HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Re: () -- ARITHMETIC / Marek
Date: 4 Oct 92 14:32:46 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

> Yes, this is what I meant, The entirity must be considered the only unit.
> But noone really has to count them. The have survived here long before
> deer tags were issued. People should know that death is not nice, and
> to make sport of it is disgusting.

people can know, i should think
that death is death and nice is nice
and death is no more nice than life
as red is no more nice than pink.
to make a sport of death
to make a bed of nails
to make a statue of your ladyship
may disgust, but is not disgusting
not inherently
not completely
not necessarily.

-/\/\/\/-
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mccullou@cae.wisc.edu (Mark McCullough)
Subject: Inertia
Organization: U of Wisconsin-Madison College of Engineering
Distribution: World
Date: 2 Oct 92 22:06:43 CDT

I stare out, wondering what to do.
No thoughts do invade,
No revelations have come,
Encouraged in one, Cautios in other--
The inertia catching all,
No easy escape,
Must act to live,
Silence is death--motionless.
Action, if wrong is pain,
If not is joy,
Easy choice this is,
But what is what?
Which is pain, which is joy?
How to tell, how to decide.
No action is action,
No choice is choice--
That of death.
Decide I must,
Here and now:
I make my choice.

:)M^2
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: i am the serial killer of their girlhoods... / Marie+Marek
Date: 30 Sep 92 15:15:24 GMT
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.


 
 		i am the serial killer of their girlhoods,
 		or something
 		------------------------------------------------------------

 		she didn't say they like me.
 		she said they cannot get me 

 		out of their minds.

 		obviously they hate me.
 		they are obssessed with me.

 		i am the serial killer of their girlhoods, or something.


 			Marie Coffin / Marek Lugowski
 			29 September 1992
 			Ames, Iowa / Evanston, Illinois
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kyrsten@eos.arc.nasa.gov (Kyrsten Swazey)
Subject: poetry slams
Organization: NASA Ames Research Center
Distribution: usa
Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1992 17:22:09 GMT

Does anyone have any opinions on the poetry slame (general or specific).
I just read about them in last month's (?) Smithsonian, but i have been
unable to go to any of them in my area due to the fact that i am too
young to get into those durn bars/nightclubs.  It seems that there is
controversy regarding the actual "poeticness" of the events, but then
some have said the same about this net (Caught in the Net).  Seeing as
MTV has taken an interest in these - one of the Big Cheesy's was quoted
as saying "substance is making a come-back" - i am slightly leery.  BUT,
maybe someone out there has been to or even participated in a slam.  If
so, i would love to hear the low-down on what they really are.

                                                 _XTC_
From: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM (George O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Maple wind
Date: 30 Sep 1992 22:30:17 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems
Distribution: world
Reply-To: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM
NNTP-Posting-Host: inkstone

		Maple Wind


	Maple wind.
	Ruffled hair.
	Leaves blown through big windows;
	collar won't stay down.

	Writing in the mountains
	over new wine
	after four months
	of that hot valley.
	
	Papers fly off
	the low table;
	words coming quick
	through noisy air.


Sept 28, 1992


This is, after a long hiatus, another Chinese-painting poem.
I started my Chinese painting class again, and wrote this as I
was watching the teacher paint orange maple blown around over
a small mountain pavilion.


Simran Singh
From: 2ftqrune@kuhub.cc.ukans.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poemsetry:  Maple Syrup
Date: 1 Oct 92 14:50:22 CDT
Organization: University of Kansas Academic Computing Services

Maple Syrup

Trees saunter by
as I move down your street.
I remember when they
used to wave to me,
talk to me as a friend;
today the trees are silent.

I feel them watching me
as I look at them,
though they turn away
always knowing my intent.
The night I met them,
and you,
I remember feeling 
like I never had.

Tonight,
I feel like I never have;
I want to share with you
my pain.

The trees turn and give
one long last look
knowing that you 
will not be coming
to visit them again.

I say goodbye to the trees
but leave you without
a word.


D--
25 August 1992

--2ftqrune@kuhub.cc.ukans--
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: the elevator in the library is broken
Date: 27 Sep 92 13:57:38 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA



 sturner@vax1.umkc.edu (bring that ear a little closer.) writes:
> From:	VAX1::STURNER      "they look so decomposed together..." 
>
> THE ELEVATOR IN THE LIBRARY IS BROKEN
>
> alas, the elevator in the library is broken
> once again and as I trudge up and
> down these putrid stairways reminding me
> of some sixties or seventies architect on
> mother's milk I think about if I was
> and ancient greek mortal and got punished
> by jupiter
> i'd be trudging up and down these 
>
>  -sharon



	Like Mercury with winged feet
	I fly up stairways lightly 
	on my toes, two at a time 
	crisply and with flair.
	Others may trudge slowly
	with wheezing or big sighs, 
	for some only the elevator will do
	to hoist their fleshy masses.
	But stairs are like to mountains
	for me, begging the climb...
	

	I once raced just for fun
	to the top floor of a hotel; 
	the world's tallest, 75 flights 
	of stairs at a pleasant all-out 
	dead run. It was exhilarating!
	Almost as much fun as racing little brother 
	up the stairs of the Washington Monument 
	in DC so long ago, when they still allowed it. 
	Alas, these days the monument stairs 
	are broken or something, and closed;
	we pack into a putrid elevator 
	like so many sardines in a tin. Lives 
	dangling by a wire, and rising through 
	the black central shaft like so much 
	upchuck in the throat of a giraffe. 
	I swear by the rings of Saturn,
	I'd rather take the stairs!
	

	Cecil Williams   9/26/92
	************************
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mstringh@ent1.ent.ncsu.edu (Mike Stringham)
Subject: LIBERATION THEOLOGY...work in progress
Originator: mstringh@ent1.ent.ncsu.edu
Organization: Dept. of Entomology - NCSU, Raleigh, NC
Distribution: na
Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1992 16:33:59 GMT

This is a poem in progress.  Comments and suggestions welcome.


LIBERATION  THEOLOGY

I sit, toes content
to be possesed by sand,
woolgathering by this ocean
that reminds me of my father
and how I used to think
he would plow a continent
just for the smell of it.

He had no words for mysteries 
that lifted him like redemption
from the world on days he plowed,
but I saw how the rapture
overtook him each Spring
as he moved through the bottoms
from half light to half light,
sod breakers rolling in his wake.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: davidn@piris.pci.uni-heidelberg.de (David Nordfors)
Subject: Poem - Spring Dogs
Reply-To: davidn@piris.pci.uni-heidelberg.de
Organization: University of Heidelberg, Germany
Date: Mon, 28 Sep 92 09:44:32 GMT


	SPRING DOGS
	-----------

	The spring dogs are back.
	With moist black noses
	   they sniff and sneeze,
	   collecting information
	   like living vacuum cleaners.
	While running after twigs and bees
	   the spring dogs scan the surface
	   in search of beacons
	   (e.g. a dead rat or a turd).
	You thought you had secrets?
	You might as well stand on a roof-top and holler them through a megaphone.
	You might as well take off with a fart in a french restaurant.
	The spring dogs know who you are.
	Trust them.

From: larryw@hplsla.hp.com (Larry Whatley)
Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1992 15:07:47 GMT
Subject: A Gallery...
Organization: HP Lake Stevens, WA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems



                  A Gallery Along The Way

          The hike to Wallace Falls invites one
          to grow old slowly,
          stopping each frame to see
          the how and why of midges
          on the river, of grey shapes rising
          in the mist like disciples of lambs
          in summer clouds,
          of chanterelles cringing from the sun.
          The falls themselves cascade in tresses
          warm and cool - almost imagined colors -
          of a Mondrian grown old at the temples.
          How different the bold patchwork
          on the trail: colors and shapes
          of autumn abstraction, a fancy
          reflecting the canopy 
          of a season before,
          and beside the path, green carpet
          worn thin by poets' feet,
          but worth the mention, still.
          At the trailhead each hiker
          reads again more slowly a gentler choice:
          "To Wallace Falls via the old railroad grade ->"
          I will go that way... someday,
          but please, not soon.


- Larry Whatley
  10/2/92

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jb6o+@andrew.cmu.edu (Jason Andrew Barshay)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Criticism
Date: 1 Oct 92 23:20:45 GMT
Organization: Robotics Institute, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA


I have recently been reading up on a poet who is quickly becoming a
favorite of mine, Rainer Maria Rilke.  He was a very gifted poet who
lived in the late 19th, early 20th centuries.  Rilke had an uncanny
understanding of what it was to be a poet.  I refer you to some of his
words on criticism of art (poetry specifically):

"With nothing can one approach a work of art so little as with critical
words:  they always come down to more or less happy misunderstandings."

"...such things are either partisan views, petrified and grown senseless
in their lifeless induration, or they are clever quibblings in which
today one view wins and tomorrow the opposite.  Works of art are of an
indefinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with
criticism."

These phrases are from correspondences of Rilke's with a young poet. 
According to Rilke, there is only one reason to become a poet.  He said
you should only write if "you would have to die if it were denied you to
write."

If you consider yourself a poet or if you want to be a poet or if you
are just interested in poetry, I refer you to a collection of Rilke's
correspondences, "Letters to a Young Poet."  This is a great
introduction to a man who was truly an exceptional poet.

Jason
From: jpg@bnr.co.uk (Jonathan P. Gibbons)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: the flamer
Date: 30 Sep 92 08:50:49 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: BNR Europe Ltd, London Rd, Harlow, Essex, CM19 9NA, U.K.

The Flamer
----------

Rant, Rant, Rant,
I'm nottin but a sycophant,
and I'll die swearing,
and the world lacks caring,
and issues turn forever,
like a wind blown feather,
from a shining white swan,
destined for a dirty, polluted pond.


Jonathan
--
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
  With fearsome eyes and fiery breath the dragon burnt the girl to death
                    -- from "Too Late Saint George"
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: klaw@ecst.csuchico.edu (Almighty Nodens the Master of the Elder Sign)
Subject: Re: ()
Organization: California State University, Chico
Date: Sat, 26 Sep 1992 08:35:13 GMT

You sir,

	Are on drugs.

Nodens
From: gilligan6855@iscsvax.uni.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: how do you create a .sig?  
Date: 5 Oct 92 13:38:17 -0500
Organization: University of Northern Iowa

I need to know how to make a .sig for myself, and i can't find any information
in my help commands.   anyone?
carolee
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: all your streaming dreaming
Date: 1 Oct 92 17:11:47 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

=

	all your streaming dreaming tell-me-tales go drifting
	by and by the by it's time to see your face
	to face expression of the smallest thing on earth:
	the space between chemise, demise and birth


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: NPR@drao.nrc.ca (Who Me? Work?)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A man of Conviction
Date: 6 Oct 92 22:22:58 GMT
Organization: I'm Never organized!  Just ask anyone who knows me...
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.11

A Man of Conviction

He once told me that when he makes a
decision, 
he sticks to it.
Too bad his 
decision 
to love and care about me
didn't last as long 
as I suspect his
decision 
to dismiss me will....
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: my hair is on fire
From: sturner@vax1.umkc.edu (bring that ear a little closer.)
Date: Sat, 26 Sep 1992 02:02:55 GMT
Reply-To: sturner@vax1.umkc.edu (bring that ear a little closer.)
Organization: University of Missouri - Kansas City

From:	VAX1::STURNER      "with sunshine in my eyes, i look like i'm smiling." 11-JUN-1992 14:43:58.04
To:	VAX1::STURNER
CC:	
Subj:	RE: a poem

My hair is on fire
with the smoke of my world
and the smoldering bits
of the inner strenth
that holds what has become
my fast food hair net.
dull,lifeless, and greasy
tarnished with the
exhalations of bimboes
who only work to keep their
habits alive.
and i'm expected to survive in this.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: k084118@hobbes.kzoo.edu (Pamela S. Rivers)
Subject: Empty words
Organization: Kalamazoo College
Date: Tue, 6 Oct 1992 15:39:07 GMT


He speaks to me and those that will listen
or pretend to
loudly, like the sound of a jack hammer
and like the jack hammer 
the noise means nothing to me

He is like a parrot 
mimicking   mimicking   mimicking
what someone, somewhere has told him to say
whether that someone is right or wrong 
is left up to us, not him

There is no personality
tucked in his wool suit
or if there is it is buried
in layers of emotionless smiles, cordial waves, and cautious speeches
There are no promises left to hold onto

They've all been broken
We are too easily fooled
by bold words of little men and little action
but there is nothing we can do
until his four years are up

and then we reelect him




Pamela Rivers			| "I want somebody to share, share the rest of
k084118@hobbes.kzoo.edu		|  my life.  Share my innermost thoughts and
                                |   my intimate details.
				|  Someone who'll understand me, and give me
				|  support."  -Somebody by depeche mode

-- 



******************************************************************************
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mccullou@cae.wisc.edu (Mark McCullough)
Subject: Re: High School Love 
Organization: U of Wisconsin-Madison College of Engineering
Date: 2 Oct 92 22:42:04 CDT

Key of G??????  That is not the proper key for that poem/song.  Try
a different key, such as a flat key or a minor key.  Key of G tends
to be too friendly a key.
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: do you own your
Date: 29 Sep 92 16:51:33 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA


>	do you own your own house?
>	do you live in it alone?
>	is it like you dreamed it would be?
>	is it home?
>	there's no time...
>	it's this fine moment, make a choice
>	for choosing's doing must be done in cold alone
>	making maybe moments stay and spend a while
>	this gem, this plain bright stone
>
>Tom Wachtel 



	Yes, I own that home o'er there,
	It's got 4 bedrooms, 3 are spare.
	And as I putter round alone,
	there's too much time. 
	And I wonder, is this hell or is this home? 
	A hermit's life is not for me, 
	I'd rather have a family. 
	A wife and kids, the joy they'd bring, 
	just like the blooming of the spring.	
	And for me that is enough. 



Cecil
From: kyrsten@eos.arc.nasa.gov (Kyrsten Swazey)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: i sing the body -
Date: 6 Oct 92 00:28:02 GMT
Organization: NASA Ames Research Center

i dreamt
that i
     was dying
and when i
           awoke
i knew
     i was dead

No longer
 could i live -
            immortal
or immoral

The scent
     of my sleep
hung heavy
           on my bones,
but my sinews
   sang
         of rebirth

Life of days
     and hours -
moments

The monumental
              peace
  enwrapped
     my loins
and i wept -
               cleansed
Pure despite my impurities
Free despite my chains


                                    _XTC_
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: i must be feelin' poetic today...or else hungover
From: sturner@vax1.umkc.edu (bring that ear a little closer.)
Date: Sat, 26 Sep 1992 02:02:22 GMT
Reply-To: sturner@vax1.umkc.edu (bring that ear a little closer.)
Organization: University of Missouri - Kansas City

I learn to love the things around me
but I will not bend to the
pressure of loving the life I lead
nor will I allow the day
to become all that I am.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-"they call me sterno but that doesn't mean I don't drink."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: P.M. Poetry 1
Date: 2 Oct 92 16:46:36 GMT
Article-I.D.: netlabs.1992Oct2.164636.6373
Organization: NetLabs, Inc.
Originator: sharon@doctor.netlabs.com


    I sometimes hurt the ones I want to love.
    To lose a friend is frightening to me,
    and makes me (helpless, panicked) try to shove
    emotions backwards.  Those I want to love,
    I sometimes hurt.  It's scary: from above,
    I gaze on those I want, and hurt, and lose.
    To love a friend is frightening to me.

    Love's easier with strangers, if less free.


Sharon Hopkins
October 1, 1992
From: sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Not A Love Sonnet
Date: 28 Sep 92 19:41:30 GMT
Organization: NetLabs, Inc.

In article <1992Sep28.042646.871@cheshire.oxy.edu> sharon@netlabs.com (me) writes:
>
>    Not A Love Sonnet

Sorry about the multiple postings of this.  My machine was acting up,
and it looked like the poem hadn't gone out, so I tried again from
other places.

--Sharon Hopkins
  sharon@netlabs.com
From: jqtaylor@hpdmd48.boi.hp.com (John Quill Taylor)
Date: Wed, 30 Sep 1992 19:23:24 GMT
Subject: more private oceans
Organization: Hewlett Packard - Boise, ID
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems


           it was a pleasant ride
                from the hospital 
                to the grave -
           not even bumpy.

           they buried him along with the 
                little girl's smile.

           how few people he touched;

           if they knew him
           they would be sad.

                - jqt -
From: bob@netxcom.netx.com (Robert Thralls)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Haiku--my window
Date: 29 Sep 92 20:49:49 GMT
Organization: NetExpress Inc., Vienna, VA, USA


In article <8eluot_00YV9M9N7oD@andrew.cmu.edu> you write:
>
>                                 my window
>                            
>                            Windows in our walls:
>                            Why go try and break windows
>                            when we can break frames?
>
>
>                                                Dan Zabell

Hi, Dan, your poetry is a window into your life for us to 
get perspective on. If one of us breaks your window every now
and then, you can always give us a new one to look through.
I hope not to break the delicate frame in which that glass sets.
Sometimes, I swing hard - but I don't want to wipe out good foundation
that has been carefully designed to house the rest of the world.
To break a frame would cause caos, little hope of rebuilding. A 
piece of glass only makes noise and lets in a draft of fresh air;
cleans up well with a vacuum, too. I think one should stick to 
small changes if he is to make any difference at all. The critical
mass would be lost to despair in the wake that follows total destruction.
I would subscribe to the theory that things should be broken up into
many small pieces and dealt with one at a time, instead of attacking
the entire problem at once, full force.

Violence is not becoming. I do not see violence in the morning
twilight of 5:30 am when I gaze out the window. I have to travel far 
and see it with spectacle; it pains me so. The frames left on the ground 
of the deader child, at the end of a path of blood where he tried 
to crawl away, but was shown no mercy. An old broken, dirty crystal can 
be replaced, after someone had so quickly cleared up the view,
but a broken frame requires much reconstruction. Life was never the same
after the addition of the florida room, I never really looked out back
in mid-January.

I do not see violence in a baseball going through the picture window.
I can hardly believe that anyone would want to take a bat to it during
afternoon tea.

no signature necessary
Organization: University of Illinois at Chicago
Date: Saturday, 26 Sep 1992 18:16:53 CDT
From: <U27317@uicvm.uic.edu>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: LIFE

   LIFE

   Life can be compared to a beautiful.....AAAAAAAHH FUCKIT!

              by my great pal Steve Barnewolt


                                     MEl
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: fallas@athena.mit.edu ()
Subject: white, yellow, and green
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Mon, 5 Oct 1992 17:55:22 GMT


the daisies embroidered on this veil shrouded my vision
in white and yellow and green
and flowergirls scattered petals in the grass at my feet
white, yellow, and green

at the altar the man i love awaited me, his emerald eyes
soft white and yellow and green
and the fair hair fell forward to touch his cheek
all white, yellow, and green

now i hear your light step as i wait in the rose garden
of white, and yellow, and green
and the ribbons in my hair slip through his fingers
in white and yellow and green....
From: sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Not A Love Sonnet
Date: 28 Sep 92 19:42:33 GMT
Organization: NetLabs, Inc.

In article <1a6acbINNgj1@bigboote.WPI.EDU> megazone@obsidian.WPI.EDU (MegaZone23) writes:
>
>Yes. I fully agree that Sharon writes wonderful works.

Thank you.

--Sharon
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dexter@aries.scs.uiuc.edu (Annette Dexter)
Subject: Re: Did Lazarus have a wife?
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana
Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1992 23:56:07 GMT

watson@hg.uleth.ca (The terror that flaps in the night) writes:

>In article <1992Oct01.160606.27375@ux1.cts.eiu.edu>, csmcm@ux1.cts.eiu.edu (Mary C. McDaniel) writes:
>>I'm working on a poem-- right now-- and I need to know if Lazarus
>>had a wife (prior to his resurrection, thank you).  Does anyone out 
>>there recall?
>>
>>Thanks in advance for your help,
>>
>>Mary

	I recall nothing about Lazarus being married, he lived with his
sisters Martha and Mary according to tradition.

	Annette
	dexter@aries.scs.uiuc.edu

Newsgroups: rec.arts.theatre