HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Bulimia
Keywords: It isn't always what one thinks...
Date: 22 Nov 92 22:10:39 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


BULIMIA

He shook his head, he couldn't understand
why she ran to the bathroom after every meal...
he took in her slender silhouette
and every angle haunted him
he dreamt about it in his dreams
he clasped his hands and bit his tongue
he prayed that it would go away.

She never went to the grocery store,
she ran to the pharmacy to buy her food
her liquid diet - only the observant
would have noticed that she never ate
her body shrank, refused the nourishment
the only kind that she could offer anymore...
she smiled when she realized it,
gave her thanks to God that she was single.

He sighed but never questioned her,
to do so would have overstepped the line
she drew for him when they first met;
and he worried like a lover would
when he first felt her spine so rough
so rigid jutting out between her shoulders
on the night they danced a modern waltz alone
with sixty other couples in the ballroom.

She trembled when she saw his face and
understood his scrutiny beneath her skin
a scaly thing, malignant and she laughed
to think that he could never know her fears,
her exultation that she hadn't lost a pound
or two this month like the month before...
she wove her fingers through his hair and
held him close, a cold thing swept between them.

He looked into her pantry when she left the room
at home after the party and he blanked, disgust
a living thing that crawled across his features
when he saw the nutrient substitute she craved
instead of solid food, calorically dense
as he'd never thought, though it made sense
when he considered it: she'd feed her body,
then deny it its digestion, would force it
to absorb the meager bit it could before she purged.

Her pose, a silent challenge, saw him to the door
and never once did he discuss the things he found
and only for a moment did he blink, surprised,
to hear that she had suffered from a heart attack,
and died...he learned her body was suffused,
completely riddled with her cancer and she tried
as bravely as she could to force herself to stay
the same as ever with holistic treatments,
had foregone the chemo and the radiation
in the hope she'd live, intact, and never lose
the long and shiny golden hair he'd loved.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: oauld@ponder.csci.unt.edu (orion okotu auld)
Subject: Re: Urdu Ignorance (part II)
Organization: University of North Texas
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 16:08:54 GMT

>>>The business of the poet is Truth, not understanding.

>>   I find this difficult to swallow.  Before you can speak about
>>"Truth", you must have an understanding of what the Truth is.  To
>>make life more difficult, there is no guarantee that the world 
>>can ever be completely intelligible to us.  It might be better
>>therefore, to start with understanding, and only then worry about
>>truth with a capitol T.

And this in the twentieth century!

                              --Orion

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: Re: Anglocentricism in rec.arts.poems Re: Urdu Knowledge. Re: Urdu Ignorance (part II)
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 1992 22:27:57 GMT

bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu (sayan bhattacharyya) writes:

>In article <steele.722281683@chip.aem.umn.edu> steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele) writes:
>>
>>marie, i don't think it is sayan's or any of the other 'urduers'
>>responsibility to come to us and enlighten us regarding their language,
>>poetry and or culture. 

>> understand that most of the rappers
>>that voted against the urdu group did so in the hopes of broadening
>>the diversity of rap, but in the end it seems obvious the the 'urduers'
>>needed their own 'place' to work 
>>
>>steph..
>>>   


>Just to put the record straight, I think I should mention that I too
>voted "NO" to the creation of rec.arts.poems.urdu , because of the
>same reason, i.e. broadening the diversity of rec.arts.poems. So
>I suppose "sayan or any of the other 'urduers' " is not very appropriate.

sayan, it doesn't matter how you voted on the issue, i was merely
addressing marie's (and apparently many other rapper's) notion that
they must remain ignorant of urdu poetry because the urduers have
elected to form a somewhat autonomous group from which to explore urdu
poetry. i am arguing that the urdu group is the perfect place for rappers
to alter their ignorance regarding urdu poetry.


>I don't think it is obvious that urdu-speaking people or simply 
>urduphiles needed their own 'place' on USENET. Then we would end up
>with little ethnocentric islands , and that runs contrary to the 
>spirit of USENET.

but-but-but...i think the fact that 300 some urduphiles argued very
strongly for such a group and have now made it so is quite 'obvious'
i mean, does it get any obviouser?

and if all we had were 'ethnocentric islands' then i would suggest that
there is a problem here, but unfortunately, in rap we have one dominant
culture and occasional 'peeks' at diversions from that culture. the idea,
is that groups emerging outside of the status quo (dominant culture) quite
often need their own autonomous organizations in order to preserve their
ideas and empower themselves to operate in the status quo, if they so choose,
without losing their individual identity. this is why we have women's 
organizations, for example- not to segregate women from the world of men,
but to give women a place where they are in control and hold power, for
a change, so that they may then operate in the heterosexual world as 
'equals.'

steph.


>-Sayan Bhattacharyya.

>-- 
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>Sayan Bhattacharyya          |   Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.
>Artificial Intelligence Lab  |
>The University of Michigan   |
--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Dead Poets
Date: 19 Nov 92 17:22:10 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

In article <1992Nov19.123131.12311@waikato.ac.nz> et1@waikato.ac.nz writes:
>I wonder if you've ever seen the film "Dead Poet's Society"?? Its a definite
>must for anyone looking at "what poetry is", as much as that can actually be
>described. 

Excuse me, but Dead Poet's Society does not tell what poetry is.  It merely 
describes one of many doors we can open in order to enter the realm of
poetry.  That is why it is not a good example of teaching.  At least one
teacher has complained of this movie, since the teacher creates a group-think
mentality at which the teacher himself is the center of attention.  A better
teacher would be to promote individualized ways of attacking poetry.  The 
teacher this is based on is actually a History teacher, and I hear that he
is far more radical and enlightening than the Robin Williams version.

Not a bad movie, but I was offended when it stole best original screenplay
from Do The Right Thing.
>
>caper daum - seize the day

What sort of Latin is this?


And now, a poem:

		William Met The King Of All Rice Cakes
		-----------------------------------------------------

		A blanket (blue) fuzz'd his body,
		warm in cold, blue in night.

		A bird whispered of the brass glint
		and the shrill sound.

		The foam wriggled 'neath his bed,
		firedly anticipating.

		The window creaked that special squeak,
		the wind hoo-tooted.

		Someone poured the coffee unevenly
		in white cups disposable.

		That sound against the glass--a bird
		here crashed, flutt'ring?


Posthumous O'Toole
11-19-92



Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gschlesi@scott.skidmore.edu (Christopher Robin)
Subject: Sponanteous Poetry
Organization: Skidmore College, Saratoga Springs NY
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1992 08:29:10 GMT

My friend wrote me,
"Do you love her?"
I smiled and typed,
"Let's not talk about love,
it is nothing compared to the power
of inertia".

And miles away
my friend laughed
because she knew I wasn't kidding.
Afterall I told her, 
I never do.


	-The Anti-Poet
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: rules? things?
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 1992 21:35:16 GMT

sometimes I notice things when I write about what I am writing.
patterns. Sometimes I notice, when I want to tell someone whos
poem I don't liek what is wrong with it, I will want to tell
them not about poetry, but about looking at things. not just
at things. some sort of corny way to say looking at life.

but it is wrong for me to say that - because obviously the
only way I really now about looking at life is my way, and
I don't want everyone to be me. (everybody's me! now everybody's
me! now all the basketball hoops....)

anyway, I am trying to pattern out what I write:
Here is what poems do:

act like magritte does, in some of his paintings. Espesially something like
Empire of Lights. You find a scene, and it is all real, but thrown togehter
it is not. The dark house, with the porchlight, the noontime sky.

there is a story you have, one part of it is the variable, the noon time
sky, you alter the variable to observe reality. like an experiment.

describe things, beloved or hated.

there are no cliches of thought. much less, words.

telling a story, arbitrarily. Telling it like it feels, with different
times thrown in. because you think in different times with diffeent
people.

explain, but not really, how you look at things, by describing what you
see, really see. and what you seefeel

absurd.

use logic of feeling. it doesn't really make sense in some way, but it
does in another. it's arbitrary, but consistant.

tries to figure out things. Like when people talk to each other. 
Like well, there is this kid:

who never talks. he thinks all the time. dear thoughts, because they reflect
all over his head, total internal refraction. You know, they don't come out,
and they are very important soley because of number of collisions with
the boys consciousness. if they finally do come out, it might be to some
other person, and it might be that the other person won't see the big
deal, becuase the ricocheting hasn't been in his head. so it's like
they talk another language with the same words.

well, how does he ever understand?

somethings that don't have any connection, really do, because you
look at them.
--

but there is one thing Id like to warn about.
there is what I think about what I do, and then there is what I do

sometimes, I guess they are different - as for all those rules or
whatever, I don't really follow any of them, they are just ideas
I have, not very good at that. sometimes I might accidently get
a view of writing and then maybe retroactivly apply it to what
I have written - this is all untrue - that doesn't mean that
it had anything to do with writing. what does it mean? so I don't
know why I even bothered to try and say anything like this list, 
because it is not really even there. maybe it forms reality by
being here, instead of reality forming it. I don't know. 
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: melynda@titipu.resun.com (Melynda Reid)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poetry Readings - are they worth it?
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 92 21:11:17 EST(-0500)
Organization: Paleolithic Refugia
Reply-To: melynda@titipu.resun.com (Melynda Reid)
X-Mailer: uAccess - Macintosh Release: 1.6v0


In article <1992Nov19.140112.16703@eng.cam.ac.uk> (rec.arts.poems), tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk (Tim Love) writes:
> Should I go, 
> if only to support the cause?

i have only attended a few poetry readings in part because i live in a rural
community where the pastorals are everyday vistas not poetic forms. but i
did travel to hear the irish poet john montague read his poems in jacksonville
florida of all places. he was responsible for the revival of gaelic in ireland.
i once knew scots gaelic so i found his gaelic fascinating.

poetry was not always a bookish art. it once was part of dance and song. in
live readings by poets the cadence of everyday speech is interspersed with
spoken verse. i find it sometimes boring, sometimes intriguing to hear the
normal inflections of a poet.

if just one-tenth of what you hear finds an echoing response in you that gives
your own work a resonant grace then it will be worth-while. but if you find
yourself drained by the tedium of it all then do not attend. i do not attend
arts showings even though i am a visual artist. i do not find shows a good
environment for learning. and i am much too shy to tolerate much idle chatter
about art. 

the decision to avoid second-rate or mediocre poets is in my opinion a somewhat
sad choice. if poetry is to have a wide audience then many many people will
need to practice writing it. in all fields only a few ever achieve great works.
mediocrity is a necessary precondition for all accomplishments. but time is
even scarcer than talent. i choose myself to study only great artists but
i still visit living artists in their studios and view their work with
respect. 
                            melynda claire reid

melynda reid   who wears hats but does not type caps
  eel:   melynda@titipu.resun.com  or  nosc.mil!titipu.resun.com!melynda
  snail: p o box 378 greensboro, florida 32330
From: alpope@skids.Eng.Sun.COM (Alan L. Pope)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Hours, Wine and Sex
Date: 21 Nov 92 14:23:29 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems
Distribution: world
Reply-To: alpope@skids.Eng.Sun.COM
NNTP-Posting-Host: skids.eng.sun.com

                    Hours, Wine and Sex
                                              (for Monica)

       Modigliani women turn me on.
       Simple hungers burn inside my soul.

       Cinnamon or cloves are in the air,
       hawks are gliding over cliffs.  The winds'
       lazy fingers comb our blowing hair.

       Mozart plays concertos as you nap
       gently on my arm beneath this oak,
       crisp wine and springtime in your dreams.

       Sixtyeight more hours left to go.
       "Perfect life", you said, "takes seventytwo!"
       Fantasy was never so complete,
       drawn by those with less than Master hands.
       Sex is not just messing up the bed.


---
" Acendo o cigarro para adiar a viagem,
 Para adiar todas as viagens,
 Para adiar o universo inteiro.
 Volta amanha, realidade! "
--Alvaro de Campos "Ode Maritima"  Alan Pope <alan.pope@Sun.COM>
From: ccsdgdc@sunlab1.bath.ac.uk (Douglas Clark)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Coatham Mundeville
Date: 16 Nov 92 13:34:23 GMT
Organization: Bath University Computing Services, UK





Coatham Mundeville

I grew up at Coatham Hall
in the house of the Amundevilles,
of the Jarldom of Sadberge.
I am of Danish Darlington.

The Durham Ox was bred at Brafferton
by the Colling brothers of Ketton Farm.
The River Skerne wanders south to the Tees.
We have becks not burns.

You can see Aycliffe Saxon church on the horizon.
Nowadays the Motorway has come between.
It is the land of the South Durham Hunt.
Surtees' country. Jorrocks.

The Quaker Peases of Darlington created railways,
hiring George Stephenson to invent them.
Timothy Hackworth at Shildon built engines.
The green Streaks headed North and South.

I grew up at Coatham Hall
and played croquet on the lawn.
The grounds a wilderness fit for a Crusoe.
On my Hercules bicycle I probed the land.

The sun always shone; the snow was thick;
Icicles hung a yard long; there were cats.
Sandy, the spaniel, was our dog; Mac came later.
My mother baked hot pancakes on the girdle.
From: nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Harvard boys / Marek, Re: Another version of "artifacts" / Natalie
Date: 23 Nov 92 00:32:03 GMT
Organization: The Kremlin Wall of Harvard
In-reply-to: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu's message of 22 Nov 92 20:01:57 GMT

marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:

>Michael Zeleny writes:

MZ
>>
>>You also like wishful thinking and the pathetic fallacy.
> ...
>>Hi there, Phil.  Give hell to those douchebags for me!
>>
>>cordially,
>>mikhail zeleny@husc.harvard.edu

ML
> I fear you would not know the meaning of cordially if it came from
> MIT and lodged in your arse.  This is because you appear already
> more than slightly damaged in that area...

Spoken like a true connoisseur, Marcuso, but with the same
indelible old wishful thinking inscribed in letters of gold
on your vicarious ass.

MZ
> Is it me or does everybody else sense a correlation between Harvard
> boys, Russian names and vile disposition?  

Tormented by race memory, Marek, and erstwhile flunked exams?

> These misogynist male
> persons obviously don't get fucked enough, and one could see why.

Venting unremarkable murky frustrations, Marcia?

> An excellent argument for intersecting sex with love to some extent,
> Mr. PostHummus, wouldn't you say?

Try marcumba, they say it's even more vibrant.

> 				-- Marek

> 		  "Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking
> when I said I'd like to smash every tooth   		 in
> your head"

> 				-- The Smiths, _The Queen Is Dead_

Mock on, mock on, my memberless merry moron.

Philip Nikolayev
nikolay@husc.harvard.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sp15@quads.uchicago.edu (steven  paul)
Subject: "Our Secret Hiding Place"
Reply-To: sp15@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Sun, 22 Nov 1992 03:19:50 GMT

In article <1992Nov22.031753.3973@midway.uchicago.edu> sp15@midway.uchicago.edu writes:
>     THE TEMPEST
>     By Steven E. Paul
>
>  The storm builds
>  On her calm waters...
>
>  Deep waves crash
>  Her inticing shore...
>
>  Forlorn gusts wander
>  Her thirsty sands...
>
>  A stray gull coos
>  For his love...
>
>  The night blankets
>  The embracing lovers...
>
>  The tempest sounds
>  His carnal blast...
>
>-- 
>"HOMO SUM; HUMANI NIHIL A ME ALIENUM PUTO..."  Steven E. Paul <sp15@midway.uchicago.edu>  Send lots of E-mail!

    OUR SECRET HIDING PLACE
    by Steven E. Paul

         FEAR:

  Flowing freely
  Replacing blood
  Shattering tranquility

     TREMBLING HAND:

  Seeking safety
  Finding reality
  Caressing shamelessly

      IMAGINATION:

  Escaping expectations
  Reviving life
  Celebrating the truth

        UNION:

  Quelling despair's elan
  Saturating passion's thirst
  Emerging from darkness

  Sharing our beauty
  In our secret hiding place...


-- 
"HOMO SUM; HUMANI NIHIL A ME ALIENUM PUTO..."  Steven E. Paul <sp15@midway.uchicago.edu>  Send lots of E-mail!
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: heislj@bray1a.its.rpi.edu (Jeffrey Michael Heisler)
Subject: Untitled Poem
Reply-To: heislj@rpi.edu
Organization: Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, NY.
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1992 04:23:54 GMT

Keywords: 


Untitled

Confusion fills my heart
there is no where I can start
to put the shattered pieces together
I'm not sure what path to take
because here, now, love is the stake
and all the trails are faint and hidden
Others have travelled here before
But I can't go knocking on their door
Because their trail is lost in the fog of the past
I talk with all the people that I know
And ask on them the wind to blow
But the only paths revealed end at a cliff
All that I can ask of them to do
is to tell me how to say "I love you"
To the girl who threw the stone that shattered my heart.

C&C very welcome.  Rip it up if it can be constructive

                        Jeff Heisler
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--By the tropic sea
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 92 15:53:41 GMT

                                By the tropic sea

                I have all I need here really
                in this little shack by the water
                by the tropic sea
                behind
                I can get to the mainland in minutes
                if it is still there
                flying by streams of unseen light
                and there is always
                Judy
                whose many legs carry me far
                without leaving anywhere
                the sea has never left
                its tides just teasing suggestion
                is as far is it goes
                even happiness has been left
                far behind.






-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: sltwc@cc.usu.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: repition
Date: 16 Nov 92 22:35:40 MDT
Organization: Utah State University

r ep  iti on  r  e pit  i on
through repition i grow insecure
and life has become all the same
prehaps i could join the army 
and live in barracks 
and fight for my country
and die for my country
or maybe we could get married
do you think we'll have children
or maybe a divorce
prehaps i could learn a trade
and if i worked long enough
maybe i could get a pension 
for the both of us to live on



				morryslym E




"This is the strangest life I've ever known." -- James Douglas Morrison

"If you are not certain of any fact, you cannot be certain of the meaning of
 words either." -- Ludwig Wittgenstein
From: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Miester aLster)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: song inspired by APP
Date: 17 Nov 92 03:48:22 GMT
Reply-To: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology


	-< Delusion >-


	this has been a rough road
	i've not tread the last mile
	but at every other bend
	every now and then
	i step back and wonder for a while
	if life is an illusion
	and the memories of a blotted smile
	is my mind playing delusion

	i've said things i had to say
	and the roads could lead me anywhere
	now tell me what more to do
       	i feel like i'm in a snare
	i wonder what the final price will be
        what would i have to pay?
	what would "a voice" have to say
	to make me walk away?

	i can't await the morning tide
	i have so many things to do
	and life seems like a one-way ride 
        but they're simple words to say
	won't you just say them
	or is there some secret memory inside
	holding them back in silence 
	and pushing them aside?      	

      	i wonder what the final price will be
        what would i have to pay?
	what would "a voice" have to say
	to make me walk away?
      
	i wish i could leave it all behind me	
	and silently turn away
	but only "a voice" can do for me today
	they're simple words to say
	but they'll show me the truth behind your eyes
	and take me on a different road
	but i'll only come your way
      	be it, truth or lie
	i'll be there 
	when a friend needs to cry....  

	
	- aL
	  11/15/92
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jlitchfi@undergrad.math.waterloo.edu (Jon Litchfield)
Subject: next
Organization: University of Waterloo
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 22:21:30 GMT


when the reign of darkness ends   
will there be anything left of me 
will the powers that be haved shredded me 
into nothingness

i have no reason to be alarmed
if all goes as i suspect
for all i have now  
is the measly respect
of of a hundred raving lunatics

there seems to be a pattern
forming within the cloudy skies
i can see where i am headed
and there isn't much to tell


-- 
Welcome to Canada, asshole. The land of gripe and loonie...

jon litchfield
jlitchfi@undergrad.math.uwaterloo.ca
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Subject: D
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1992 15:32:10 GMT



	D

	A rose within a thistle,
	Sweet passions there abound,
	Against her fears will bristle
	Until true love is found.

	Hidden deep within her soul
	A bud of wealth is found,
	Burning in eyes of coal,
	Sweet innocence is bound.