
Curving polished mirror's grin.
Glow a summer's candle lit
Face who knows to know not when.

Rattled pondering laughter smiles
Pumping heart the whispering night
In burning candle flaming eyes
Rush alas to look no more.

A.R.Benitez        July 1992
Written for my friend, Jennifer

***************************************
tony@tex.nde.swri.edu
***************************************
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rbear@inferno.uoregon.edu (Richard Bear)
Subject: Ideogram
Organization: University of Oregon Network Services
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL5
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 92 02:59:45 GMT


I have read that a monk in tenth-century China
felt as I feel now, and wrote, as I 
do now: "mind is the autumn moonlight reflected 
on the clear stream." His words come to me
as a sharp stone knife, cutting away all that
useless flesh; and I lie gasping on the moonlit sand,
a gift for the blind fisherman.


rbear@oregon.uoregon.edu     Richard Bear
From: sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (Maven o'Mirth)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: poem - Oak Turning
Date: 16 Sep 92 00:03:03 GMT
Organization: Seattle University, Seattle WA

Oak Turning
---------------------
This autumn afternoon began as morning
and never became quite day.  Autumn sun, like sun
remembered on a movie screen
burns bright white and somehow cold--
a condition I can only guess at, looking out my window
and deciding what to wear.

The cat's coat is thickening, and last night
tiny clickings from the radiator 
woke me with their unfamiliar sharpness.

All summer we return to this,
fresh blooms in vases wilting, darkness
creeping nearer and nearer the dinner hour...
and I am more aware of autumn than I have ever been
even of spring.


	Sheryl Stover
	September 15, 1992
--
Sheryl Stover				|  How passing fair is youth,
*>sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu<*		|  Forever fleeting away;
and Hemingway, feline philosopher	|  Who happy would be, let him be;
Watch this .sig for news of the		|  Of tomorrow, who can say?
upcoming album from Seattle's 		|	-Lorenzo de'Medici
premier band, the Medici!		|



Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tolman%mindblow.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman)
Subject: Re: Hinges
Date: 12 Sep 92 22:18:54 MDT
Organization: University of Utah, CompSci Dept

First verse by: Frank Poduska              
Second by:Jean Ann


        two rusty hinges
        creaking in an autumn breeze -
        Oh! twilight stillness

	On the hill crows call
	black leaves sitting in the trees
	Released they fly up.

        final summer flowers
        breath cold crystal air for anxious bees
	Soon- cleansing darkness


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: zhu@athena.mit.edu (Erin Zhu)
Subject: Loss
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 20:58:38 GMT


loss loss loss
echoing pounding lingering
shrill and inevitable
like the endless...
never mind.

i don't mind
O love of my life
fire of my loins
no no no start over,
where are my words

listen
would you maybe listen
i stared at you for so long
and still could not touch
your face in my mind

i tried
but you would not stay still
long enough to be caught
and a noose is a noose is...
even in disguise

so i was wrong
and you were wrong
pouring out admissions of guilt
when the question was never
a matter of right or wrong

could i maybe touch you once
just once
and maybe if i was very good
see a little smile?
such tentative and simple wishes
like the early days of falling in...

l-o-v-e
the word catches in my throat
me, entraped mired stifling in it
doubting its existence
nevertheless

so this is it:
the end
cold. empty. resolved.
finis

as they say
in those movies that you loved
and held my hand and brough me candy
and i can still see that loose lock of hair
floating stubbornly out of place on your face
even through the veil of my

no, no tears,
not tears
please
no



   /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
      Erin Zhu    (617) 661-8151  /   Out of the ashes
      872 Mass. Ave, #707         /   I rise with my red hair
      Cambridge, MA 02139         /   And I eat men like air.
      zhu@gevalt.mit.edu          /                     --Sylvia Plath
From: sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Villanelles
Date: 5 Sep 92 00:25:27 GMT
Organization: NetLabs, Inc.

In article <219@uiunix.ui.org> donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole) writes:
>[...]
>fresh from the mind of Posthumous:
>[...]
>
>Morning Fog in the Bracken Lay
>
>
>Morning fog in the bracken lay
>and I kissed her once upon each eye,
>but the lass with brown tresses walked away.
>
>I asked her with kind words to stay
>and said it would be foolish to fly
>while morning fog in the bracken lay.
>
>She paused amid the shadows gray
>and I thought I may have heard her sigh,
>but the lass with brown tresses walked away.
>
>I yelled, I wept, I began to pray
>for sunlight, for a clear sky,
>but morning fog in the bracken lay.
>
>I whispered a remembrance for the day,
>for the dawn, for the moment soon to die
>when the lass with brown tresses walked away.
>
>Never again shall we in the moors play,
>never again shall anyone her form espy,
>for while morning fog in the bracken lay
>the lass with brown tresses walked away.
>
>
>Posthumous O'Toole
>August 31


Morning fog on the freeway lay
when he cut me off from the exit lane,
but the brown-haired boy got clean away.

I flipped him off when he got in the way,
and dogged his tail like I'd gone insane,
but morning fog on the freeway lay:

I hit a skid, and had to pray
(those oil slicks are such a pain)
would the brown-haired boy get clean away?

He slowed for a cop, not wanting to pay,
and I gunned my engine, starting to gain,
but morning fog on the freeway lay.

I couldn't see clear enough that day,
and the sky was starting to sprinkle rain;
my brown-haired boy was getting away.

I wish I had something more to say,
but my hope for revenge went down the drain:
for morning fog on the freeway lay,
and the brown-haired boy got clean away.


--Sharon Hopkins
  sharon@netlabs.com

:-)
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8829 alt.sex.bestiality:1868
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,alt.sex.bestiality
Subject: Poem - Timios
Keywords: "animal nature", temptation, not-quite-human
Date: 12 Sep 92 05:10:49 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana

This poem reflects my longing for the "something" not found outside
of Greek mythology, something half-human, half animal/nature.


"Timios" is the Greek for "hawk", BTW; a fitting name for a Pan-like
fellow like the one envisioned when I penned this!



TIMIOS


Timios, precious capering cajoling image,
hooves found first in rain and sand
and flirting, baffled tail in rampant splendor;
Falcon, do you know my name, and call it,
heedless of commanding whispers?

Zephyrs in their truest form spar wicked,
breathe your mockery and press, unbidden,
lifting wieghted hems and stealing peeps
as naughty children 'neath my skirts;
your name rings cool and echoes in my ears.

A nimble finger traces with abandon,
races down my spine in swift pursuit of
long-forgotten modesty, a cruel trappist's
trickery in rhythm-almost-rhyme;
stormy nebulae enguly and eddy in the sky.

Timios, first and ever, in your flight to couple,
mingle in the clouds and lift triumphant tears
your banner, beg too often, satyr, faun; and
linger in a wasteful twilight muddied by your
presence, passion, angry love and restlessness.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jcbarnes@pluto.acs.oakland.edu (Terson - Sod Lord)
Subject: Bad Poetry
Organization: FryTools International
Date: Wed, 16 Sep 1992 01:40:13 GMT



                          _Bad Poetry_

                 bad poetry keeps following me around
                 i try to run and hide...
                 i tried to hire a new muse,
                 but the cliches are still on the attack
                 and words and rhymes
                 still echo the work of others
                 no gems can be found in this
                 paper junkyard of my mind.

                 i want to find the maiden of inspiration
                 and wed her becoming the perfect poet,
                 The Perfect Poet writing reruns.

                           J. Fritz Barnes
                                Sept. 15th, 1992
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: whc2993@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Subject: Am I in the Right PLace
Reply-To: whc2993@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 15:24:30 GMT



********************************************************************************
"The blues is a low down achein' chill"  Robert Johnson
********************************************************************************

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tolman%asylum.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman)
Subject: Natural rhythm
Date: 9 Sep 92 00:09:33 MDT
Organization: University of Utah, CompSci Dept

these arching canopies breath
the life for their symbiotic brothers
who breath again and then for the trees

organisms slide beneath 
popping and oozing squishing slime
a wet blanket for tiny lovers

the forest dies and gives up
slender green bits of life
for the wandering snorting beasts

who rise above and declare their power
as all things must for a moment
until they realize their mother
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: sestina!
From: connorm@vax.sonoma.edu (Michelle Connor)
Date: 10 Sep 1992 22:10 PST  
Distribution: world
Organization: Sonoma State University
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    


Thanks you for the post....It was extremely enlightening.  I appreciate the
effort that you went to!

Have a wonderful day!  :)

Michelle O'Connor
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: beh@geech.gnu.ai.mit.edu (Bruce Howells)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: September
Date: 8 Sep 92 17:22:41 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


The crisp, sweet taste of onions
the county-fair scent of warm dill weed
brush up against me in the hallways 
of this strange and ignoble place.

Isn't it strange how the simple scents
of September 
can make a whole life choice
seem terribly incorrect?

He called me distant today
and he was correct
for I was in another place, reliving
my Septembers past.

Oh, there are no words for the
aching need
to go back to the places which were then me
and are the me I carry with me now.
There are no words, but I must find them,
somehow.

Tonight I'll sing
as I sang last week
and the week before
and it seems to be somewhat easier now that
my friends are here,
but still...

I need Septembers as
Septembers used to be
and I need
me.

--Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu through the good grace of my husband)
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Vagabonds
Date: 14 Sep 92 03:05:47 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana

VAGABONDS

Command leaps in rainbows from your mouth,
and I see your breath as a whisper
  of blue, blue ribbon.
Infinity winds itself in your mane, as Arachne
would spin, and spin again, from envy;
  I look too close, and I cut myself on
	your eyes.

Beknighted head bows low, a supplicant;
petitioner of gods and wielder of
  fantastic dreams,
your mettle makes you rise so high above us
mortal men that we stare, as Tantalus,
  until the sun forces closed
	our lids.

A constellation of vagabonds, we -- each
creating his own tapestry of sighs and tears;
  save you, the spinner;
your shuttle and your weft leap us even as stars
and we weep forever reaching into morn.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: eah1@gauguin.wustl.edu (Edward Anthony Hutchins)
Subject: Re: Latex
Organization: Washington University, School of Engineering, St. Louis MO
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 03:00:20 GMT

In article <1992Sep7.115606.19114@hellgate.utah.edu>  
tolman%mindblow.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman) writes:
> 
> Latex was written
> to capture students like prisoners
> and trap them in obscure commands
> which they must utter to escape
> 
> /end{document}
  ^
  |
Not to be a complete nerd about things (too late) but:
  |
  v

\documentstyle{article}
\newenvironment{poem}[1]{\begin{verse}{\sf #1}\\*\medskip}{\end{verse}\bigskip} 
\begin{document}
\begin{poem}{LaTeX}
LaTeX was written \\*
to capture students like prisoners \\*
and trap them in obscure commands \\*
which they must utter to escape
\end{poem}
\end{document}

If you think that was obscure I could whip up the plain TeX version...
_____________________________________________________________________________
:-)  ('')  (-:  (,,)  :-)  ('')  (-:  (,,)  :-) | see lidflip instructions on
Edward Hutchins, eah1@cec1.wustl.edu            | other side of card
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Fri, 11 Sep 1992 15:32:58 GMT
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, tolman%asylum.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman) writes:

> >|> I will soon read a poem to my Toastmasters club (a club for people
> >|> interested in improving public speaking skills).   I am looking for a
> >|> particular sort of poem to read--I want an inspirational poem, a rousing
> >|> tribute to the power and spirit of the human race.  I want a poem that
> >|> brings a lump to your throat and makes you proud to be a human being.  I am
> >|> particularly interested in something that celebrates the the noble or
> >|> courageous individual.  I also need it to be from a reasonably well known
> >|> poet, one that I would be able to find in a public or college library.
> >|> 
> >
> 
> Get that poem "Rage against the dying of the light", by,.... I forget.
> It is advice to a person, telling them not to give in to old age, it is
> cool and I love it.

Dylan Thomas.  It is about the death of his beloved daddy.

It is a good poem.
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--We moved apart
Date: 6 Sep 92 13:01:13 GMT
Article-I.D.: wixer.1992Sep6.130113.17845
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                           We moved apart

I had no say
in an important matter
like when I was mere child
and taken seriously only for my promise
we moved apart
because the island of my life
merely a thatch on the great sea
was carried out and out
by the currents which gave me birth
and my will could nothing do
but scrawl words of sorrow
placed afloat in this final bottle
I now give to the sea.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: haight@sun.ipl.rpi.edu (Liz Haight)
Subject: Re: TO RALPH@WIXER.CACTUS...
Organization: Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, NY
Date: Wed, 16 Sep 1992 01:27:08 GMT



   in defense of romance
   ---------------------
        (and ralph)

ralph cherubini writes poems 
as if they're dreams
interpreting his life romantically
he doesn't pine for love lost
but for lost time
spending love, mending hearts
like you break mine





-- 
------------------
Elizabeth           /	Don't pass me by like a stranger ...
haight@ipl.rpi.edu  \	    Don't leave me here all alone, so alone, 
		    /		I'm alone ... Talk to me.  [Chris Isaac]
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem--Sudden
Date: 11 Sep 92 02:52:44 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA


 (Ralph Cherubini) writes:
>
>                                 Sudden
>
> It would be
> sudden
> if this were all there was to this poem.

It would be 
sudden
if someone pulled the plug on the gravity generator
and we all fell off the earth.



Cecil
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Another one for Susan
Date: 14 Sep 92 18:28:24 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <10273@uqcspe.cs.uq.oz.au> michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au writes:
>In article 1ggy@terapin.com, jeffb@terapin.com (Jeffrey Bean) writes:
>>    I wrote most of my poetry in a deranged dimentia of emotion... Poetry has
>>had more of a theraputic purpose than a creative one... I guess that's ok. 
>>Tell me what you think.
>
>Well, that's how I started, so it must be OK.			:-)
>Here's one of my early spewings of angst to prove it. ('87?)
>
>	--
>Admitting, admitting
>I'd slash my words
>Poison my pen
>Write my brains out on the floor
>Till demon stab fry spit flows again
>Palping thumper cased in itching brittle scab.
>	--
>
Ah, yes, I too had my lonelier days fraught with angst:


Love is like a lemon drop


But it's covered with lint!
O, the fragile layer of bird shit
encrusted 'pon my heart
doth sigh softly as so many
headless hermaphrodites
breathing through their necks

(and such a neck am I without you).



Yours,

Posth.
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /