HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: learnd@lafcol.lafayette.edu (Dave Learn)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer
Keywords: poem, short
Date: 17 Aug 92 17:37:04 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: Lehigh University


I used to work as a student assistant in my collge's 24-hour computing site.
One time, when I fell sick, I borrowed the first 18 lines of the Canterbury
Tales to write this sub request:


Whan that April with his shoures soote                                          
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,                                  
And bathed every veyne in swich licour                                          
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;                                          
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth                                        
Inspired hath in every holt and heth                                            
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne                                         
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,                                         
And smale foweles maken melodye,                                                
That slepen all the nyght with open eye--                                       
So priketh hem nature with much cadenza--                                       
Than fallen folk sick with influenza,                                           
And student assistants miss much worke                                          
At AHE, wair they go berserke,                                                  
And specially for two to eighte                                                 
Of the mornyng--swich ys very late--                                            
Some helpful blisful shift-subs for to seke                                     
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.                                 


Dave Learn, Knight of the Wolves         "What an extraordinary thing to
dl20@lafayacs.bitnet                      do--and you only a stutterer."
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Miester aLster)
Subject: "Orphan, look at the sun!"
Reply-To: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1992 20:27:50 GMT

This is gonna be a song in four parts. Think pf type themes when u read it.
Any comments/flames more than welcome as it is going to be a lesson on 
self improvement.....please mail me.

thanx,

- aL



< Orphan, look at the sun! > 

in some far-away field
a baby happily feeds
waiting to see the sun....
                    
"will mama take her on a picnic?
 will mama show her a cartoon?
 will mama see the moon?"
                     
the cattle truck 
waits for the next time, at noon.
the man, his cold eyes 
and a ghost of a smile
gives in to dead gold 
in their bags
that beckons a knife 
deep into mama's heart.

he'll open the barn door,
he'll let in the sun
and see mama run....

< a baby grazing >
   
was it a dream?
what did it all mean?
    
now, who'll take baby grazing?
it can't be free for the asking!
where is mama? 
oh....where is mama?

< blind eyes >

weren't you there when it happened?
didn't you see the look in mama's eyes?
did you know the truth?
or did you hide behind his lies?
did you ever feel good?
why do you say, 'If only I could'?

< why do you sleep tonight? >

wake up! 
wake up!
it's late!
it's way past nine,
he juggles lives,
and he's out of line.
           
but you float on the cloud
and in a dream 
you see a bloody heart
and you hide, hide, hide, 
behind a mask....

orphan, take what you've won.
orphan, won't you look at the sun!?
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The search continues
Date: 12 Aug 92 14:35:18 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ


(cont'd)

So I am trudging through a river of tears, holding the limp body of my
beloved Kate, when the moon started talking to me.

"Lean back, buddy, you're in my light."
I knew the voice.  It was Captain Douglas of the O'Tooles.  I obediently
leaned back and noticed the light reflecting from Kate's face.  She slid
from my arms and was of a sudden walking beside me (rather stiffly).

"How?"  I queried.  "How?"  I realized it was all part of his Messianic
destiny.

And then, just along the path of the Moon's reflection, the water split.
And at the end of this corridor I saw the wee blue light.  We hurried
onward, Kate neither speaking nor opening her eyes.

"Thank you, O Douglas, O Captain,"  I shouted as I went along my merry way,
but he was too humble or too stubborn to respond.  I noticed the fish
swimming by.  He seemed to have created a liveable environment for himself
with his tears, though being a freshwater fish he did seem somewhat
uncomfortable in the brine...


More later.

-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: rizzo@cbnewsf.cb.att.com (anthony.r.rizzo)
Subject: a poem for men
Organization: AT&T
Date: Thu, 20 Aug 1992 16:14:01 GMT


              Father, My Father
              
              Father, my father.
              You cannot set my course
              For you do not travel my journey.

              I must climb my mountain if I'm to descend
              Its gentle slopes to my valley.
              I must climb this summer
              While my body befriends me.
              For autumn is near,
              and winter I see.
              
              Father, my father.
              You cannot set my course
              For you do not travel my journey.

              We've journeyed together.
              From a distant place.
              We've followed your star
              To this starting place.
              But my light moves on, beyond the horizon.
              My light moves on, at a quickening pace.

              Father, my father.
              You cannot set my course
              For you do not travel my journey.


(C) Copyright, Anthony R. Rizzo, August 1992.
    All rights reserved.
From: bob@netxcom.netx.com (Robert Thralls)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Haiku...
Date: 17 Aug 92 22:51:37 GMT
Organization: NetExpress Inc., Vienna, VA, USA


> xxxxxx xx xxxx xxx xxxx xx xxx xxxxx". The original is just precise
> enough to show a concrete picture, ambiguous enough to let you decide the 
> meaning, and suggestive enough that you and I can have different 
> interpretations.

This describes everything I write. It may also describe every thing I read.
Ok, from now on all my poetry shall be refered to as 'Haiku'


Mist drifting on wind
covers meadow for harvest
when golden trees bloom


no signature required
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: How To Be A Poet
Date: 18 Aug 92 19:01:49 GMT

As part of my continuing series of metapoetry, I offer for combustible
response...


		How To Be A Poet

	Write,
	Right?

	Rite.

-----------
Kev @ UNC
8/18/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  You Yankees are so silly 
||-| Kev @ UNC        |  About matters of the heart;
||-| Master Poetaster |  Don't you know that women are the only works of art?
|| +------------------+        -- Don Henley, "Drivin' With Your Eyes Closed"
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: How To Be A Poet
Date: 18 Aug 92 21:10:55 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

In article 14560@borg.cs.unc.edu, denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo) writes:
>As part of my continuing series of metapoetry, I offer for combustible
>response...
>
>
>		How To Be A Poet
>
>	Write,
>	Right?
>
>	Rite.
>

Trite?
Polite?
Blight!

love and kisses
moon and stars
tits and bums
cats and dogs
huff and puff
puns and punch lines
mine and yours
dark and gloomy
sick and twisted
skin and bone
pain and anguish
fire and flood
arms and legs
here and there
days and nights
mums and dads
kids and candies
warm and cuddly
port and candles
love and lovin' kisses

Insight?
Enlight
A Ning.

-m.
From: djs.bbs@cybernet.cse.fau.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re:Basho
Date: 14 Aug 92 14:09:42 GMT
Organization: Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton

Breaking the silence 
Of an ancient pond
A frog jumped into water
A deep resonance

        This is probably the best known haiku by Basho.
Translated by Noboyuki Yuasa, it appears in
Basho, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel
Sketches, Penguin, 1966.

        Many thanks to "Jaguar Woman" for reminding me of
Basho.

A couple more by Basho:

                The chestnut by the eaves
                In magnificent bloom
                Passes unnoticed
                By men of this world
--
                Whiter far 
                Than the white rocks 
                Of the Rock Temple
                The autumn wind blows



David Spofford
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Night talk
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 92 07:29:44 GMT


                        Night talk
                        (for She)

Lying here in our bed
our conversation of words of day
now asleep
gives way as if in dream
to other language
my thoughts now suddenly form
in patterns of touch and pressure
as heat and coolness replace adjective and verb
and my sentences give way
to musical streams of sensation
my first thought I will tell you
no words come
no
it is the soft pressure of your breast
against my face
your coolness
my heat--
I am flushed from the goodness of you--
I push my cheek farther into your softness
as if emphasizing the topic,
your reply a readjustment of position
so that your arm may include me more fully,
move me closer yet to your heart.
The discussion now intimate
I pull you to me and raise my head to kiss your lips
this full stop
pillowed period
ends the paragraph
concludes the discussion
at least for tonight
and I close the wakeful book
asleep in your parenthetical arms.
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: David Walker
Date: 15 Aug 92 05:48:46 GMT
Article-I.D.: hpfcso.7710537
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA


    David Walker
    ------------


A moon of lucid ear-wax
haunts above the hills.
Low stones glimmer green in firm relax
on eon's lovely rills.

Oh David Walker are you there?

Writing pamphlets?  
Announcing your death the end of
your political breath?

They put up money for your head, 
and the lovely Ayn is surely dead
just like you, 
but they,
the bastards, knew
her,
and the good ole boys
would (not) (un)do
her,
they loved this spunky little
camp follower. 

So sing:

   Rise on three toes.
   Fingers four.
   Sir, can I please have some more?
   Sickle sickle sickle
   cell.
   Oooooh well.

David, you're a sentence.
David, you're a thought.
Oh Davey boy to me you're naught
but fear, nothing but retention 
of intentions not my own.
My love for life has flown
de coop and is off on wing to snoop
you out.  David help me shout this:

   Booker T., that wretched shit,
   wasn't worth a thimble of your
   brave and noble spit.

So now again we'll sing (oh yeah, every BODY):

   Four stout nails, they did in
   the homeless son of man.
   And now we do that ritual
   every time we can.
   We need the lust.
   We need the rage.
   We need the blood to bathe the stage.
   Men and women and girls and boys.
   Every heart is stilled in sympathetic joy.
   Yes, once again it was not me.
   Oh come and see.
   Come and see.

   Alive alive.
   Again again.
   Let that fellow writhe in pain.
   My righteousness will live and thrive.
   And his blood will keep the world alive
   and going for a time and times and half a time.

And David, everything shines
here in this place.
Out of time, but stuck
right the fuck 
in the middle of space.
There seems to be a sheen of sweat
upon His holy face.
He seems to strain 
to fritter and squirm
as he tries in vain
to perceive, discern,
just how many bodies,
just how many bones,
how many metric tons of blood
are bearing up his throne.

David do not get me wrong.

The echo of the image is very very
strong.

I dare anyone to prove me wrong.

doug


It seems as if, but no, I think I may not have, oohhh.....


8/14/92
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lugowski@ils.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Water / Wislawa Szymborska / trans: Marek+Joanna
Organization: The Institute for the Learning Sciences
Date: Sun, 16 Aug 1992 00:09:22 GMT


		Water (translation of Woda)
		-----------------------------------------------------------
 
		A rain droplet fell on my hand
		drawn from Ganges and the Nile,
		 
		from the enruptured frost on a seal's whiskers
		from the broken pots of Ys and Tyre.
		 
		Upon my index finger
		the Caspian Sea is an open sea
		 
		and the Pacific flows meekly into the Rudawa,
		the same that flew in a cloud over Paris
		 
		in the year seventeen sixty four
		on the seventh of may at three in the morning.
		 
		There are not enough lips to pronounce
		your incidental names, o water.
		 
		I would have had to call you in all tongues
		pronouncing all the vowels simultaneously
		 
		at once keeping silent -- for the sake of a lake
		that never did receive a name,
		 
		and no longer is on earth -- as there isn't a star
		that bathed in it in the heavens.
		 
		Someone was drowning, someone was pleading
		for you, dying.  It was so long ago and it was
		yesterday.
		 
		You extinguished homes, you swept away houses
		like trees, forests like cities.
		 
		You were in baptisteries and in
		the bathtubs of courtesans,
		in kisses, in the funeral cloth,
		 
		biting stone, feeding rainbows,
		in the sweat and dew of pyramids, and lilac.
		 
		How utterly light all this is
		in the droplets of rain.
		How delicately the world touches me.
		 
		Whatever whenever wherever happened
		is written on the water babyl.
		 
		 
			Wislawa Szymborska
			Poland
		 
				translated from Polish
				by Marek Lugowski / Joanna Trzeciak
				Dallas, 1989
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ross@cc.gatech.edu (Rosario DSouza, J)
Subject: Falling In Love
Keywords:  Love poems
Organization: College of Computing, Georgia Tech
Date: Fri, 14 Aug 1992 20:16:29 GMT

	Falling In Love



	I sit alone,
	And watch you,
	As you walk, talk, sit and stand;

	Your method, your style, your anger, your smile:
	All of these, I try to understand.

	I do not know just what to say -
	How you caught my attention,
	And led my thoughts astray.

	I just know that I love you -
	That your charm and goodwill,
	Has taken my heart away!

..Ross D'Souza
ross@cc.gatech.edu
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: -Pb
Summary: A touch of green...
Date: 14 Aug 92 18:28:15 GMT
Organization: ISC-BR  Spokane, Wa. USA






                 -Pb

  Magna Sin
  the green bugs
  next time you wake up
  and find yourself standing on 
  Reforma in Mexico City, save the 
  world, and take the green bugs, Magna Sin...
  *********************VW**********************

    Cecil Williams
          8/14/92
From: beh@churchy.gnu.ai.mit.edu (Bruce Howells)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: and I am gentle
Date: 23 Aug 92 14:35:50 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


and I am gentle, a caress in the dark

and I am darkness, 
a gentle caress

and I am a caress,
in gentle darkness

which were the words?
I somehow can't remember...

Liar!  I remember
well,
from nights of wondering
why they were always placed
just so
just when
I needed them most.
Oh, he played with me,
he played a game
over and over and over again
gently,
caressingly,
in the darkness
his darkness.

Those were rainy days.
A blur of past remembering,
now.

And I am gentle
(he wrote)
a caress in the dark.

His darkness.
My darkness.

Did I think I would forget?
The nights spent hoping, needing,
longing, wanting
it to be for me
and never knowing
until now...

and I am darkness...
is what he should have said

but never did.

--Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu for a little while)
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kev @ UNC)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Always First In Line
Date: 15 Aug 92 19:48:15 GMT


		Always First In Line

	Pursued relentlessly by the Gray Man,
	Even in the fairest weather, I have
	No friends, for he keeps them all at bay.
	Understand my dilemma: he is a
	Mob sometimes, which I cannot drive off cliffs.
	Break free from him?  I've tried (many times) to
	Run away, but he is a Siamese twin
	Attached at my foot, one dimension less.
	Gray Women freely mingle with him; in
	Earnest, I talk to their mistress, my sun.
	Shall we touch only in obscurity?

---------
Kev @ UNC
8/15/92

P.S. I'm trying to catch up on this newsgroup; my apologies to many (esp. DonZ,
jtrue, Mary McDaniel, Jen Chien, kupixel) whom I ought to be getting back to.
I will make amends shortly (I hope).
-- 
|| +------------------+  You Yankees are so silly 
||-| Kev @ UNC        |  About matters of the heart;
||-| Master Poetaster |  Don't you know that women are the only works of art?
|| +------------------+        -- Don Henley, "Drivin' With Your Eyes Closed"
From: shamik@cs.umd.edu (Shamik Sharma)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Windows
Date: 20 Aug 92 01:38:32 GMT
Article-I.D.: mimsy.59788
Organization: U of Maryland, Dept. of Computer Science, Coll. Pk., MD 20742

--------------------------
       Windows
--------------------------
   My new room has a window,
   insulated, one-way and soundproof;
   it is a dark brown window.
   a window nonetheless.

   I can see the birds,       
   the hurrying people, the city
   all tainted dark brown
   with unashamed uniformity.

   I can see the small figures,
   muscled men with conspicuous gravity
   arguing among silent women 
   with blatantly illogical anonymity.

   Like Ozymandias , I stare alone.
   Mine is the the only name, 
   the only voice, the only reason,
   that I know or hear or comprehend.


-shamik
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (Queen of the Netherlands)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Infatuation
Date: 21 Aug 92 17:44:03 GMT
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle

>
>Egad!  Another O'Toole!  Saints preserve us!
>
Hey, that's an idea, Don Zirilli in a pickle jar.  
Darned good idea at that.  

No, Don, you are not the subject of all poems, no matter what you say.

-C.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: solon@beach.csulb.edu (Todd Allaria)
Subject: Re: Go to your library Re: Magazines, etc that publish poetry?????
Organization: Cal State Long Beach
Date: Sun, 23 Aug 1992 00:28:01 GMT

There is a new poetry magazine that is being formed. It is called
Cybercross:Journal of Heavy Poetry. They are taking submissions for poetry to
be included in the next publication, leaning toward the less conventional
styles of creative writing. Black and White art is also being accepted.
Send submissions to:

Cybercross
69 Claremont Apt A
Long Beach, CA 90803

Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope.interested in receiving
Cybercross, mail in $4.00 to the above
address.

One last thing, do not respond to this Internet address regarding this
magazine, but we have set up a wayctronic submissions. Call the
Prometheus Designs BBS at (310) 325-4790 to submit your work.
Todd

-- 
:Internet:solon@beach.csulb.edu:And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,       :
:GEnie, MCI, AppleLink: SOLON  :And sleep in dull cold marble where no mention:
:AOL: Agamemnon or ProDesigns  :Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee:
:Compuserve: Some silly number :                          William Shakespeare :
From: tmhoff@oogoody.Corp.Sun.COM (Todd Hoff)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: haiku: Otherside
Date: 16 Aug 1992 00:24:10 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems, Inc.
Distribution: world
Reply-To: tmhoff@oogoody.Corp.Sun.COM
NNTP-Posting-Host: oogoody.corp.sun.com


She screamed inside
He stepped through the circle
Her tone kept him away
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Infatuation
Date: 19 Aug 92 13:38:33 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <1992Aug19.025546.29119@leela.cs.orst.edu> petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen) writes:
>Hello All!  I have been on vacation for a while but now I'm back!  I wrote
>this little poem a few weeks ago and thought I would share it with you.  I
>refuse to divulge the name of the individual so please don't ask. :-)
>
>
>INFATUATION

This poem is obviously about me.
>
>I see you in every dream

Yes, this is where I come in the clearest (to use tv terminology).

>The memory
>of your eyes
>haunts my days.

Terribly sorry about this, but I am prone to haunting.

>I hear your infectious
>laugh
>on the wind

Haha  Ha Hahahaha!  <whoosh>

>Your boyish grin robs me
>of complacency.

Complacency:  who needs it?  Your much better off with my grin.  it comes
in 32 flavors, dontcha know?

>I would be yours 
>if you asked

Ah, but I am forbidden to ask, for I can have only your dreams, some
shadows, and the occasional bump in the night.

>But it will never be
>For you don't even know
>my name.

I do know your name, Margarita:  it is Elvira.

>
>Marg
>July 31, 1992


Yours ever,

Posthumous O'Toole
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: spg@Xenon.Stanford.EDU (Stephen P. Guthrie)
Subject: First Attempt
Originator: spg@Xenon.Stanford.EDU
Organization: Computer Science Department, Stanford University.
Date: Wed, 12 Aug 1992 22:01:21 GMT

I've never tried this before, so it's probably garbage. Feel free to tell
me so. 

------------------------------------------

Wind, howling with pain and longing, fury and despair,
The tempest within me tugs, bites, tears;
A silky breeze caresses and enfolds.

Jagged flame, erratically leaping as children at play,
Inside grasping fingers that clutch and claw;
Glowing embers envelop with gentle warmth.

Crashing seas, raging like bulls in combat,
Swirling currents overwhelming, dragging me down;
Lapping waves, their soothing rhythm comforts. 

An avalanche, directed fury, untameable,
I am smothered, suffocating, powerless;
Shroud of snow, soft, silent, pure.

This love, violent, savage, 
Cries to be tamed, cries to be heard;
Unwanted tenderness, I am alone.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Stark
From: h309@ellis.uchicago.edu (Unknown Author)
Date: Mon, 17 Aug 1992 15:40:34 GMT
Reply-To: h309@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: Mindcrime

Stark

Against the curtain of black,
They shine and sparkle.
Soaring high above the earth,
Rotating like a clock.
Heavens!
But soon, the curtain rises,
And they fade and vanish,
Only to appear again tommorrow.

8/17/92
-- 
[]=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=[]
|| ~~ The Unknown Author ~~  + //|^|\\ + "Mistrust Authority, Promote  ||
|| h309@midway.uchicago.edu  + <{-o-}> +  Decentralization" - The H.E. ||
[]=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=[]
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems