HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: ANNOUNCEMENT (was: Re: Critical Comments and a Bonfire Carol (was: Re: STORM))
Date: 2 Jan 93 04:57:39 GMT
Article-I.D.: husc10.NIKOLAY.93Jan1205739
 rd.edu><6829@npri6.npri.com> <GOROKHO1.93Jan1195549@husc10.harvard.edu>
Organization: The Kremlin Wall of Harvard
In-reply-to: gorokho1@husc10.harvard.edu's message of 1 Jan 93 19:55:49

gorokho1@husc10.harvard.edu (Zhenya Gorokhovsky) writes:

> eric@npri6.npri.com (Eric Williams) writes:

>> In article <NIKOLAY.92Dec30213549@husc10.harvard.edu>,
>> nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev) writes: [two really
>> good poems in one package deleted]

>> There, now, was that so difficult? In this message you have amply
>> illustrated what you consider to be good poetry, and you've
>> supplied verses born of your literary brainpan. (We suspect they
>> were all your own, but if Zhenya is out there, I telegraph my
>> fiercest apologies.)  Please don't abandon
>> enlightenment-by-example.

> Yeah, Eric, I'm out here, but there's no need for any apology on
> your part. It's time to announce what many must have already guessed
> anyway (incidentally, Tom Watchel was one of the first). So here
> goes: the three poems posted here from my account in the last
> several weeks, namely, "Purgatory," "Computer Games," and "Storm,"
> indeed all belong to Philip Nikolayev. I don't write poetry myself,
> I just happen to be Philip's dorm roommate. The initial idea to play
> this transparent trick was mine; Philip's first reaction to it was
> one of vague reluctance, but since he hadn't expressed his instant,
> explicit and vigorous lack of consent (you can imagine what *that*
> would have sounded like), I decided to go ahead and post
> "Purgatory." Naturally, what I didn't expect to see here the next
> day was Philip's own rude and scathing criticism of the poem, which
> included a vehement diatribe against rhyme in modern poetry!
> However, I was beginning to get used to this pattern after I'd
> posted "Computer Games" (this time Philip was even more ruthless),
> only to find myself perplexed again when he posted a staunch defense
> of "Storm," complete with an "incineratory" ditty. 

Sadly, very few will believe that, or understand in what way, I was,
in all three instances (with the sole exception of my fleering 
anti-rhyme diatribe), quite serious in my comments. Sapienti sat.

> Anyway, three is
> enough, and now the truth hath been revealed.  I feel somewhat
> awkward about having received email expressions of approval and
> sympathy - I really had no intention of fooling anyone personally,
> but the show had to go on. My apologies to anyone who feels
> offended; but I had intended to make this revelation at some point
> anyway.

> Happy New Year! (Philip, you owe me a beer.)

Bad rhyme, bad rhythm, but you'll have your beer, Zhen.

> Zhenya

Philip Nikolayev
nikolay@husc.harvard.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--When he went home
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 3 Jan 93 17:00:20 GMT


                                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: pagrawal@portal.hq.videocart.com (Pankaj Agrawal)
Subject: Merry Christmas (C & C Welcome)
Organization: VideOcart Inc.
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL3
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 1992 23:20:05 GMT

                             Merry Christmas!

On a cold Christmas evening
In a cold, impersonal office
In the deserted heart of a city
Sparkling with lonely electric lights
Adorning naked, ghostly trees
A man tries to work,
To solve a problem that will
Not make the world a better place to live.

He works, and waits
For the phone to ring
For a human voice
That might give
Some meaning to life
On this hopeless day.

The cold gets too much
And the silence unbearable
The man walks out of the office
And drives into the underbelly
Of the city, away from its
Gawdy lights and ugly opulence
Of cold steel and glass.

In the relative warmth of the darkness
Shielded from the fierce arctic winds
Some homeless humans huddled close together
Near a heating vent that emits no heat today
A homeless woman on an intersection,
All her possessions in one hand,
Waits as if for the light to change.

A strong, confident face
A determination in her eyes
To get through this night alive
"Do you need some help ma'am?" 
The man asks with hopeful eyes
No reply, just an expressionless stare.

"Ma'am, can I help you?" he repeats
In desperate earnestness
Please speak to me, he thinks to himself
I may not look it, but I'm also like you
Without a home, even with a roof over my head
Without friends, even though I have a family
Please let me do something for you ma'am!
Let's just sit together for a while and talk
About how we both lost our homes and friends
And why, on this Christmas, we are both here 
In the cold, dark basement of this glittering city.

She turns her head away
Looks into the dark distance
His heart sinks, but he persists
"Merry Christmas!", he says and waits
For some semblance of a response
The woman starts to move away
"Merry Christmas to you ma'am!!"
He almost cries in a braking voice.

The woman starts to walk briskly away
Purposefully, towards the group near the heating vent
To her home, and her family
And the man, feeling more homeless than ever
Aimlessly drives on 
Makes a needless turn, and finds himself
On a dead-end street!

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Any comments are most welcome.

-Pankaj

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
pagrawal@code.hq.videocart.com
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: ch526@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Les Jensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Human Profanity (C&C Welcome)
Date: 2 Jan 1993 14:19:08 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio (USA)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu


The Human Profanity

A scent of storm lingers on orgiastic lips,
Provocative mud splatters a reprobate's eclipse.
Ribald gestures are annoyed reciting wordless rhymes,
A repetitious braggart works his lechery overtime.

Jocular jests in longings stout from a malice star,
Promiscuous words are meant to be exactly what they are.
Grandiose deeds of impish lust licensed with a card,
Satisfy old sodomites they're willing to disguard.

Gigantic squalor gaudy rites daring what is wise,
Risque slander pungent love is all he ever buys.
Arid flower lineage frump a stagnant vanity,
Prurient strokes banquet in a errant canopy.

Agnostic morals glutton urges precariously amour,
Afflicted cravings stir arousals surging them galore.
Intensely filthy erection minded one track destiny,
Mental dungeon essence impious, The Human Profanity.
---------------------------------------------------------
All opinions, comments and advise will be gratefully accepted...
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Candle Light...
Date: 21 Dec 92 22:31:13 GMT
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation




	Candle Light...

	Tasting the darkness,
	Flickering a thousand times,
	The burning snake-tongue
	Dances red in the shadows.


			msj
From: gorokho1@husc10.harvard.edu (Zhenya Gorokhovsky)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: ANNOUNCEMENT (was: Re: Critical Comments and a Bonfire Carol (was: Re: STORM))
Date: 2 Jan 93 00:55:49 GMT
Organization: Physicists for Poetry

eric@npri6.npri.com (Eric Williams) writes:

> In article <NIKOLAY.92Dec30213549@husc10.harvard.edu>,
> nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev) writes: [two really
> good poems in one package deleted]

> There, now, was that so difficult? In this message you have amply
> illustrated what you consider to be good poetry, and you've supplied
> verses born of your literary brainpan. (We suspect they were all
> your own, but if Zhenya is out there, I telegraph my fiercest
> apologies.)  Please don't abandon enlightenment-by-example.

Yeah, Eric, I'm out here, but there's no need for any apology on your
part. It's time to announce what many must have already guessed anyway
(incidentally, Tom Watchel was one of the first). So here goes:
the three poems posted here from my account in the last several
weeks, namely, "Purgatory," "Computer Games," and "Storm," indeed
all belong to Philip Nikolayev. I don't write poetry myself, I just 
happen to be Philip's dorm roommate. The initial idea to play this
transparent trick was mine; Philip's first reaction to it was one of
vague reluctance, but since he hadn't expressed his instant, explicit 
and vigorous lack of consent (you can imagine what *that* would have 
sounded like), I decided to go ahead and post "Purgatory." Naturally, 
what I didn't expect to see here the next day was Philip's own rude 
and scathing criticism of the poem, which included a vehement diatribe
against rhyme in modern poetry! However, I was beginning to get used
to this pattern after I'd posted "Computer Games" (this time Philip
was even more ruthless), only to find myself perplexed again when he 
posted a staunch defense of "Storm," complete with an "incineratory" 
ditty. Anyway, three is enough, and now the truth hath been revealed.
I feel somewhat awkward about having received email expressions of 
approval and sympathy - I really had no intention of fooling anyone
personally, but the show had to go on. My apologies to anyone who
feels offended; but I had intended to make this revelation at some
point anyway.

Happy New Year! (Philip, you owe me a beer.)

Zhenya
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Coffee Need - A Sonnet
Date: 22 Dec 92 09:22:29 GMT
Article-I.D.: leela.1h6molINNo2i
Distribution: world
Organization: Computer Science Outreach Services - Oregon State University
NNTP-Posting-Host: jacobs.cs.orst.edu

I hereby post the following per Marek's request (since he asked so
nicely) :-)  I apologize for it being a trifle (it is the holiday
season after all) rough, as I was somewhat rushed.  On second thought
my "trifle" comment will probably go over most people's heads (unless
of course you have an English background.)  :-)

		Coffee Need - A Sonnet
	
	
	Upon arising, after 10 at least
	And trying not to stumble down the stairs
	Or tripping on my dog, the stupid beast
	Who runs before me with his backward stares

	I drag myself toward the altar where
	If I am lucky someone else has made
	The necessary preparations there
	And thus partake of what I wouldn't trade

	I curve my hands around my favorite cup
	And reverently I raise it to my lip
	As warmth begins to fill my body up
	I feel the energy from just one sip.

		For all the tea in China, as they say
		I'd never trade for coffee.  Start the day! 


				Kathleen O'Toole,
				Bringer of Light

P.S.  This sonnet is dedicated to Marie.


-- 
*************************************************************************
"Insufficient facts always invites danger, Captain."- Spock in Space Seed
	Marg Petersen	petersm@jacobs.cs.orst.edu
*************************************************************************
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ktw@polaris.att.com (79243-wolman)
Subject: Tashlich at Year's End
Originator: news@cbnewsb.cb.att.com
Organization: AT&T
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 1992 20:03:25 GMT


TASHLICH AT YEAR'S END

(Tashlich is the ceremony performed on the first day
of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, when bread
is cast into a stream or river to signify the
casting-off of the errors of the dying year.)

Tie it in a sack,
with knots as tight as the knots in your stomach:
tie the knots double,
lest what's inside is the Houdini
of your private demon-closet,
and may escape.
Weight it with stones,
carry it to the shores
of some convenient stream of living waters:
cast it as far as you can
(pray for it if it pleases you)--
but let it drown.

I'm sorry if you're squeamish,
and yes, killing is a sin:
but it's a war, after all:
and if some of you get queasy at the thought
of what's in the bag squirming,
choking for air,
think what it would do to you
if it got loose,
what it maybe did to you already,
or tried:
consider it a mercy-killing,
consider yourself prepaid
on the Five Stages of Grief,
and this casting-off a celebration.

Let the minstrels come in.

Kenneth Wolman, December 31, 1992
-- 
Kenneth Wolman          |       To die of fear of revealing yourself
AT&T Bell Laboratories  |       to the person who loves you is murder. 
(908)582-4815           |       
Kenneth.Wolman@att.com  |       	--Stan Rice, "Anne's Curls" 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Metaphor machine
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 92 00:47:49 GMT


                                Metaphor machine

The metaphor machine
a new invention based on the symmetrical structure of opposites
take all the pairs
and you will see that the whole world lies in between
the metaphor machine
makes blurriness a virtue
feels for tendencies through the space of sense and thought
tells you your mother is neither soft nor hard
but so-much-of-this and also that
speaks to the blind of probable causes
of roundishness around one hundred meters
and a row of parallel perpendiculars which tends towards fence
the decision is yours
the metaphor machine never excludes
merely waltzes around and around
and even ice is only
relatively
cold.


-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Translated Bengali poem - Bhattarcharya
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 1992 20:37:12 GMT

O great life

O Great Life, it's no longer a matter of verse.
Let tough, severe prose prevail,
Erasing the grace of measure,
The lilt of the lyric gone stale.
Let the hammer of prose
Relentlessly ring on the anvil.
There's no need for the tenderness of poetry.
Poetry, as of now, you are on holiday.
In this regin of hunger,
The earth is full of prose.
Even the full moon seems a half-burned flat bread.


 - Sukanta Bhattacharya

"1926-1947....A lyricist of force, passionately interested in
political and social issues of the times, Sukanta inhis all too brief
a life showed a remakable poetic range.  He was a Marxist, but his
concern for what is human seems to transcend ideology....from
_Collected Works of Sukanta Bhattacharya_, Calcutta 1967"

(translated by Ron D.K. Banerjee)
-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Earth mother
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 28 Dec 92 15:41:47 GMT


                               Earth mother


Too many creatures pounding her skin
walking scurrying over her
finally even the itching of earthquakes and vast storms
inadequate to rid her of her plague
she turns over
one day
not at all
and they fly off into the cleansing void leaving her free.




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: jim.mcneill@almac.co.uk (Jim Mcneill)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Bugs
Date: 30 Dec 92 13:43:00 GMT
Reply-To: jim.mcneill@almac.co.uk (Jim Mcneill)
Organization: Almac BBS Ltd. +44 (0)324 665371

Wrote this while I was living in a highrise;

From my window I can see
people like ants
carrying umbrella leaves
and newspaper twigs
to our Red Road nest

Sometimes we march on
the aphid green bus
if the flats were to fall
we'd be crushed like bugs

               Jim
---
 . 1st 1.00 #324 . many a mackle mangles a mickle. . . or something
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: ? Es El Amor Que Pasa? ... Z./poem
Date: 26 Dec 1992 22:16:53 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



          ?Es El Amor Que Pasa?*


In dreams, the scent of jasmine wafts in
And I hear the flutter of hummingbird wings,
Muted sighs, sensuous whispers, remembered laughter
And strands of once-loved melodies
From serenades of long ago.

Is love passing by?

In dreams, I sense delicious electricity
As your fingers brush against my hair.
The intermittent caresses of stolen glances
From flirting eyes
And the tender hesitance of a first kiss.

?Es el amor que pasa?

In dreams, I see two ...
Laughing under an ion-charged sky ...
Giddy from the fiery crackle
And electrokinetic flash of lightning...
Swept by the tornadic capricious winds
And drench by the pelting summer rain.

Is love passing by?

And I awaken  ... a dawnlight
In the circle of your arms.

!Es el amor que pasa!

    
           ***

zita maria evensen
c1992, june21

-- 
.. i am a romantic .... no apologies ......
From: Andrew.W.J.Toler@dartmouth.edu (Andrew W.J. Toler)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Pity on Paradox
Date: 2 Jan 93 22:37:42 GMT
Organization: Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH
X-Posted-From: InterNews1.0b1@newshost.dartmouth.edu

You don't have to read this one as slowly :)

Hope you enjoy it and post some replies/sarcasm/stern rebukes
to get me to write better...



Pity on Paradox


There are sweet fields of grass made savory with tears,
Wildflowers sown and growing on confused hearts.
There is but pain over every hill and in every gully,
And there are living feelings breezing on every slope.

There are places inside which cry, and places which smile,
Faces in shells of loneliness, tumbling around trapped,
Pierces through shadows on white cracked peeling walls
Pity on paradox, black blood spilled by pumps of loss.

There are waves of passion and then they are gone, 
Alone at last, got that one good, then there is sour.
Start again sure to go but what when it doesnUt?
Pain is surely everywhere, respite a distant trifle.

There are fields of grass made bitter with salty tears,
Wildflowers trying but dying on confused hearts.
There is pain over every head and in every skull,
And there are lost feelings breezing through every soul.


PAndrew
From: jdblake@csd4.csd.uwm.edu (John David Blake)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: More (a poem)
Date: 27 Dec 1992 07:34:21 GMT
Organization: Computing Services Division, University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: 129.89.7.4
Originator: jdblake@csd4.csd.uwm.edu

I'd appreciate and comments you may have on this old poem of mine. Please
respond to jdblake@csd4.csd.uwm.edu.
----
More

Who will I be tomorrow
that I am not today?
If tomorrow I awoke
not able to see the words
on this page,
would it suffice merely to touch its varying textures?
If the next day I awoke
not able to feel the softness
of my sheets, 
would hearing my mother's reassuring voice be enough for me to continue?
If yet the next day I awoke
not able to hear the continuous
beatings in my ear,
would the sweet scent of jasmine tea draw me to the cup?
If the next day I awoke
not able to smell the earthiness of this pencil,
would the taste of life make me want more?
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Freedom of Destruction
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Date: Sun, 3 Jan 1993 17:09:11 GMT
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago

Freedom of Destruction
        

book-burning is such a concrete
act
shoving a construction of paper and glue and ink
into a roaring
furnace
watching crackling, eating, charring flames

computers have no paper inside them to burn

flames are purely verbal
though surely no less hating
attempting to
consume
whole the thoughts the ideas
of dangerous
people

luckily or not

flaming can never again be as complete

an unexpurgated copy in memory
held safe for others to
hate

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: PROWSE@Meena.CC.URegina.CA (Natalie)
Subject: sundae sermon
Date: Mon, 21 Dec 1992 07:06:26 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.24
Organization: University of Regina, Regina, Sask., Canada


        	sundae sermon
		------------------------------------------------------------
	
		stilletto walk.  prance upon step.
		a staged setting.  so befitting.
		luscious muscled thighs, you love your body
		love to have your body loved, admired.
		your chosen profession.  it shows,
		under the blacklight glow
		in your style and your smile.
		you find pleasure in pleasuring.
		sequins fall from breasts held high.
		your dance discards the trappings 
		of someone else's morality.
		there is devotion in those handstand pushups.
		ass against the pole, legs spread.
		and the pay is good too, i hear.
		(you deserve it)
		they appreciate you.  your hair.  your breasts
		your grinning lips.
		some there to watch, bored, or curious.
		others, just pathetic.
		you are all they have, and you
		give them what they need.  attention
		lavished in whipped cream, chocolate sauce
		and carmel, poured.  smeared.  nipples creaming
		eyes gleaming.  a beautiful treat.  
		a delicious dream.
		a polariod of the moment,
		a momento for someone who has nothing more.
		you can see it in their longing.  eager faces.
		you are a reason.  you do your job well.
		you are a necessity.  such a noble calling.
		you smile, dripping syrup.  wink.
		back on at 11:00.  they will be there.
		anxious.  awaiting your return.
		you do your job so very well.
		here in the well of the forsaken.
	
			-Natalie / Dec 20, 1992
	 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 (only a guest at prowse@meena.cc.uregina.ca)   

 "It's good to have a healthy sense of sin.  It adds *spice* to one's 
   transgressions..."  - J.H.
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Christmas Sucks...
Date: 28 Dec 92 06:06:52 GMT



		Death
		an attractive option
		to christmas spent alone
		without kids
		without wife
		without shared joy, or song.
		the unbearable pain of loneliness
		a most severe punishment 
		for being shy and abandoned
		by an adulterous woman.
		by what power do
		I cling to this miserable existence
		each day to bring only more loneliness?
		for what reason do I go on? there is no
		reason, only a thread of hope
		that it's all a bad dream,
		and I'll wake up happy 
		tomorrow, or maybe not wake up 
		at all. My thread is fully
		unravelled.