HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: mort@quads.uchicago.edu (Dave 'Mort' Mortman)
Subject: Poem for Anne (C&C welcome)
Reply-To: mort@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 02:08:10 GMT

	  I move down the road but I can't see a thing
	  But I can't see a thing
	  My sight is veiled by the weather
	  I pull over to the side of the road
	  get out and watch the others.

	  The others struggling
	  struggling
	  struggling against their own storms
	  struggling just to move on
	  .......to survive

	  and yet for a few their is calm and quiet
	  green grass follows them
	  as does the sun
	  I watch them:
		  those few
			  confident
				  and happy

	  Rain beats against me
	  Wind whipping at my clothing
	  thunder rocking me,
	  body and soul
	  Lightning flashes
			blinds
			 brings forth tears

	  vision slowly returns
	  and from the spots
	  a vision
		  a vision of beauty
			  a vision of you appears

	  and I smile
	  laugh for joy
	  dance in exultation

  and the storm goes on
  to be replaced
  by green grass........
  and sunny days.......
								  -DM 7/14/92



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  -:LaserWriter
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: American Romantic
Date: 11 Jan 93 20:02:58 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

In article <1993Jan11.180036.27235@news.acns.nwu.edu> marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:
<In article <412@uiunix.ui.org> donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:
<
<>Point of Order!
<>
<>This poem is not "ungrammatical".  What you mention here is the difference 
<>between a complete sentence and a noun phrase.  If this were prose, a 
<>sentence would be expected.  But it is not prose.  Alex's poems are poems.
<>That's one reason I like them.
<
<Implication being that sone other persons' poems aren't poems.  You're
<turning into an uncharitable wench, darlink.

you caught me.
<  
<>...You flinch at shadows--and you build houses on 
<>sand because you think it is cement and it will dry eventually.
<...
<>Posthumous O'Toole, Defender of the Realm
<
<Don, take your Punch-and-Judy show to a nearest Society for the Creative
<Anachronism shindig and shtoop somone with a wooden sword.  Then call it a
<Renaisance Fair.  You are certainly now writing to annoy, just as you have
 ^^^^^^^^^^

It's a MEDIEVAL fair, y'old goat!

<always flamed but maintained that you do not.  ...still going...  the
<energizer post-hummus (spread the good feelin') bunny...
<
<				-- Marek

I'd love to float off to Avalon, but someone has to defend the realm.

Sorry,

Posthumous O'Toole, Defender of the Realm


-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: hjb@netcom.com (H. J. Bae)
Subject: Re: atwood
Organization: Peaceful Star, Inc.
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 06:10:55 GMT

In article <steele.726433492@chip.aem.umn.edu> steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele) writes:
>another bit of atwood, in its entirety-
>
>	you fit into me
>	like a hook into an eye
>
>	a fish hook
>	an open eye
>

Exhibit C is the young girl
dragged into the bush by the midwives
and made to sing while they scrape the flesh
from between her legs, then tie her thighs
till she scabs over and is called healed.
Now she can be married.
For each childbirth they'll cut her
open, then sew her up.
Men like tight woemn.
The ones that die are carefully buried.

		-- Margaret Atwood
			from A Women's Issue
			from _Notes Towards A Poem That Can Never Be Written_



hwajin
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: kayak poems review (add your own on any watercraft) / Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 06:50:01 GMT

Among nowadays used pieces of equipment in my walk-in closets is the
blue and gray Sea Eagle inflatable kayak that gave me so much joy on Monroe
lake in Indiana when I lived out my last year of graduate school in the
Hoosier National Forest, lakeside.  I would love to do it again, somewhere.
Kayaking at night is one of those things without equal.  The next several
posts are all my kayak poems, if I can find all of them.  The last one will
lead into the promised festival to celebrate the newly revealed gospel
according to St.  Don (self-proclaimed larval stage, i.e. acolyte).  Treat
this as a warm-up and, hey, even if you've never stepped into a touring
kayak or a canoe, imagine it and write anyway.  Yes, I know, I told
Jennifer-on-Stanford to write about what she knows, and I remain of the
firm opinon that deep down in our collective Jungian unconscious as well as
our Freudian psychological sexual complexes, there are universal kayaks,
some folding, some inflatible, some plastic or carbon fiber whitewater
shells.  Let's denude ourselves of our landlubber defenses and bring those
shimering paddling beasts out, for all to see...  Yes, I am advocating no
less than full confessional kayaking poetry.  Dare you denounce me?  She
who never mused of luxuriating in the trickle of paddle-stroked water, cast
the first stone.

				-- Marek

				-- Marek
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: slicing lilac into obscene (repellent) cross sections / Marek (1992)
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 09:41:12 GMT


                slicing lilac into obscene (repellent) cross sections
                -------------------------------------------------------------
 
                in my head, a loving thought
                outside, a gunshot in the night
                taste the lilac and discover
                bitterness
 
                the men with small souls are coming
                they are not a happy lot.
 
                'the tao is silent', wrote professor smullyan
                a long time ago.  'arrogant people think
                i'm arrogant, kind people think i'm kind.
                i am like a mirror'.
 
                taste the lilac and discover
                bitterness.
 
                        Marek Lugowski
                        22 April 1992
                        Cincinnati, Ohio
From: elc@cup.portal.com (Edward L Cole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem--When he went home
Date: Thu,  7 Jan 93 21:11:44 PST
Organization: The Portal System (TM)
Distribution: usa

Other than the use of the pathetic I think this good work.

elc@cup.portal.com

                                When he went home

Just as he made Second Lieutenant he was shot down
lost both legs up to the penis
that was what mattered as he lay in the interminable bed
surrendered unwillingly
only gradually
to the ministrations of efficient nurses
who stroked his male vanity
with jokes about third legs
and how his wife would rather have that one intact
than save the two others
as if his sex were the central fact of his life
which is how he grew in the ever-lengthening bed
to hate Nature which had made him a thing
in a world of things
and when he went home
finally
on the first night
with his young wife
he turned over on his pain
and offered her only his back.



-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Subject: The Editor
Organization: Carleton University
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 10:20:20 GMT

The Editor
----------

Poem in the mail.
Got it today.
One read.
I got sick.
Two read.
I got sicker.
Third read.
I got mad.
Fourth read.
I got sad.
Fifth read.
I got a gun
and went
hunting
for
poet
ass.

                                        Nik gets political.
                                                  Nik
                                   All good poetry makes good
                                            fertilizer....
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jeeves@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jeevani Karunatillake)
Subject: Written in the Tub...  ps
Organization: DSG, Stanford University, CA 94305, USA
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 93 00:03:03 GMT


It was written while a close relationship was
breaking apart.

Jeevani.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: walking barefoot is an art
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 93 08:47:53 GMT

	walking barefoot is an art
		(for kim e. wherever she may be)
	--------------------------------------------------

	not lazy on the carpet, but
	around town, across
	great suburban expanses of 
	sidewalkless asphalt,
	through concrete littered with 
	beer bottles splatttered in anger,
	across tumbleweed dry fields
	and balanced on summer-hot curbs

	black grit and glints of glass
	burn a permanent tattoo
	on your no-longer-tender peds
	those naked peds that take you xing

	and you laugh as blades of grass
	in the park or the center divider
	saw at your feet in orange afternoon
	sun and you hope secretly,
	half-hiding it from yourself,
	that they - any they - see you, 
	laughing and walking, foot-free in 
	winter, wading through the grass 
	of this cold windless suburban
	empty
	day

		Michael Lichter
		January 11, 1993
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: postcard/boracay, south pacific
Date: 4 Jan 1993 14:50:47 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



             boracay

white sand beaches and graceful palms
juxtaposed against the liquid aqua-marine ...
an island born from billions of coral bodies
surf-ground incessantly
against an ancient lava reef.

this heaven offers
delicate morsels of golden-red bananas,
green coconuts, pink-tinged oranges,
succulent lobsters, delicate oysters,
and sweet-fleshed bonitas.

the cinnamon-skinned people glow
against the white sand beaches ...
their bodies lithe, tan, and graceful.
the women walk with arrogant ease
as their eyes flash intermittently
with laughing insolence...
the men ... beautiful, nature-schooled,
quicksilver.

they speak a body language
as ancient as the reefs ...
hips undulate like sunlit ocean swells.
fingers flutter as butterflies in flight
brushing soft messages against your body.
dark sensuous eyes radiate
the messages of their soul.

and now ...

a haven for pale skin and pale eyes
wearing the darkest shades 
of raybans and oakleys
and layers of coppertone
and bain d'soleil #25.

the new denizens play in warm-soothing waters
rainbow-tinged by oil thin-films
from jet skis, power boats, and suntan lotions.

under open-air palm-frond thatched cabanas ...
a feast of buttered lobsters,
pate de fois gras, tuna sushi,
oyster rockefeller
with libations of margaritas,
french wenchs, and blood-red marys
served by island girls
with lithe, tanned, graceful bodies
and servile eyes.

          ***

zita maria evensen
from 'postcards'
cc1992, aug 1

-- 
--{--{@  i am a romantic ... no apologies  @}--}--
From: Anonymous
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Circle of  Fate
Date: 8 Jan 1993 22:42:31 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Department at Rose-Hulman
NNTP-Posting-Host: o231-05.nextwork.rose-hulman.edu

This is my first r.a.p. post.  I've been reading for a couple months now.   
I wrote most of this almost two years ago and it took me all this time to  
discover that extra stanza I was missing.  When I started two years ago it  
was to be a chant and I subconsciously wrote it in the meter of the three  
sisters' chant from Macbeth (Bubble, bubble...).  Ok! Enough B.S...

		Circle of Fate

	In the circle of the stones
	Where an awesome power groans
	Feared by all and known by few
	There is nothing you can do

	Under light of blood red moon
	Upon each stone appears a rune
	It has no meaning to the kind
	And sears their eyes until they're blind

	Power waxes in the night
	To bring a fever chill and blight
	The lust for evil lies within
	It calls for hatred calls for sin

	Satan's minions come to play
	And read with joy what red runes say
	They laugh with glee at what they see
	The runes predict the death of thee

	In the circle of the stones
	Where and awesome power groans
	Feared by all and known by few
	There is nothing you can do

			-"Waldo
From: abenoit@sumax.seattleu.edu (Jason Shettlesworth)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Hey.  A Test.
Date: 12 Jan 1993 18:06:00 -0800
Organization: Seattle University
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: sumax.seattleu.edu


Sorry.  Test only.
Please discard.



-- 
.signature under contract for revision.  Please wait. <beep>  .signature under
contract for revision.  Please wait. <beep>  .signature under contract
for revision.  Please wait.  <beep>  .signature under contract for revision.
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: heavyweights + announcements / Marek
Date: 10 Jan 1993 20:03:47 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, marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) says:

>In article <1ilaqmINN4og@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu
>>go ahead, laugh ...
>>as you conjure meanings and pictures
>>never meant.
>>i sit at base of the pyramid
>>of bloom's taxonomy.
>>
>>webster never told me 
>>about the word permutations
>>messages boxed in a box
>>in a box  in a box
>>about the electron-clouds and
>>heisenberg's uncertainties.
>>
>>
>>roget never hinted that
>>words pierce minds like bullets
>>and one with a strange face
>>speaking a strange new language
>>must keep walking
>>smiling a frozen
>>painted-on smile
>>while the heavyweights
>>from the local gym
>>hang out by the corner
>>debating with
>>perfect
>>vocabulary.
>
>Real nice, but I don't believe half of it.  Why are you such a martyr about
>it, and why is this EFL (English as Fourth Language) experience so
>traumatic? 
>.............

There is an old native American saying that goes something like this ...
... walk in my mocassins for a hundred days ... (paraphrase)

Quotes from WEEKEND USA, Jan 10, 1993:

" God forgive me for coming to this country." - Hung Thruong, 15
                            -- just before dying from being beaten

" Until the "Oriental kid" got killed, the was a pretty good party,
 the suburban teens agreed."
 
".... who heard screams and run down six flights of stairs to try to
held --- remembered the teens standing around, not in "Oh, my God"
shock ..."
                     --Don Lovely,"We Came Here for Freedom ...
                                    We Live in Hell"

........

Langauge is the cloak 
Of my existence.
I am getting used to the
Itch and roughness
Of this new wool.

Where is 
The old silk brocade
My ayah wove for me?

As they say in the subways
Of New York City,
The powder ski-trails of Vail,
In Kennebunkport
And the barrios of El Ay, 
Shit happens.

z.


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: happy dancing pigs, proud turkeys, affable cows / Marek (1992)
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 09:24:49 GMT


                happy dancing pigs, proud turkeys, affable cows
                ------------------------------------------------------------
 
                dead meat don't lie
                but meat pushers do
 
                paint a pair of happy dancing pigs
                in chef hats with forks and knives
                dancing on their hind hooves
                on the backs of interstate trucks
 
                proud turkeys in top hats and formal dress
                (for dressing)
                leer from their very own 98 percent fat-free
                plastic suits
 
                affable cows smile amiably from atop steakhouses
                wielding martinis
 
                there are other lies
                about food and animals
 
                in healthy cultures people acknowledge, apologize
                the hunter to the hunted
                the farmer for the crop
 
                here, we con the consumer.
 
                look, we say, speaking for the pig,
                i am such a happy pig
                to be eaten by you
                i even dance on my hooves
                and hold your utensils in my
                other hooves
 
                about to fix you (and taste) my own pork.
 
 
                        Marek Lugowski
                        9 July 1992
                        Cincinnati, Ohio
From: gardabr@unix1 (Gard Eggesbo Abrahamsen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: This is not a hint (C&C welcome)
Date: 6 Jan 93 08:56:29 GMT
Organization: KJAKAH productions
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL6]


                       This is not a hint
==========================================
                       Don't talk
                       don't listen
                       don't wait
                       don't hope
                       don't think
                       just do it!
                      =======================================================
                                     GEA January 6. 1993



       ______
      /      \  <== 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: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Subject: Mad Dog Bites Self in Head
Organization: Carleton University
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 18:56:06 GMT

Mad Dog Bites Self in Head
--------------------------
 
Headline:
"TOT CRUSHED BY TRUCK"
in the local paper.
It made me laugh.
Poor kid.
Reduced to a silly headline.

A kid gets killed,
makes the front page.
Stardom for one so young.
It might go to his head.

I think he was five,
I didn't read the article.
What more do you need than
that headline:
"TOT CRUSHED BY TRUCK"?

The headline is a poem in itself.
Found art.
"TOT CRUSHED BY TRUCK".
It rolls off the tonuge
like something off a
fancy french menu.

"Yes waiter, bring me
some fresh 
'TOT CRUSHED BY TRUCK' and
a glass of Perrier with lime."

It tastes like chicken,
doesn't it?

 
 
                                        C&C?  YEP.
                                        Nik
                              All serious poetry deserves comments.


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: NAT@drao.nrc.ca (Natalie Prowse)
Subject: for kaz / Natalie
Organization: Dominion Radio Astrophysical Observatory
Date: Mon, 4 Jan 1993 21:41:09 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.11


	for kaz
	-------------------------------------------------------------------

	from across the miles 
	your pain burns bright. vivid.  acute.
	the flare of a match struck
	so distant, yet
	i gasp at the acrid smell of your heart
	crisp, brittle,
	torched by indifference.
	
	oh that my words could be a salve
	a cream, thick and gently smeared
	to soothe the seared soul.

	but i am so far away...

	i send the scent of smooth honey-lemon tea, 
	and the feel of a cool cloth on your head.
	i send my ethereal arms
	to envelop you, wrap you as a quilt,
	flannel-soft, comforting, and warm.  
	hold you close, and rock with you
	until the wracking sobs have ceased
	and our cleansing tears mingle to
	douse the fire.

	all you see now is a charred black abyss.
	but wounds heal.  it just takes time and attention.
	the intensity of today will become
	the dull ache of tomorrow,
	the faded memory of the next day.
	in time.  time is what you have and so much 
	of what you need.
	i give you my time, my caring, my words.
	i give you my hand, to lift your head
	and carry on.  look up into my eyes 
	and see beyond.
	please give yourself time.

		-Natalie / Jan 4, 1992


------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(nat@drao.nrc.ca) |"It's good to have a healthy sense of sin.  It adds  
		  |  *spice* to one's transgressions..."  - J.H.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Writing
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 93 16:00:35 GMT


                               Writing

We were writing want-ads
just for fun one night
and she is clever:
Wanted: Someone to assist in writing
want-ads
at night only
I want you
I want you
I want you...






-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: trish's park
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 93 09:12:07 GMT

	trish's park
	-------------------------------------------------

	trish's park had swings and 
	a log fort slide and concrete blocks 
	around the edges.  it was one of those
	parks that's really a school, 
	a couple hundred square yards of
	grass and kids' shouts.

	trish lived two doors down,
	the cul-de-sac on the southwest end 
	where it was just kentucky blue.
	tory lived on the other side of 
	the school, but we didn't talk
	anymore.  she scared me.
	i didn't want her to want me.

	once i was sitting and watching
	and marshall & janice & 
	kim & marie & m'ort & gary
	came by.  they had a nice
	checkerboard blanket & a well-crafted
	little hash pipe & a bottle of
	champagne & basket of strawberries.
	i never knew i knew 
	such dangerous people.
	the champagne was great.

	trish's park was lonely 
	watching on the swings or 
	on the grass.
	trish never complained,
	though i wish she had.
	i wish she had.

		Michael Lichter
		January 11, 1993
From: dew@acca.nmsu.edu (Universal Angel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Charmer: In Actuality
Date: 13 Jan 93 01:16:59 GMT
Organization: Alternative Collegiate Computing Association

hisssssss oh poet people.

hisssss oh poet peoples.

i creep in new to your realm from the shadowy corners, and from the soothing
white light high in the sky.

this one is about an acquaintance.


()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()


The Charmer: In Actuality

Beneath the palm of this slither evening he
grinds my mind and feeds me broken candy.
Twice I have felt his hand on my thigh
and wonder if the poke of flesh excites him.
He should not exist. His presence defies
all laws of what is real, taking up the loose
cables of thought and stripping them of boundary.
Men like he should slink within the screen
and leave us to concoct things for ourselves;
instead he is removing objects from the station
of his bed, rustling me in with well-timed and
deft caresses, asking if I sleep in clothes.
To wear my new-got tails with a garter belt,
he says, could be most stunning. Sometimes I
think it's curiosity which drives my feet to
walk me there again and again, but lately
there's the need to understand the force behind
these words, and why this face is finger-distance
real, instead of weaving tricks from flat and
imaged surfaces, where even broken bits of candy
have no certain taste.


dEw

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Barefoot in snow    I froze by a fencepost, & he came along singing
USE MY FOOTPRINTS FOR SHOES & FOLLOW.  -- John Martone
***dew@acca.nmsu.edu***
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems