HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: jell-o, a stroke of genius / Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 03:57:46 GMT

from _Poems from Newspapers_, a book in progress:


		jell-o, a stroke of genius
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		jell-o keys into nostalgia,
		says spokeswoman for general foods
		which owns the trademark.
		it's a comfort food that we all
		grew up with.  mom served it.
		gramma served it.
		
		there are so many warm and fuzzy
		memories
		associated with it.
		
		the fact that they can take --
		bones, hooves, skins -- whatever is
		actually in there and make it
		into something people have
		loved to eat for years
		
		is a stroke of genius.
		
				
			Marek Lugowski
			3 October 1992
			Cincinnati, Ohio

	source: The Cincinnati Enquirer, Food Section, p. 1, 30 September 1992.
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Shades of Green
Date: 9 Oct 92 19:30:42 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA


 donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole) writes:
> (Cecil Williams) writes:
>)OK Sheila, I'll pick on you just a little bit...
>)
>)Did you know you managed to work your way into one of my poems a few 
>)months back? I bet you didn't even notice it! Was posted right here 
>)in view of the whole world, and nobody, not even the rain, 
>)noticed it.
>)
>)I'll award 10 bonus points to the first person who remembers the poem...

>Well, Cecil, I do occasionally save your poems and I found a little
>something called "Gringo in Mexico City".  I suspect this might be the poem
>you mean since it contains a succinct description of sheila in its very
>last line:
>
>
>			"the rambler american"
>
>How many points do I get for this?
>

BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTT....

Wrong answer, but thanks for playing, and
I'll give you 5 bonus points 
just for displaying the "incredible good taste" 
of saving one of my rambling rants.....
(-:

The poem we're looking for actually has an explicit reference to 
"the Sheila...". The above quote "the rambler american" is me by definition.
I ramble in words, thought, and geography. And I learned to drive
(a long time ago) in a red ragtop rambler american automobile...

Speaking of which, come wednesday morning I'm rambling off to Riyadh, 
by way of O'hareport and Charles Degaulle's flying circus...
I'll repost the subject poem (no, on second though it was a stupid poem, 
I'll just repost the Sheila part) in the unlikely event of a water
landi...oops, I mean if no one comes up with the answer by tuesday.


Lighten UP!
It's Friday...


Cecil
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Christian Dylan Losinger)
Subject: my favorite song
Reply-To: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1992 13:44:22 GMT


	My favorite words are the words to this song
	when the song is over, it never takes too long
	before i put it on again - it's my favorite song.
	What I really like about it is, it isnt very long.

        --------------------------------------------------------------
        	c  h  r  i  s   l  o  s  i  n  g  e  r   r  i  t 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rmguy@david.wheaton.edu (Richard Mark Guy)
Subject: Spring
Organization: Wheaton College, IL
Distribution: na
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1992 01:27:23 GMT

spring

Come on my big bonnnie blueyed lass
come out from your ohsoswollwen eyes
come streaming into the miracle of violet
violent spring
Come on 
sing with the spheres
dance knowingly with the eddying leaves
proclaim loudlylovinglyliquidly
creation(fantastic weird)'s 
   blustering 
filibuster of light
Damn them all my simple sighing sweetheart
Damn the the down mouthed reasonable souls
damn them and their passionless (pre)cautions
&
Come swiftly into the sun.

-richard
 rmguy@david.wheaton.edu
From: siegle@ils.nwu.edu (Greg Siegle)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Atlas Pitched   / Greg
Date: 8 Oct 92 15:02:47 GMT
Article-I.D.: ils.1992Oct8.150247.21526
Distribution: usa
Organization: The Institute for the Learning Sciences


  Atlas Pitched
  -------------

  were Atlas
  an EXIsTentialist
  we'd all BE
  a soft(blue)ball


      -- Greg Siegle
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a milk poem
Date: 13 Oct 92 14:24:04 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ


The Milk Dance


Last night I died
upon impacting a milk truck.
Everything white,
I thought heaven awaited me.
Boy, did I feel foolish.

Dance with me, Satan,
upon delicate hooves.
Dance and twirl here
and twirl there.
Let us skip like coy flames
in oxygen-rich atmosphere.

Last night I died
and lay creamy, frosty
and hoped my hearse would be white,
I hoped the horses white
who pulled my white body.

Wash me, Satan,
scrub my paleness
with your rough fur.
I died white,
let me live dark
as we fish for souls.


Posthumous O'Toole
10-13-92
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: shyamani@rtsg.mot.com (Nick Shyamani)
Subject: Re-write Poems .... ie. Jack and Jill
Organization: Motorola Inc., Cellular Infrastructure Group
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 1992 13:46:25 GMT


   (NOTE: For those of you who sent me messages to the above e-mail
          I didn't get them. I'm using a friend's access to the usenet
          via U.S. (I live in Osaka Japan). My e-mail is:

                    tinnes@ocsc.nml.gss.mot.com

          Sorry to those who sent me messages that I didn't return :-)
          I appreciate the comments.)

     A few years ago, I'd participated in a writing class that, for one
particular lesson, you took other people's works and re-wrote them in
your own words. The results were often stimulating to the original author
(either they thought the 'new' ideas were complete garbage or they found
some ideas refreshing). I've often found that after I've written something
its hard to revise it because I'm often stuck on the flow or sound of it.
It never seems to have the same feeling to it after a re-write. However, I
found other people's re-write of my work sometimes helped (After all, 
wasn't Ezra Pound responsible for the re-write of T.S. Eliot's Wasteland?)

    See what you think of this rewrite of an old nursery rhyme:


           Jack and Jill
           -------------

      He and She went up the hill
      (Jack and Jill)
      To fetch a pail of water from a well
      (that they could sell)
      You see,
        they're paid by Crystal Springs
        for every bucket that they bring.
      That's easy money,
      on a day that's sunny.

      He and She went up the hill
      (Jack and Jill)
      To fetch that pail of water from the well,
      (or so they tell)
      But,
        as they're coming down the hill
        Jack tripped and the bucket spilled.
      He tumbled down,
      and broke his crown.

      There She is on the hill
      (lovely Jill)
      Watching Jack lie motionless on the ground,
      (what a clown)
      So,
        thinking he'd faked the spill
        Jill followed him down the hill.
      She tumbled after,
      in a fit of laughter.


If you have something you're stuck on, I'd be happy to
give it a whirl just for fun :-) 

-------------------------------------------------------
        tinnes@ocsc.nml.gss.mot.com
              J. Troy Tinnes
'The poets pen tickles the imagination, blue'
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: "Poem" - Rhyme
Keywords: Those who like rhyming poems shouldn't read this...
Date: 16 Oct 92 02:45:01 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


RHYME

The poets often wrote in rhymes
and we, the readers, linger there,
mere substance lost to fickle time -
the best-informed seem least aware
of all the stories pantomimed
their richness, style, all their flair
their beauty lost beneath the grime
of forced, encumbered, wretched heirs!

And so, to me, are poets who,
with fresh examples set before,
insist on *rhyme* and such pursue
with style lost like tired whores.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: thomasfh@edb.tih.no (Thomas Fjaestad Hagelien,o92b)
Subject: Re: Deep Thoughts
Posting-Front-End: Winix Conference v 92.05.15  1.20 (running under MS-Windows)
Date: Fri, 9 Oct 1992 12:00:55 GMT

In article <1992Oct8.070225.9041@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com>, block@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com (Rolling Thunder) writes:


>Life without love, is not life
>It's mere existence
>

But then again
What really is love
Is that really our destiny?
Look around.
Do you see a loving world?

Look inside yourself.
Is love the only thing
that make your life
worth living.

Considering the thoughts
I'd say yes.
___ 
/homas Hagelien
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: God & Airport
Date: 13 Oct 92 14:10:47 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <1992Oct12.175601.6023@lugb.latrobe.edu.au> ENGC9241548F@LUST.LATROBE.EDU.AU (WALSH,Michael J.) writes:
>A while back I quickly read a poem here about God and an airport, now 
>that I come to download it- it's gone. I can't remember the title or 
>the author. I do remember liking it alot. Could the author (if your
> reading this) or someone with a copy E-mail it to me please? 
>
>			Thanks in advance- Michael


God in the Airport


Through the plexiglass unbreakable
I see my God,

hands nailed to the wings.
A pilot laughs in his coffee.
"I need it," he explains.
"Gotta have it
to fly this thing."

Stewardesses practice smiles
as they walk the giant corridors.
Lovers have never loved so hard
as they love today,
wordless or awkward,
pathetic.

Through the plexiglass unbreakable
I see my God.


Posthumous O'Toole
10-13-92
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: " "
Date: 12 Oct 92 18:11:40 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


In darkness
we were born
in darkness.

The small, silent room
off another room,
dark in the weekends' glowing lights
each day after another
growing and swelling into 
weeks and months of passing solitude
and somehow,
we found each other.

It was never more than fantasy
yet always more than fantasy
from beginning to beginning
each and every time we met.

There are those who mock
even still
and yet, they were the ones
who pushed us into each others' arms
inch by inch
by fading inch
in the buzzing darkness of the rooms.

The light spread out over the 
desk, and over my upturned face;
the keyboard gave my trembling hands a place to start.
And here we are,
each in each others' arms,
sharing bed and breakfast and
moments inbetween.

It's been a year
and now,
we're one.

---Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu when my husband lets me... :)
From: ken@dakota (Kenny Chaffin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: and some seed fell on rocky ground
Date: 8 Oct 92 18:14:01 GMT
Organization: U S WEST Advanced Technologies

In article <BEH.92Oct7204824@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu> beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses) writes:
>
>And some seed fell on rocky ground,
>and it could not take hold,
>and was wasted, and grew not.
>
>inside me
>I am rocky ground.
>
	Strong poem, Nancy. Great images, and so sad ;-(.

KAC
From: Pat.Dellapiana@psycho.fidonet.org (Pat Dellapiana)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Crone's vision of Gaia
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 92 17:34:14 EDT
Organization: Psycho: The Usenet<->Fidonet Gateway of St. Pete Florida

                Before the faeries danced atop the flowers
                         Afore the trees came down
                        She whispered to the winds
                              She does today

                       She kissed the breezes blown
                            and censed the air
                             to exalt herself

              Before the mountains grew from out the prairie
                        Afore the beasts were gone
                          She floated on the sea
                              She does today

                            She melted into dew
                             and wept as rain
                            to refresh herself

                 Before the rivers raced along the meadows
                           Afore the druids hid
                      She blossomed through the earth
                              She does today

                         She molded soil and made
                              a garden green
                            to indulge herself

                 Before the phoenix died and then did rise
                         Afore the gods went home
                        She flickered in the flame
                              She does today

                         She simmered in a geyser
                             She smiled to see
                            her summer balefire

                       She is the magic in your soul
                          the air above your brow
                     the tears that cleanse your heart

                    She will be here when we have gone
                         the earth wherein we lie

--  
Internet: Pat.Dellapiana@psycho.fidonet.org
UUCP: ...!myrddin!tct!psycho!Pat.Dellapiana
Note:psycho is a free gateway between Usenet & Fidonet. For info write to
     root@psycho.fidonet.org.
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Shades of Green
Date: 9 Oct 92 15:45:02 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <2718@tau-ceti.isc-br.com> cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams) writes:
)
) (Sheila Herndon) writes:
)> ...assorted ascii symbols deleted...
)>I'm jealous because everyone picks on you now and never me. I just
)>try and try to get all the attention but darmit, you keep out-witting
)>me. :p 
)>
)>laugh laugh laugh.
)>I'm going to stick my hand in your mouth until someone picks on me.
)> 
)>stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
)
)
)OK Sheila, I'll pick on you just a little bit...
)
)Did you know you managed to work your way into one of my poems a few 
)months back? I bet you didn't even notice it! Was posted right here 
)in view of the whole world, and nobody, not even the rain, 
)noticed it.
)
)I'll award 10 bonus points to the first person who remembers the poem...
)
)
)(-:
)Cecil

Well, Cecil, I do occasionally save your poems and I found a little
something called "Gringo in Mexico City".  I suspect this might be the poem
you mean since it contains a succinct description of sheila in its very
last line:


			"the rambler american"

How many points do I get for this?


-Posthumous O'Toole

-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: probe@jhunix.hcf.jhu.edu (Prabal Nandy)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Phantom Biker
Date: 16 Oct 92 01:19:40 GMT
Organization: HAC - Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore


      Phantom Biker

I heard his voice on the wind,
Laughing, screaming, under the growl,
Of his motorcycle, threatening the road,
After the sun went down, he roared,
With his bike, down silent roads.

I saw him as a shadow in the distance,
A black shape tinted with chrome,
Waxed and dusty bike grinding the ground,
His head hairless, skinless, grinning white,
They had both seen better days.

He stopped in front of me, sockets black,
Leather-cased leg pausing to balance the bike,
In a transparent illusion of mass and weight,
"Hop on." He offers, lowering his dust goggles,
Leering with chain studded madness in the dark.

Wordlessly, I sat on the shell of a bike,
My arms encircled a waist shriveling as I pulled,
Until only a double skin of leather remained,
With a laugh, he twisted the chrome grips and flew,
I watched him go, arms clutching night emptiness.


      			          (1992)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: deb@wiliki.eng.hawaii.edu (David Barrett)
Subject: Re: how do you create a .sig?  
Organization: University of Engineering, College of Engineering
Date: Sun, 11 Oct 1992 01:48:41 GMT

In article <1992Oct5.133817.7320@iscsvax.uni.edu> gilligan6855@iscsvax.uni.edu writes:
>I need to know how to make a .sig for myself, and i can't find any information
>in my help commands.   anyone?
>carolee
>

Use an editor and make whatever address and anything else into a file and
name it .sig.  You may have to fiddle with the settings in the elmrc file to
get it to attach to your outgoing mail.  (.elm/elmrc - unix op system) 
Make some mail and mail it to your self until the effect is right.  Other than
that find a good elm manual or a vintage computer net tech.  

dB
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Subject: poem
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 21:02:51 GMT


depression

If my mind is a clock
I'll click the clock on and off.
on and off, on and off.
If I could, I'd click on and off.

I would only allow running for two hours - when
talking to someone interesting, or feeling the same.
any other time, I have the ability to click it off.
on and off on and off.
If I could, I'd click on and off.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: block@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com (Rolling Thunder)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Deep Thoughts
Date: 8 Oct 92 07:02:25 EST

Life without love, is not life
It's mere existence

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca (Tim Connors )
Subject: Powerful Imagery
Organization: Memorial University of Newfoundland
Date: Wed, 14 Oct 1992 03:31:13 GMT

           "Powerful Imagery"

          We can all picture this (save gypsies):
          Flashing vcr: 12:00, 12:00.
          Coffee spills: "Damn!"
          Ice cold beer.
          Big Mac. (Even C.I.S, though rather beefless)
          Droning prof. "Time passes sooooooo slow..."
          Hole in sock-toe. (Don't you hate that?)
          Scissors protruding. From your neck.
          (Ok, there are exceptions.)
     


            " And Then came his onions"

          Theres too much milk in my jello.
          ("Stupid!" it spat)
          My auto is ill, again.
          ("Incompetent!" it teased.)
          More monkeys in the fridge.
          ("Waste!" it rasped.)
          Shortly thereafter it falls over.
          Dead. Cold.

             "Party Sounds"
 
           Hurrah! Scraponga-shimmey-shimmey!
           Sploosh....BOOM! (slide)
           Crash? Aieeeeeeeee!!!!
           (amidst sobs):
           "Guys, call an ambulance <gak>
           I think Clara passed away."

         tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca
             Tim Connors
           Poetic Wheelbarrow: Nobody, not even the snow. 
                              (Impersonation is the highest form of
                               Flattery)
                               Send comments. (Or cornmeal)
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: asf
Date: 9 Oct 92 09:16:59 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: UCLA, Sociology Department


		late again
		---------------------------------------------------------

		fight the way past
		midnight into sticky-eyed
		immortal territory
		mining the minutes 
		squeezing the rocky
		anxious passages for the 
		life
		that ought to
		be
		there

			Michael Lichter
			October 8, 1992
			Home
From: ryanp@lclark.edu (Ryan Powell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A Pillow of Stars/ Ryan Powell
Date: 12 Oct 92 04:19:42 GMT
Organization: Lewis & Clark College, Portland OR


 There's nothing like a little sleep induced adventure  =+)

  A Pillow of Stars

In my brown Datsun
I drive north from
Chicago.
Two hours of driving;
It's dark.

I stop the car along
a gravel road.
Getting out, my backpack
full of nothing I will ever
need,

I hike another hour
and reach my destination.
Finding a good spot, I
check for sticks.  None?
I lie down.

Looking up my world has 
changed.  I belong to Cirrus
Minor now.  Becoming the stars,
I imagine being worshipped and
wondered at.

I drift past myself, nodding
in greeting.  I view myself, the 
stars, from a thousand angles
and find no answer, but what's
the question?

I ask myself why.  Why am I here?
What am I running from?  From
Me?  I suppose so.  Who am I? I
Am Man, Unkind.  With that thought
I begin to spin.

I blink and I am back at my 
spot.  No spinning ego, no Cirrus Minor, only
distant stars twinkling like a nursery 
rhyme.  I hike back to my car
and start the ignition.

Poisonous fumes, deadly to all, spew
out of my car.  I drive back quickly
for I must return to my life.  Home
is where the heart dies.  Man
Unkind indeed.




        Thanks,
 
            Ryan
From: pasc1961@altair.selu.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re:  PLEASE READ THIS!!!
Date: 14 Oct 92 16:45:01 -0600
Reply-To: pasc1961@altair.selu.edu
Distribution: world
Organization: Southeastern Louisiana University





	I need help with an interpretation of William Carlos Williams' "The Red
Wheel Barrow".  I would like to hear other impressions on the form, rhetoric,
imagery, and meaning as well as personal responses on the value and excellence
of this work.  I apologize for not having a copy of the poem to post as it is
very brief and would not take long to read.  If you are familiar with this     
work, I would very much appreciate a reply.  Please send replies directly to
me.  Thank you for your help. 
 					Christopher K. Gilbert
 					pasc1961@altair.selu.edu
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: three scenes from the T
Date: 17 Oct 92 00:47:37 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


I.  From the circus

She sits a few people down
with a child on each side.
Red balloon,
green balloon,
popcorn,
sleep.

Each child holds a hand,
and in each child's other hand
is red balloon,
green balloon,
popcorn,
sleep.

The oldest is awake,
the train lurching hard
into Harvard,
and the youngest sleeps,
cheeks apple red,
pressed into her mother's lap,
clutching her red balloon.

Red balloon,
green balloon,
popcorn,
sleep.


II. Three women, one soul

Three women,
one soul.

There are three women
sitting across the aisle.
Each is dressed in her finery
for the evening,
dinner and movie, 
concert, perhaps.
Black dress, gold dress
evening pants.

They are three women,
but only one soul.
See the first look up
with soulless eyes?
The second look down,
fearing up
but the one with the soul,
she looks up,
and smiles,
secure in herself.

Three women,
one soul...

and not a soul to spare.


III. Freedom, running

She was freedom running,
red hair streaming in the cold
October air,
her black jeans pressed into her
legs like hands,
holding, caressing,
keeping her warm.
She walked in the night without
care,
and cared for none of us,
neither the passing,
nor the past,
nor the yet to come.

She is not beautiful,
doesn't seem to mind,
but when she smiled...

mirror of his desire.


--Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu when my husband doesn't need the computer for work)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems