HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: Re: Three poems
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Wed, 27 Jan 1993 16:34:30 GMT

gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879) writes:

>Ralph, could you explain to me, (here or in email) your poem desire?
>I find it confusing.  A woman doesn't want to have sex, she wants to
>feel the rolling earth beneath her?  What does that mean?  The poem
>comes off sounding a bit smug:  "I know what she wants and she
>doesn't".  Also kinda naive sounding too:  women do in fact want sex.


It is not confusing.  	(to me)

But I can't speak for Ralph.

Why doesn't it make sense to say that someone does not want sex but comfort?
and
Are the two exclusive?

and have you ever wanted to roll around and feel each other's body without
bothering with sex?
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Far down by the sea
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 14:51:50 GMT


                                Far down by the sea

Her mother died last night as I held her by the sea
her sobs their own waves in harmony with her inner torrent
her mother would not return
at least on any flow we would see
I told her only I would never leave her
and her waves of tears came more quickly
as we held one another by the darkening evening tide
colored grief by her sorrow
flavored by her salt tears flooding warm over me
far down by the sea.





-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: hcorbett@pattie.wellesley.edu
Subject: Ebrio De Trementina / Drunk With Pines / Pablo Neruda
Organization: WELLESLEY COLLEGE
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 1993 10:21:19 GMT

For mass enjoyment, a poem by Neruda from 20 Love Poems and a Song
of Despair (my stuff later but sugar before the medicine...):

Ebrio De Trementina			Drunk With Pines
--------------------			-----------------

Ebrio de trementina y largos besos	Drunk with pines and long kisses,
estival, el velero de las rosas dirijo,	like summer I steer the fast sail
					   of the roses,
torcido hacia la muerte del delgado	bent towards the death of the thin
   dia,					   day,
cimentado en el solido frenesi marino.	stuck into my solid marine madness.

Palido y amarrado a mi agua devorante	Pale and lashed to my ravenous water
cruzo en el agrio olor del clima	I cruise in the sour smell of the
   descubierto,				   naked climate,
aun vestido de gris y sonidos amargos,	still dressed in grey and bitter sounds
y una cimera triste de abondonada	and a sad crest of abandoned spray.
   espuma.

Voy, duro de pasiones, montado en mi	Hardened by passions, I go mounted
   ola unica,				   on my one wave,
lunar, solar, ardiente y frio,		lunar, solar, burning and cold, all
   repentino,				   at once,
dormido en la garganta de las		becalmed in the white throat of
   afortunadas				   the fortunate isles
islas blancas y dulces como caderas	that are white and sweet as cool hips.
   frescas.

Tiembla en la noche humeda mi vestido	In the moist night my garment of
   de besos				   kisses trembles
locamente cargado de electricas 	charged to insanity with electric
   gestiones,				   currents,
de modo heroico dividido en suenos	heroically divided into dreams
y embriagadoras rosas practicandose	and intoxicating roses practicing
   en mi.				   on me.

Aguas arriba, en medio de las olas	Upstream, in the midst of the outer
   externas,				   waves,
tu paralelo cuerpo se sujeta en mis	your parallel body yields to my arms
   brazos
como un pez infinitamente pegado a mi	like a fish infinitely fastened to
   alma					   my soul,
rapido y lento en la energia subceleste. quick and slow, in the energy under
					   the sky.

Cheers! Heather
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: FTP site/archive for Poetry ?
Date: 22 Jan 93 14:36:00 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

Untouchable


Some fabric is uncrushable.
Some people are untouchable.

I will give you x dollars
	where x is the sum of nightmares
	seen with blue eyes
	when the lights were on
	subtracted by the memories
	of unblinking dead people
	and divided by misty blue,
	I believe they call it pacific
	and think, "O, Land of Sleep"
if you will kiss me.

The first kiss will drowse me, the second arouse me,
the third will drown me, the fourth kiss will be
resuscitation.  Each kiss an eraser's stroke,
removing previous kisses and despair and joy.
Sex for a man is not a joke, is not a toy.
A man is heavy and his thump is loud,
but some fabric is uncrushable
and some people are untouchable.
Let us laugh together at sex:
ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch
how how how how how
proud proud proud
plow plow


Posthumous O'Toole
1/21/93


I don't think I've posted this yet, either.
-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: persimmons   /   z.
Date: 25 Jan 1993 00:18:50 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




       persimmons
_________________________________


we skipped at the water's edge 
in the ebbing sunlight
and dared the sea foam
to caress our feet.
we read that verse together 
and giggled  at it's
puff-the magic- dragon innocence.

we shared bitter-sweet persimmons
and golden retsina wine.
we tried to keep the sun
from pulling the stretch
of white sand beach
as its comforter 
at twilight.

silently, we shuffled along
the sea-sprayed darkening beach
and gathered wild white daisies
to fill our empty picnic basket.

Summer's gone ... and we no longer
could hold back the tears.


          ***

zita maria evensen
c1993, jan 24th

crits amd comments please

-- 

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Borrowed Eyes
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Thu, 28 Jan 1993 13:34:23 GMT


Borrowed Eyes
-------------




The invisible
go blind,

seen in mirrors 
and photographs,

on dried rain of 
window counterpart,

even a face
in a drop:

all
reflect

but no eyes
to bear.




Alex L. Karan
From: dali@hardy.u.washington.edu (Poe)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: To Boldly Go.
Date: 22 Jan 1993 03:18:55 GMT
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle
NNTP-Posting-Host: hardy.u.washington.edu

In article <steele.727582714@chip.aem.umn.edu> steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele) writes:

	[recap of poem deleted]

>but chris, if you only watched *more* t.v. you might have noticed how the
>"where no man has gone before" line has been powered into the nineties with
>the new and improved "where no one has gone before." for me the difference
>is like walking versus warp speed- different kind of exploring all together,
>wouldn't you say?
>
>	steph.
>
	Well Steph, this was/is written before any of this fictional stuff
supposedly happened (i.e. the change in the line). I admit I'm a trekkie...
well, kinda, but not a really avid one. I got to wondering where the UFP got
such a cool motto and thought "Hey, maybe they took it from some obscure 20th
century poet.." so I wrote this. So you see, in a few hundred years.. some 
star trek like guy will come along and take a couple of lines from this poem
and use it as their motto. Then, about a hundred years after that they'll
change the line to read "Where no _one_ has gone before." Of course this is all
a bunch of baloney... but then again.. you never know. ;)

 	Chris.

--

Chris Jensen            (dali@hardy.u.washington.edu)

__
>>					Chris Jensen, 1/19/91
>--
>
>=======================================================================
>			   Stephanie Steele
>			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Organization: Bar-Ilan University Computing Center, Israel
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1993 11:25:08 IST
From: <X67107@BARILVM.BITNET>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Another muse

In article <428@uiunix.ui.org>,             In article <123@VMunix.ac.il>
donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)           X67107@Barilvm.Bitnet(Dark Dementor)
         SAYS:

If You Don't End Your Poem                     If You Don't End Your Poem
Then Your Poem Doesn't End                     Then You Can Eat Your Heart Out
--------------------------                     --------------------------------

A muse hovers over me,                         Abuse hovers over me,
her name is Calliope.                          her name is Calliope.
She doles out youth                            She metes out mirth
the way time doles out death--                 the way death metes out time--
in rich abundance.                             in rich abundance.(NOT!!)
I am dancing on my desk.                       I am dacing on my desk.
I am dancing on my chair,                      I am chanting in my chair,
epilepsy in my hair,                           phsycosis in my eyes,
trichinosis in my shoes.                       nureosis in my hair.
A poem is nothing and therefore                A poem is therefore nothing
has nothing to lose                            And you can eat your heart out


         Posthumous O'Toole                            The OxyOronic Bochenab
         1/22/93                                       1/24/93


I don't think I've posted this yet.  My apologies if I have.

Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???

Now that was one dumb sig ... is this one any better ?

+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
+------------------------  Axiomatic Avartar ------------------------+
+-----------       The Darkest Incarnation of Death     -------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: DMK
Subject: First Post
Reply-To: dmkuklen@uncc.edu
Organization: University of NC at Charlotte
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1993 22:34:35 GMT

NO


Sitting by the fire
I made a move, 
   You said NO.

Standing in the hall
Our bodys rubbed,
   You said NO.

I tucked you in
And tried again,
   You said NO.

I statrted to leave,
   You said NO NO NO!!!
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A poem by Wallace Stevens
Date: 27 Jan 93 22:54:19 GMT
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park

I just bought another poetry book, here is a poem printed towards
the beginning of it:

     Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

	The houses are haunted
	By white night-gowns.
	None are green,
	Or purple with green rings,
	Or green with yellow rings,
	Or yellow with blue rings.
	None of them are strange,
	With socks of lace
	And beaded ceintures.
	People are not going
	To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
	Only, here and there, an old sailor,
	Drunk and asleep in his boots,
	Catches tigers
	In red weather.

It's by Wallace Stevens. The book has his poems in somewhat chronological
order, and I am still at the beginning. Had fun reading one aloud
to Matt. Decided to go to the library and check out as many poets reading
their poems aloud as possible.


				bored and stuck in a computer lab.

-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sl870@neptune.ee.usu.edu (The Gargonator)
Subject: FTP site/archive for Poetry ?
Organization: Utah State University
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 02:24:55 GMT

Hi,

Just wanted to know if anyone out there knows of an archive for
poetry - by the masters I mean, not our own humble efforts. I 
tried XArchie, no luck.

Ullas Gargi
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: Re: Poem--Influence
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 93 08:17:03 GMT

In article <1993Jan20.155902.2367@wixer.cactus.org> ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini) writes:
>
>-- 
>ralph@wixer.cactus.org
>cactus.org!wixer!ralph

Ah, the eloquence!  The compactness of expression!  I feel the tension
of the hand poised above the keyboard, the mind resisting, resisting
the imperative to erupt into an all-annihilating supernova of furious
sentiment, of heart-burning skull-melting tsunamis of thought.  The
hand, muscles bunching like a lynch mob, fausts its own deal, a judas
before the fact, and hits "s<return>".  Simply amazing!

Michael
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Subject: Re: Three poems
Organization: Carleton University
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 1993 19:12:25 GMT

Here are some off the cuff poems in response to yours.  Enjoy all.



>                                Thirst

>I have nothing that she wants
>knowingly
>it is the unknown need fed by invisible streams.

>Unknown even to me.


          Thirsty
          -------

          Dry tongues roam mouths 
          like salted slugs
          on sandy shores.
          Gimme another beer.


>                                Desire

>She thinks it is sex she wants
>no
>it is mere simple comfort
>so that she may enjoy
>the earth
>moving softly beneath her.


          Desire II
          ---------

          She wants to get laid.
          I oblige her.
         

Ralph, could you explain to me, (here or in email) your poem desire?
I find it confusing.  A woman doesn't want to have sex, she wants to
feel the rolling earth beneath her?  What does that mean?  The poem
comes off sounding a bit smug:  "I know what she wants and she
doesn't".  Also kinda naive sounding too:  women do in fact want sex.

Maybe I just missed the point.  I hope you don't take my "satires"
personally.  Nothing meant by them, honestly.

                              Nik
PS: thanks all for feeback on TOASTERS.  I never saw so much email in
my account!!!



Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Subject: Shivering in the icy depths of reality
Organization: Carleton University
Date: Wed, 27 Jan 1993 20:00:05 GMT


Shivering in the icy depths of reality
--------------------------------------

Dad says
Close the goddam door,
it's cold out,
and I'm not paying
to heat the whole
neighbourhood.

Later:

Dad's not home.
My little brother
hold the door open wide
Close the door, I say.
He says:
Why?  I don't pay the bills.
From: cherish@ritcsh.csh.rit.edu (Cherish Mitchell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Naked
Date: 27 Jan 93 00:21:48 GMT
Organization: Computer Science House @ RIT
Originator: cherish@nick.csh.rit.edu


I just recently started reading this  newsgroup and decided I'd also
post to it.  Any comments/criticisms etc are much appreciated.

Thanks.

-Cherish Mitchell



			      Naked

		Naked.  Exposed.
		Two words that describe how I felt
		When you left.
		I told you my secrets,
		You pretended to care.
		I bared to you my soul,
		You left me standing there alone,
		And vulnerable.
		I waited.
		You never came back.
		And I stood there,
		Shivering in the icy depths of reality,
		Naked.

					-Cherish Rene Mitchell
				
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: Vanilla Shake (you're booty)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 05:59:14 GMT

--------------------------------------------------------------
Vanilla Shake
                                             by Jack Szwergold
--------------------------------------------------------------
I love a good vanilla shake.
When I was a kid,
my dad would buy me a vanilla shake
every Saturday morning.

Mmmm....
Nothing's better than a Vanilla shake.
Except, maybe....
A vanilla shake that doesn't have...
	a chopped up rat in it.
From: jstc_ss@troi.cc.rochester.edu (j. collins)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: POEM: No Title (C&C Welcome)
Date: 27 Jan 93 05:02:51 GMT
Organization: University of Rochester - Rochester, New York


Well many people have mentioned to me to try and get more imagery into my
poetry.  This is one of my first attempts.  I would really like to know
what people think, and while your at it if you could suggest a title or
two for it.


clouds slowly cover the sun
rain silently runs down the window
the river slowly pulling you away
you struggle against the current

eventually you wash ashore
you fight to stand on your own
no longer knowing what to face
the past or the future

each offering dangers
and each offering hope
to face something new
or to face something old

each offers what they shouldn't
security comes from the river
dreams of a future from the forest
confusion consumes your being

the wind speaks in whispers
the rushing water speaks in words
the birds speak in song
the forest remains silent

the decision is yours


peace,
-justin
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: hjb@netcom.com (H. J. Bae)
Subject: VOICE FROM THE PAST
Organization: Peaceful Star Project
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 06:52:04 GMT




VOICE FROM THE PAST



She is in trouble again
The man in the mirror hesitates
Before picking up the phone
He feels the moisture on the
Back of his left hand
He knows instinctively before
She says anything -- her lover
Has abandoned her again
She is in trouble

When she left him alone
In the married life
For the love of another woman
He promised to himself
To carry out both shares
Of the married life
But now he stares into the mirror
Listening to her tears
And remembers his own
Not so long ago

He listens, does what he can
To comfort her and hangs up
Cleans his brushes until they become
As white as the canvas
He hasn't been able to paint
For several months now
Once again he sits in his studio
Considering and then rejecting
Images of a woman he painted
A hundred times before

He puts his left hand on his eyes
To escape the bright images
To wipe the rivulet of moisture 
This time not from the hand
And notices the sudden disappearance
Of channels of blood
Red pictures painted by light
On his tired retina

A shot of Jack restores his vision
His hand is now shaped to
Form a tiny hole of triangle
He focuses the new eye on the
Book half read from the night before
And the coffee pot, the steam
Rising to the moon
And the stars separated
So far away from each other
From him

And he starts to place the stars
Back into their pre-drilled
Proper locations


--
hwajin
-- 
Hwa-Jin Bae				Available for Civilian contract work.
Peaceful Star Project
2899 Ford St., Oakland CA 94601	
hjb@netcom.com  (510) 536-7607
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: tin roofs and ancient stone
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Wed, 27 Jan 93 06:28:48 GMT


	tin roofs and ancient stone
	------------------------------------------------

	It's a child's toy, a model.
	Blocks of yellow rock like 
	leftover plaster props from "Ben Hur",
	placed in a childish fantasy along
	narrow passages of foot-worn stone,
	all of it livened by a falling rain.
	And, along the empty edges near
	the wall, laundry hangs soaking
	from lines drawn between tin roofs
	and ancient stone.

	Arab men, heads covered in crinkled
	white cloth, tourists in plaid
	and jeans, arrayed like dolls 
	in the open marketplace, move in
	fixed patterns.  Soldiers, precisely
	relaxed, lean on their guns.  
	Wingless metal cranes dip their beaks 
	and carry their cargo, servants 
	of awesome power.  An arab woman in red 
	and blue emerges and shakes the 
	lines where her laundry hangs soaking.

	The city is quartered like a medieval
	criminal unwilling to seek absolution,
	or like an eternal football game, 
	or like a small birthday cake.
	Armenian sisters punch through the
	carnival commercialism of the Christian
	Quarter like crows through air.
	Arab laborers, Jordanian change in
	their pockets, red, green, and white
	over their hearts, unload the crane,
	erecting modern convenience on
	amidst ages of ruin.  From their 
	new marble towers, the Jews can see 
	the laden lines drawn between tin roofs 
	and ancient stone.

	A child touches the cool, damp stone,
	tastes warm pita under an overhang,
	listens to the chatter of men in a 
	tea room, flies circles with an angel 
	over this circular city, this model
	of human passion, inhabited by dolls
	with machine guns, where laundry
	hangs soaking from lines drawn between
	tin roofs and ancient stone.

		Michael Lichter
		January 26, 1993


I think I'm developing a Jerusalem obsession.  If so, I think I'm not
alone in the world.  I've gotten some comments on this already, but more
are always welcome.  Particular things you might want to comment about
would be the use of the "child" and the "model", which I'm not sure
really work, and the extent to which "lines" works to unify things, and
silliness, as in the "birthday cake".

Michael
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Vanilla Shake (you're booty)
Date: 25 Jan 93 15:45:47 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA


 (Linus Van Pelt) writes:
>--------------------------------------------------------------
>Vanilla Shake
>                                             by Jack Szwergold
>--------------------------------------------------------------
>I love a good vanilla shake.
>When I was a kid,
>my dad would buy me a vanilla shake
>every Saturday morning.
>
>Mmmm....
>Nothing's better than a Vanilla shake.
>Except, maybe....
> ...

	Chocolate malt!





Cecil
From: blythe@kuhub.cc.ukans.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Severy, Ks.
Date: 27 Jan 93 22:24:21 GMT
Organization: University of Kansas Academic Computing Services

Severy, Ks.


There exist astonishingly simple people
in a hole called Severy, Ks.
Their lives uncomplicated with etiquette
but they never fail to offer
a crooked tooth smile or say howdy.
A narrow existence granted these folk something
that civilized city slickers constantly search for.
Severy understands matters of the heart.
I hear it in the music and gossip.
I see it in their everyday lives and tears.
Severy knows where the key log is.
They know what needs to happen to survive another rent check
and they do it with a singlemindedness some call beautiful
and others call headstrong.
In the red hour Severy lives!,
in full, a week of good times.
Two red necks exchange beer spun tales
minutes after exchanging punches.
Severy finds no time for enemies.
The bartender off handedly moons two regulars.
Every soul laughs.
The night lights up from the sparks in their eyes;
Light from a candle burning from both ends.
After a century of green livered, black lunged
country singers drawl out their sorrows
"Jam, Pump it up!" stiffens every back.
Not one local complains;
The song a paragon of their hopes
of one day escaping
Severy.
The young corpse in the corner
has such an intensity within his bloodshot eyes.
He'll make friends with you
if you'll humor him
and let him lose at eigth ball
and owe you a brew.
Indebtedness his only tool to survive.
After making ten new friends
he drifts off for the night
to some hole in the wall
with spraypaint for decoration.
The burly brawling twenty something
howls in an attempt to shape the midnight
into the wild fete he dreams of.
His now distant stare watches the miracle of
beer bubbles and his mind undoubtedly
grips the reality of Severy;
His falling star now gone from a wished out sky.
And just now I realize that the Roadhouse
is closing forever tomorrow.
Some destitute desperate person had broken in
and taken all but the keg I now drink from.
Some desperate city slicker
for as poor as these cowboys might be,
this concrete floor tin shack is
the richest part of their Severy.
No local committed this heinous crime.
Robbing these folk
of their lives.


Garrett Arch Blythe
January 27, 1993
-- 
_____________________________________________________________________________

blythe@ccstaff.cc.ukans.edu
2fvmwhich@kuhub.cc.ukans.edu
blythe@kuhub.cc.ukans.edu		"Hold your tongue about your life,
blythe@ukanaix.cc.ukans.edu		 or dead hands will change the plot."
2fmvwhich@ukanvax.cc.ukans.edu			--Peter Murphy
blythe@ukanvax.cc.ukans.edu 
blythe@ukanvm.cc.ukans.edu
_____________________________________________________________________________
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems