HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: gardabr@unix1 (Gard Eggesbo Abrahamsen)
Subject: You whisper ain't mine (C&C Welcome)
Organization: MRIH, More og Romsdal Ingeniorhogskole
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL6]
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 93 08:22:39 GMT


                  Your Whisper ain't mine
==========================================
                  I hear you whisper
                  it makes me wish
                  I'd still be me
                  but with something more
                  chained to a saw
                  you'd feel the pain
                  as I'm sliced to bacon
                  and eaten raw
                  why, thanks I'm fine
                  silly you
                  it wasn't I who died
                  but someone wlse
                  and you know it
                  why don't you admit
                  that you're dead?
                  c'mon! gimme a hug!
                 ============================================================
                                                                    GEA 1992



       ______
      /      \  <== This is a self portrait.
     |  O  O  |
====OOO======OOO=============================================================
= Gard Eggesboe Abrahamsen                         PO Box 5061, Larsgaarden =
= Gard.Abrahamsen@mrih.no                             6021 Aalesund, Norway =
= "Don't ask me what I'm feeling. Finger me. It's greatly appreciated."     =
=                                           (Gard Eggesboe Abrahamsen 1993) =
=============================================================================
     /  \  /  \                      finger address ==> ga@samson.mrih.no
     \__/  \__/ <== Shoe size 42...
^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'
'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`^'`
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: palark@dgp.toronto.edu (Michael Ianni-Palarchid)
Subject: Just a test
Originator: root@explorer.dgp.toronto.edu
Date: 11 Jan 93 06:03:33 GMT

This is just a test.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: NAT@drao.nrc.ca (Natalie Prowse)
Subject: merry love in the berry patch / Natalie+Marek
Organization: Dominion Radio Astrophysical Observatory
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 02:01:26 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.11



		merry love in the berry patch
		-------------------------------------------------------------
		
		hot and humid summer's day
		amidst the bushes, tangled undergrowth
		merry berries lay
		and luscious lovers (lay)
		lay me down, lay me across
		or just lay me

		merry berries buried
		full juicy ripe.
		waiting to be pounced on,
		waiting to be uncovered,
		waiting to be picked,
		waiting to be pressed between 
		wanting lips.
		between wanting thighs
		and between the very tender butterflies
		of sighs.

		waiting and wanting 

		to scatter their seeds.
		to generously scatter their seeds.
		here, red means go, 
		here go means pink
		don't stop. don't stop. don't stop.
		don't think. look at my face and swell
		up. don't stop.


			Natalie Prowse / Marek Lugowski
			11 January 1992
			Penticton, British Columbia / Chicago, Illinois
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Instead
Date: 6 Jan 93 19:41:24 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

In article <1993Jan6.070216.16577@news.acns.nwu.edu> marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:
>
>		    "She strove to use rhyme unexpectedly but
>		always aptly.  Even the most unusual rhyme, she
>		felt, must never obtrude on the sense of the
>		line, nor must the normal word order, the easy
>		tone of vernacular speech, be wrenched solely to
>		save a rhyme."
>
>				-- Maxine Kummin on Anne Sexton
>				   preface to _The Complete Poems_

Let's break this down:

What rhyme must not do:

"obtrude on the sense of the line" - It's not the rhyme that obtrudes but 
the style.  You can't make sense of it because you're not familiar with it,
not because there's anything wrong with it.

"normal word order" - it is normal word order for the style I'm using..

"easy tone of vernacular speech" - that was Anne Sexton's choice for her 
own poetry.  Surely she was not condemning Shakespeare and John Donne.


And now a note on the "style" I mentioned.  It is more formal than
conversation, but perfectly acceptable.  I can't guarantee that it is 
free of awkwardness, but at the same time I will not concede to as broad
a charge as you are implying.  My guess is that you wish to impose
"vernacular speech" on every poet.  Such a restriction is ridiculous 
(though I recommend it for poets who have no mastery of any other sort 
of speech) as a universal axiom.


Yours,
Posthumous O'Toole
Defender of the Realm

-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: why Instead is bad writing / Marek
Date: 8 Jan 1993 01:59:51 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu


In a previous article, pagrawal@portal.hq.videocart.com (Pankaj Agrawal) says:

>Marek writes:
[much probably meaningful stuff deleted]
>
>I know I am butting in between two heavyweights on this group. If any of you
>wants to flame me, thats fine as long as you don't expect a response.
>

I am new to r.a.p  and works get in the way of reading posts thoroughly.
This is no intended to light a match .... just curious.
What qualifies Zirilli and Lugoski as "heavyweights"?

z.
From: dan@barkley.berkeley.edu (dan graves)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: father and daughter / dan graves
Date: 6 Jan 1993 00:59:56 GMT
Organization: University of California, Berkeley
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: barkley.berkeley.edu

father
fists clench on wiry arms
grey stubble on hollow face
tired eyes in tired crags
a tough man, never has
missed a day of work

daughter
eyes staring and afraid
hair uncombed hands shaking
fear eats her heart
demons and drugs
eat at her brain

doctors
gave her harsh drugs
gave her mumbo jumbo
she gets worse with each one
they warp her delicate brain
with sledgehammer needles

father
sells his retirement
trying every doctor
who says he can heal her
dragging on a cigarette
callosed hands shake

"What can she be so afraid of?
 It's driving me crazy."

dan graves
dan@barkley.berkeley.edu


This if for a friend and her father
who  still is still trying.
i have never met a man with
greater courage.

If you have any comments about this poem,
please post them or mail them to me.
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a howling dog
Keywords: echo in the fog
Date: Sun, 10 Jan 93 15:23:19 PST
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us



Somewhere .. a howling dog

Cold mountain rain.
Wind, in from the west
And down from north Alaska,
Tearing at the Redwoods.

Wild lower limbs will 
                   crack
Tonight.
And more than squirrels will cower
In the moonless mountain fog.



   copyright (c) 1993 by JJWebb

-- 

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: nemo@thunder.mcrcim.mcgill.edu (Capt. Nemo Semret)
Subject: Who wrote "The Road Not Taken"?
Organization: McGill Research Centre for Intelligent Machines
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 93 00:53:45 GMT

Fittingly, for the novice that I am, my first posting to the group is
a trivial question. But I really need the answer very soon.
Who wrote this poem, and when? (name, nationality, date)

****************************************************
The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and aages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
****************************************************************

Please answer via this newsgroup, or preferably, by mail to

nemo@mcrcim.mcgill.edu

Thank you.






-- 

nemo
************************************************
THE BADDEST MOTHERFUCKER THIS SIDE OF MIKE TYSON
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: seventeen syllables  / z.
Date: 11 Jan 1993 07:48:48 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu




       seasons


from its cold earth-bed
a seed's unfurled  pale green leaves
soak the morning sun.

     spring flowers giggle ...
     bees dance their spring ritual
     drunk with ambrosia.

          midwest summer storm
          torrid, wet, electric skies ...
          lightning-kissed earth.

               bare branches ... grey skies
               black umbrellas on snowdrifts...
               no more dragonflies !

                  
                       ***

zita maria evensen
c1993, jan 11

(please e-mail crits and comments)




Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: Li-young Lee: This Hour and What is Dead
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Sun, 10 Jan 93 06:41:37 GMT

	[This is from _The Best American Poetry 1992_ edited by 
	Charles Simic.  Li-young Lee was born in Indonesia, and
	at the time of publication, was an unemployed but well-
	recognized poet living in Chicago.]


	This Hour and What is Dead
	------------------------------------------------------------------

	Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
	through bare rooms over my head,
	opening and closing doors.
	What could he be looking for in an empty house?
	What could he possibly need there in heaven?
	Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
	His love for me feels like spilled water
	running back to its vessel.

	At this hour, what is dead is restless
	and what is living is burning.

	Someone tell him he should sleep now.

	My father keeps a light on by our bed
	and readies for our journey.
	He mends ten holes at the knees
	of five pairs of boys' pants.
	His love for me is like his sewing:
	too much thread and various colors,
	the stitching uneven.  But the needle pierces
	clean through with each stroke of his hand.

	At this hour, what is dead is worried
	and what is living is fugitive.

	Someone tell him he should sleep now.

	God, that old furnace, keeps talking
	with his mouth of teeth,
	a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
	of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
	His love for me feels like fire,
	feels like doves, feels like river water.

	At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
	and helpless.  While the Lord lives.

	Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
	I've had enough of his love
	that feels like burning and flight and running away.

		Li-young Lee
		1992
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Subject: A Crowd of Happy Zombies
Organization: Carleton University
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 10:08:15 GMT

A Crowd of Happy Zombies
------------------------

The Zombies went door to door
singing christmas carrols
to dead people.

The Zombies went to the beach
and tanned their hides,
and salted their skins.

The Zombies made bird feeders
out of milk cartons
and hung them in the back yard.

The Zombies played Trivial Pursuit 
until they realized
they'd played it so much
that they'd memorized all the answers.

The Zombies went to the zoo
and fed the monkeys
despite the sign that said
"Please do not feed the monkeys".

The Zombies went to university 
and became poets.

The Zombies taught the neighbour's kid
how to make paper air planes.

The Zombies found a dollar
on the street,
and were afraid to spend it,
because God could see them,
and He didn't like people
who took what 
wasn't theirs
so they put 
the dollar 
back on 
the ground,
and 
quietly 
tip
toed
home.


                                        Nik
                              All good poems deserve
                              YOU KNOW WHAT...
 
PS.  Before someone sends me a whiney message about the lines:
     The Zombies went to university/and became poets, just note
     that I am going to university, and I am also writing poetry.
From: tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk (Tim Love)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Animal Lover
Date: 10 Jan 93 19:11:22 GMT
Organization: cam.eng


          Animal Lover

Dolphins always smile my way on salmon-
Chanted evenings and hawkmoths wink all night.
O stuffed dodo do what you done done done
Before, you toucan with your songs delight.
Yes, I confess my sole intent; to wit
To woo beasts two by two, pander and bare,
Cheer the worm's turn, watch horses get a bit
On the side, swallow my pride, then home where
My faithful quick brown fox jumps just for me. 
How long can this go on? Is my fate sealed?
Oh deer, paw me. But if I must I'll flea,
I'll go to the dogs or pick up booze-swilled
Slugs then flock to packed terraces and crow
"O earwig, O earwig, O earwig O."

Tim Love, Jan 93
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: NAT@drao.nrc.ca (Natalie Prowse)
Subject: feeling used / Natalie
Organization: Dominion Radio Astrophysical Observatory
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 20:16:38 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.11



		feeling used
		-------------------------------------------------------------	


		misguided angst
		masquerades as love
		until the mask is torn off
		and the true cause is discovered.
		then the love vanishes
		in a puff of logic
		as truth meets realization
		on a busy one-way street.
		you hop in the car and drive
		leaving your confusion behind
		in someone else's eyes.
		never looking back
		you seek a salve for your
		now understood wounds
		and leave behind wounds 
		created by your misplaced affections.
	
			-Natalie / Dec 11, 1992

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: cdl0915@ultb.isc.rit.edu (Chris Losinger)
Subject: odds ends
Originator: cdl0915@ultb
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 15:00:31 GMT

    
    	one date I was ridinghood my bikecycle
	up scottiesvile rode, sweatying 
	and lookingaround at the cows(shit) and tree(green)s. 

	only a Chain aheady of me, 
	a sprungup cow on its hindback legs (looked like) 

	It mooed and cooed and glued itsself to the road.
    	Verywelly , I could not avoid it  
	Moving prettyboy fast, 
    	8.556x10^-3 furlongs/fortnight, 
	to be preciselyright. 

	I skidslammed into the bigstinky cow 
	my wimpy 38,400 dram body bounced gleefullyouch
    	off the cowhide, onto the road and into the guttersnipeleafcatcher.

    	The ownerman of abovesaid cow 
	from his house
	(wife(bitch) and kidsyapping trailing behind) 
	"Was [I] was allright, son?" 

    	laughingstupidfarmer. 
	I was/saidso ,but would like
	(if it isnt toomuch of  a hassle, hoff) 
	if I could use the phoneCall 
	to my friendgirl homeride

    	dumbfarmer spatshatshotsnot on the road 
	and mumblecursed me wrecklessdriving
    	crazykid.

    	Wreckful stinkybigcow stood stupidly black and white

---

    	The fissirostral, fistulous,
    	fibrous foreheadded, hasp-mouthed
    	hatchetman had hartebeest 
    	with his friend the haruspex.
    	They wore kurtas, as was fashionable.
    	And all afterwards, grew
    	logy, oscitant and logorreaous.
    	The oscular palsy enveloped them
    	and they sang fieldfresh songs				*

						* fieldfresh being my band 
    	
-- 
        --------------------------------------------------------------
        	c  h  r  i  s   l  o  s  i  n  g  e  r   r  i  t
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: palark@dgp.toronto.edu (Michael Ianni-Palarchid)
Subject: Meeting an Old Friend On the Corner
Originator: root@explorer.dgp.toronto.edu
Date: 7 Jan 93 20:07:05 GMT

This is my first post to this group. Any
comments would be much appreciated. This
is a poem from a collecxtion I wrote of
a little over 6 months ago. 
--------------------------
I've stood here for many years now
growing older and wiser and larger,
never leaving my post at the corner.
It is from here that my tale is told.

A strange event came to pass by me,
the first for a tree like me.
Not more than three nights ago
with the October night air
misting my leaves with cool rain,
a young man strolled by me.

His eyes lingered over me briefly,
then moved to a distant memory.
With ancient patience I waited...
...waited for this stranger to speak.

...Speak...

Instead he touched my rain soaked bark
and let himself slip deeper into thought.
Smiling faintly, his eyes glazed over in tears.
The wind played its autumn games
and my wet branches swayed 
caressing the young mans face
and I beckoned him in my own way...

...Speak...please speak...

But he did not.
He stood in silence
and in question
his rain streaked face 
warm with tears.
Like sweetened raindrops
his tears fell to the ground around me
and I drank deeply of his gift, 
of his thoughts
and his sharing.

His memories became mine.
I felt the joy
and the sadness
and the fear
all wrapped in colourful
pasts, present, and futures.
And there amongst it all
I saw her face.
I saw them both.
Him.
Her.
In a distant memory
that was warm & calm.
I saw autumn weather turn cold
and winter snow in the park 
where they had walked.
And I saw the now.

Moved...
...I called to him in my own way...

...tell me her name...

But he did not.
He stood before me
and  whispered quietly

...what wonderful memories you bring old friend...
...what wonderful dreams you inspire old friend...

And then he walked away from me
a smile drying the rain from his face.
And me?
Never had I wanted so much to walk
to leave my corner and go with him,
to see her.
My branches were heavy, 
the rain falling from my leaves.
That night I wept like no other night.
Strange for a willow tree like me, isnt it?
---------------------------

Michael Ianni
aka Palark
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.humor
From: watson@hg.uleth.ca (Maid in Bedlam)
Subject: Re: More Damned Roses Stuff
Reply-To: watson@hg.uleth.ca
Organization: University of Lethbridge
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 05:06:18 GMT

rosie, she read
violet, she blew
books are swell
and dicks are too...

luv,
libby doe
From: kr22+@andrew.cmu.edu (Kathleen A. Rafferty)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: ravioli in a cappella
Date: 10 Jan 93 12:17:05 GMT
Article-I.D.: andrew.wfI_1Vu00Uh_42gEZp
Organization: Psychology, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA

ravioli in a cappella

spicy 
sauces (and) 
conversation
swirled 
on the tongue,
kissing the air
(with)
garlic warmth

the cheap 
wine (and) 
laughs
complement 
each other
nicely

stuffing
brain (and) 
bowels
to the limits
of dionysian 
dementia,
complete 
(with)
babylonian
belching

satisfaction 
guaranteed,
indeed. 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mbalak@staff.tc.umn.edu (Michael A. Balak)
Subject: Implication
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Wed, 6 Jan 1993 09:35:52 GMT



Implication

Harsh hermeneutical failure may
Ascend when you obfuscate a 
Rudimentary cogitation 
In a pedantic menagerie
Of cold vocable code, due to the 
Worn-out whore that is Implication.

--------
1/6/93

===========================================================================
Jason P. Cress			Preacher or poet who was it wrote
Professional layman		If you give a species too much rope
jase@pnet51.orb.mn.org		They'll f*ck it up.
						-Roger Waters
===========================================================================
From: tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk (Tim Love)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Waterways
Date: 7 Jan 93 09:20:52 GMT
Organization: cam.eng


       Waterways

Cliff
Waves ram crumbling cliffs, slow ebbing feigning indifference,
a change of mind, then pressing forward, mime artists against glass,
lungeing, leaving their pasts behind. Always young, they do not fear
for love but toy with penetration though it's unsafe, without passion.

Beach
Land hesitates into ochre, rubs against itself for consolation.
Froth whispers no memories of prevailing winds. It's too hot
for Ravel's water; the shattered sun's tinsel imitation 
of twelve-tone hangs from the deduced horizon:
backdrop for children building crocodiles,
puzzled by unsuited fathers' sudden buffoonery.

Swimming Pool
Holding yourself under, against nature's buoyancy,
it's brighter than you expected, sounds carry further.
As you rise there's barely a break between depth and surface,
but you feel so heavy out of the pool, looking down
at your shaking flesh. The rebounding laughter's too shrill.

River
Always downward, boring the regulars with meanderings
until autumn's hips sway free across the plain
pegged only by once haphazard trees but at least a narrative,
tirelessly traced to a disappointing source.

Fog
Toadspawn fills day's still pond, healing unnecessary detail. 
Sounds too absorbed, though surprize supplies an edge.
Brown leaves hang soggy as flannels until, too heavy, 
they plop. Bleared headlamps, bedroom windows, a door left open:
outbreaks of light blotted up, caught in your greying beard.



Tim Love 1992
C+C appreciated. Should any parts be cut out?
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Unemployed
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 93 15:57:19 GMT


                        Unemployed

Claiming to be a royal personage from a far-off land
revealing himself as a family member all too intimate
he is dressed in royal robes
in a country which no longer recognizes royalty
the job for which is he is applying no longer exists:
King of the Lost Tribe.





-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: American Romantic
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 1993 05:47:23 GMT

In article <1993Jan11.041413.11515@midway.uchicago.edu> 
alk4@midway.uchicago.edu writes:

>
>You chicago folks has actually seen this...
>
>American Romantic
>-----------------
>
>
>
>On Lakeshore Drive,
>
>almost dancing 
>as he shuffles
>foot to foot
>in gray slush,
>
>a gentleman 
>selling cold roses
>to the romantics
>
>waiting for the light.

--
>Alex L. Karan

Again, I like this one.  Reminds me of the 50's Polish poetry of Tuwim and
Galczynski.  One technical point: why introduce the ungrammaticality of a
flawed subject-verb agreement for "gentleman".  Shouldn't "sells" replace
"selling"?  I see no benefit in breaking the sentence grammar here;
alternatively, implying *both* the subject and the verb in the dependent
clause.  Getting three present participles in a row does not justify the
blood on your hands. :)  

Lake Shore Drive, 3 words.

				-- Marek
Organization: University of Maine System
Date: Tuesday, 5 Jan 1993 20:55:40 EST
From: jennifer <IO91784@MAINE.MAINE.EDU>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Harvard Square Revisited



 here's an example of an EFL poem  (responses welcome via e-mail)






outside of au bon pain
the cops trip up
they hold him to the wall,
and the tatoo artist
does not get read
his rights.

another crowd coagulates
and round the edges
back by the phone booths
on the granite steps
the posers
laugh.

there are pigeons; it is raining
but the music is for money
and the hustlers want your money
and the shops, they all are wired
not for sound,
but for theives.

the tatoo artist, he talks hardcore music,
and gives his number out.
if you can't pay cash,
he'll take gold chains.


   ------------------
      no more sigs
   ------------------
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems