HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: n2412@cray.com (Joe Green)
Subject: john wesley hardin
Keywords: was a friend to the poor
Date: 13 Apr 92 13:10:24 CDT


Some time left for lunch and so I will again try to make clear to
John Wesley just what I am talking about.  

The "transformation" that I can find again and again in literature
and the transformation I can see in action is this:

Wait!



First I will again refer the fellow to Rene Girard so that he will stop
asking about Derrida.

Now I refer him to Klaus Thewelit and the two volumes of his book
"Male Fantasies"

Now I ask him whether he has heard of the term "the Other" and
is aware of the uses made of this term.

Now since he is still lost I ask him whether he has read any
Feminist literary criticism.

Now I stoop so low as to ask him whether he has read Terry Eagleton
on Aesthetics and Ideology.

Now I refer him to Adorno, Horkheimer, shit -- to the entire Frankfurt
school and to Walter Benjamin for information about the commodity
and the objectification of persons.

Next I'll ask him wheter he has read Barthes on Sade -- especially
the Sadean principle of taking away the victim's language and
then blaming the victim for being without a language.

Next I'll ask him just what the hell he means be suggesting
that the idea that certain groups that are and have been
enslaved are colonized by the language of their masters or are
denied speech is wrong.  And what is meant by suggesting that the assertion
that this is true is some kind of ploy.

Then I will direct him to read what I have already written on the
subject and then to try to address what I say.  Perhaps he will
be courteous enough to do more than indulge whatever is being indulged.

Are you, John Wesley, denying that the speechlessness I have
described is real?  Does the fact that for centuries women
have had next to nothing to say about their situation as chattel
suggest that speechlessness is a fantasy?  Or is there some
esoteric way in which they have been heard and heeded?

   
--
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Two Lonely Planets
Date: 16 Apr 92 18:07:08 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA

In article <24UH02OT10pz01@JUTS.ccc.amdahl.com> dfs30@DUTS.ccc.amdahl.com (PUT YOUR NAME HERE) writes:
>In article <1992Apr15.071512.5417@ecst.csuchico.edu> klaw@ecst.csuchico.edu (Almighty Nodens the Master of the Elder Sign) writes:
>>
>>P.S. If someone reads this who knows what the word is that means to give 
>>     human attributes to inanimate objects is please tell me, its really 
>>     bugging me that I can't remember the word.
>>                                               -Jason
>
>
>      The word you're looking for is PERSONIFICATION
>           Denise

Howse  about  "Anthropomorphize" ?

Inanely attributing to 
inanimate objects
inordinate hominoid
characteristics



Cecil  
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: n2412@cray.com (Joe Green)
Subject: Re: The Business of Poetry
Organization: Cray Research, Inc.
Date: 14 Apr 92 12:42:16 CDT

In article <1992Apr14.105136.6626@bronze.ucs.indiana.edu> "Andrew C. Aiken" <aaiken@silver.ucs.indiana.edu> writes:
>	Indeed, if this discussion is to remain on rec.arts.poems, should
>not poetry be the core of each article?  Here is a short poem, of the
>epigrammatic variety, which I posted a long while ago.  By turns, the
>business of poetry is lit as through swift clouds.  Is not this world
>awful and tenebrious?  Enough introduction.
>
>Here it is.
>
>
>	    The Marginalization of Marginalization (a poem)
>
>
>
>This									is
>what									happens
>when									poets
> run									out
>  of									ideas
>
>
>
>
>
>			-----------------
>
>	It is well known that the intertextualities of "harmony" and
>""(rhy)th(e)m(e)"" are intolerably phlegmatic.  As the swain elides,
>redaction becomes universal.  Poetry  sifts through stranger alembics.
>I wrote a poem about this, too.
>
>
>
>	My girlfriend says
>	I marginalize her
>
>	Not being
>	a small man,
>
>	in my slumber
>	I steal the covers
>	and shove her
>	to the edge
>	of the bed.
>
>
>Andrew Aiken
>
>
And dream of what -- chasing gazelles?  Marvelous tombs?
A safe place?



-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: comptec91072@camins.camosun.bc.ca
Subject: Don't Let It Go
Organization: Camosun College
Date: Wed, 15 Apr 1992 18:23:23 GMT

.pg
.nf
.c
^&Don't Let it Go\& (Mike Laur)
.s1
I met a girl, a lonely girl
You can tell she was feeling pain.
When I first laid eyes upon her
I knew my world would never be the same.
.s1
I softly introduced myself
And asked her what was wrong.
The answer that she gave to me
I wrote into a song.
.s2
She said "Mike I need a friend right now
'Cause I really don't know who I am
And frankly, now, don't give a damn
I just wish that it would end."
.s2
I put my arms around her
And pulled her to my heart
I tried to act the big strong man
Though I didn't feel the part.
.s1
'Cause I know what it's like to be confused
And to lie awake all night.
I know what it's like when you're being used
And you've lost your will to fight.
.s1
I held her tight, and stroked her hair
I softly kissed her cheek.
She said "It's hard to count on someone."
I said "I'm the one seek."
I'm the one you seek.
.s1
But now I...
.s1
Hear you're leaving town today
I really wish you would stay
'Cause my world's a'coming apart at the seams
And I've kinda lost my way.
.s1
I know there's been some times
When I've felt this way before
But I always knew you were by my side
Now I need you more.
.s2
I'm going under again girl
And the world is cold and grey
I want you to know you're my special friend
And I wish that you would stay.
It seems that only yesterday
You came into my life
But your heart is wandering I know,
But please, don't let it go.
.s2
I see your eyes are far away
Your soul is flying high.
But I need your heart beside me girl
'Cause without your love I'd die.
.s1
But to proove your love, you can't hold on
Even though inside you burn.
If she truly loves me,
I know she will return.
.s2
I'm going under again girl
There's an emptiness inside.
Please one more time, hold me tight
'Cause a place in my heart has died.
It seems that now tomorrow,
You'll be living on your own.
'Cause your heart is wandering, I know
But please, don't let it go.
Don't let it go...
Don't let it go...
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: n2412@cray.com (Joe Green)
Subject: Re: tv commerical poem REBUTTAL
Keywords: cher,tv,poem,rebuttal
Organization: Cray Research, Inc.
Date: 10 Apr 92 15:50:51 CDT

In article <casteley.702899092@groucho.phil.ruu.nl> casteley@phil.ruu.nl (Eric Casteleyn) writes:
>
>
>  I have a question for mr. Green: Isn't it true that there are people who
> can mess up the funniest jokes by telling them wrong? Isn't it also true
> that there are people to whom you'd rather not give a gift as personal as
> a poem? (If there are not then my word, you are a bigger filantropist than
> I am.) 
>
>  I see your points, and I wouldn't mind someone else saying they had
> written one of my poems. What I WOULD mind is the running the chance
> that that person would explain what he meant by the poem and thus de-
> stroy it.(I try not to mean things by my poetry.) This is almost as
> selfish an argument for copyright as the one of personal gain or fame,
> I agree...    
>
once someone reads your poem this is what happens anyway.  There is nothing
you can do about it except try to coerce a certain meaning or feeling
or non-meaning or non-feeling when you write the poem.  The rest
(including the act of writing) is the good old hermeneutic circle.
When you offer your poem for reading you are already offering something
personal -- or is there a way to control who reads your poem?  It is
no longer yours.  

readers will make what they want of it.  You write within a culture
and a tradition and may hope that this will constrain the meanings
readers get from your stuff -- but there is no way to make sure
this happens. You might feel that you are fortunate if you have
professional explainers who try to place your poem in a tradition,
in the culture, in the context of your work and so on but their
explanations may amaze and appall -- nothing you can do about it then.
You know this and offer the poem anyway.  Good.  But no promises.

 


>
>            as far as I don't understand it,
>
>                                                EJC
>
>>-- 


-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: GC.SUL@forsythe.stanford.edu (Sullivan)
Subject: Re: Reserving Rights on your poetry
Organization: Stanford University, California, USA
Distribution: usa
Date: Fri, 17 Apr 1992 05:26:35 GMT

In article <QLFLY3B@ais.org>,
chungkuo@ais.org (Shawn FitzGerald) writes:

(burp)
>agree with him. We are moving towards a more electronic way of life. There
>will be no more writers reaching godlike status. The most you can hope for
>is a few brief moments of fame/admiration, perhaps from someone on the net.

This is the Warhol argument.  If writing were merely an 'art', an
expression of thought on 'paper' using whatever tools you happen to
have stumbled on, or were blessed with, then I would agree with you.
Fame/admiration could be had by the lottery of fashion, style,
sound bites, and marketing.  Your god will appear once a week on
Arsenio wearing different clothes and skins and hairs and accents.

Writing is a craft.  There are still godlike writers who have
learned the breadth of language, history, expression, and have
practiced it doggedly- athletically. Others of their kind that have
similarly invested the every day struggle admire the best of them.
If this admiration/fame were quantified I think that it is the same
as it has always been.

Fame as is brought to us by TV is a completely unrelated species. It
has it's own life and energy and appears mushroom shaped.

OB Poem (posted here years ago to limited appeal)

Wisdom

If wisdom were water
we'd all drink it down
chug it, gulp it, probably drown.
The unwise that drank not
would gather and say:
Twas lack of wisdom that saved us today.

Mike Sullivan
From: sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (sheila)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: science fiction poetry
Date: 7 Apr 92 15:25:20 GMT
Organization: The University of Texas at Austin, Austin TX

i have an old science fiction anthology with a few poems
in it. one by sylvia plath:

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
TAke hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudges and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

sylvia plath

and the idea of science fiction poetry has
interested me for a while. does anyone write it?
I tried a long time ago to write one, and it was
very messy, i havn't cleaned it up yet even.
I'm having much fun trying to write three line 
poems, so i will try a science fiction three liner:

	atmosphere pulls the clouds.
	trails of white water.
	a different planet.

but it is not as good as i would like. i'm writing
it to try and convey this certain feeling i have
when i watch the sky and think about things.
The sky will look different, i can imagine being
an alien and watching it. I think of watching
venus and jupiter, and wonder what the earth would
look like with the same detachment. or objectivism.
that is another thing that has interested me
in poetry -- being objective. perhaps i should
save my questions for that for another article.
-- 
stark raving sane -- sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: glj27240@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu (the cult of Carrie )
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a poem, to Ponge's "The Metamorphosis"
Date: 7 Apr 92 03:39:06 GMT
Article-I.D.: ux1.1992Apr7.033906.19955
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana

(initial sketch)
-----------------

From slumber calculated
To the full colour of your existence.

You have wings
Now, and a much smaller frame

You fly

And can no longer wrap your amorphous casing
Around the bark of a tree

(you have become the leaf you so ardently devoured, possessed)
(this - the price of " knowing flowers ")

...........................................................

There is a saddness, in butterflies
Seldom seen


-- 
							 
                                                  the cult of Carrie
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: the business of poetry
Keywords: condolences
Date: 17 Apr 92 00:18:48 GMT
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us





Joe Green writes:

>The problem with Marxism as practiced by his vile epigones
>is that it was enacted within the same old "paradigm."  The Marxist 
>dialectic that sublates others to understand them and then to use them is
>of a piece with the dialectic Marxists claimed they resisted.

Seems to be true of "greenism" as well. Oh, I'm sorry, he said that
didn't he ... epigone.  Lenin, Stalin, Castro, Green ... et al.

>False consciousness implies that there is a true consciousness.  I have
>not used this phrase -- and for this reason.  It is ,however, easy to
>see that a consciousness may be colonized by that which enslaves it.
>The idea that everything is a commodity and the inability to see
>through certain myths ( to see that they are directed against you)
>is an example.

Obligatory ... seeing the totalitarian for what he really is (and voicing
the realization) always results in this sort of patronizing rhetoric.
The "myth" here is green's ... that someone, with the right and ability to
come to some other conclusion than green's conclusion, is either under the
control of (colonized by) some other patron, or is incapable of rational
thought. Perhaps he even believes it ... don't bet on it though ... it's
a very old device. Be on the look out for a variation on the word 
"criminal"  ... it should be coming soon.

>Did I say anything about "abolishing" private property?  I am suggesting
>that there is an alternative to the economy of the commodity -- a gift
>economy.  

No you didn't say anything about abolishing property, and I never thought 
for a minute that you'd want that ...

far from it ... what good is being fuehrer if it doesn't translate to
SOME type of property?

>This is more of a Christian than a Marxist sentiment.

There is nothing beneath this man. Tell me joe, how does Pius feel
about it? He ready to sign yet?

>You move a little too fast here.  You are talking about private
>property (one must assume that you mean all private property)
>assume that the "Left" is out to abolish it and assume that
>this leads to loss of individual freedom.  A lot of assumptions
>and nothing much to do with what I say

Yes, there are far more threats coming from the "Right" nowadays ...
And then there's Mr. Green, who'll come at you from any direction that
will work.

>Exactly -- and why do you think that the world view many have now
>is not established by a kind of Ministry -- one much more
>subtle and dangerous?  I mention Foucault.

Very dangerous. I mention Green.


		JJWebb	


-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: comptec91072@camins.camosun.bc.ca
Subject: <None>
Organization: Camosun College
Date: Wed, 15 Apr 1992 19:36:46 GMT

.pg
.nf
.c
^&Nuclear Khubla Khan\& (Mike Laur)
.s1
You can see them in the distance
You can hear their engines roar
Smell the scent of oil and sweat
They're marching off to war.
.s1
Their merciless eyes see nothing
But the blood of enemies slain.
Shoot and run, dive and roll
Another battle gain.
.s1
Hordes of them are moving
they'll be hear before the dawn
All you see will turn to dust
Under the Nuclear Khubla Khan.
.s1
Riding ahead in an armoured tank
He's first tto make his kill
Crushing, destroying entire nations
With his mighty iron will.
.s1
I've used up all my ammo
I slowly draw my sword
A flying bullet hits my chest
And I'm trampled by his horde.
.s1
A scream of jets, the whine of bombs,
Another battle's won.
Thousands are still in silent mass graves
The ones who didn't run.
.s1
I see him in the distance 
I remember my murdered child
My body is broken and I'll probably die
I am an animal cornered and wild.
.s1
It's too late when he sees me
He's too slow to dodge my knife,
I relish the look of terror and pain
As I slowly take his life.
.s1
My thirst for revenge is not quenched
In a pool of blood I find his crown
I unleash my voice in a primal scream,
"I am the Nuclear Khubla Khan!"
.s1
I destroy others as I have been
It is the call of destiny,
Oh God, I pray for the day
When someone releases me.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: chungkuo@ais.org (Shawn FitzGerald)
Subject: Another fragment/hyperWhat???
Organization: UMCC
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 92 03:03:11 GMT

Pieces of two seperate paths, which ended up being something else without my
notice. Who would think?

1,000 poems cover
backs of other purposes
Waiting for that time
when all goes free
Joyous Release
Final Ascension
Apocalypse calling

Then why
I could hear all the words
in my head
Mozart did it
didn't he?
A symphony of the mind
Recombination of a
scant few particles
Eight notes a million words
the song still plays the same

They sit there all still
lonely as unfinished
No structure just a
frag 
       ment
 
A piece of a dream 


-- 
   Shawn FitzGerald           |   chungkuo@ais.org
   (Rational Romantic         |   University of Michigan
    Mystic Cynical Idealist)  |   Computing Club
"I love you so I keep dreaming . . ." -Bananas, _The House of Blue Leaves_
From: sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (sheila)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: very short essay? about cat?
Summary: this is prose, but i like this group better than alt.prose
Date: 6 Apr 92 16:12:36 GMT
Organization: The University of Texas at Austin, Austin TX


you should observe your cat. if you do not have a cat
i will tell you about mine.
frst she will let me pet her and scratch behind the
ears. then she will be very bitchy and decide to clean
my hands and be greedy about it.
because she will start batheing my fingers and if i 
try to pet her fur with my other hand she will
stop and bite it. let me alone! my turn!
and she will think about my hand and lick between
my fingers. it must be very skeletal to her,
and bizarrely long. you should hold your friends hand
that way, thinking about how strange it is that your
girlfriend doesn't have a cat's paw.

also consider this,
when i was lonely i bought a group of ten yellow
tulips. when i took them home my cat was very suprised.
earlier on walk i picked some honeysuckle blossems and
she was interested in the new smell. i wonder if she 
thinks i am very strange to suddenly start bringing new
smelling things home? she meowed and walked aroudn them
when i had placed them on the floor next to the window.
later she was used to them, until, after a nap on the 
couch i got up and took a blossom with me to hold on
the couch. i think she was jealous that i would hold
it against my face. when she saw me touch it to my mouth
she jumped up on the couch and watched me and smelled
the tulip again and pawed it. she settled down again
and wandered to another window. but when i started rubbing
the flower against my face like a paintbrush she was startled
and ran to where the nine other yellow tulips where
to see what possible interest i could have in yellow flowers.

later, after i had gone on a walk and eventually took off my
shoes, (even collecting more honeysuckle, i will eventually
learn not to pick them and only to look, next time i will only
look), she greeted my feet at the door and found more new
smells in the sand under my toes. it had rained so i walked
in mud and puddles. i like the poem where ee cummmings
has the far and wee man and the mudluscious spring. i like telling
stories about my cat and myself.
-- 
stark raving sane -- sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Re--Reserving rights on your poetry
Date: 16 Apr 92 10:13:52 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

Ralph Cherubini writes:

> Someone steal your poetry? You should be so lucky...

"...lucky, lucky, lucky..." Damn! I just stole from Kylie Minogue...

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: Ralph.Cherubini@f10.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org (Ralph Cherubini)
Sender: uucp@p0.f39.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Refunds
Date: 16 Apr 92 09:27:46 EST

                               Refunds
 
I stand before you,
hands on hips,
shoulders back,
judging you severely,
and find you wanting:
wanting and needing so badly that my frame relaxes,
and I take you into my arms,
and we look together for something which may comfort the stiffness
out of our lives and bodies,
and seeking,
find only our affection for our own selves mirrored in the other,
and I give back to you that which you think I have taken,
and you restore to me that which I gave to you,
then accused you of stealing--
we don't want to be twins,
anymore,
but friends and lovers,
and it takes two for either of those wonders to happen.


 * Origin: Connect America #3, Austin, Tx, 512-459-3351 (1:382/10.0)
From: greene@dew.cs.odu.edu (Bradley Greene)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: rec.arts.poems
Date: 10 Apr 92 03:59:07 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Old Dominion University, Norfolk, VA, USA



Here is my first attempt at poetry/ song writing and this it
  what I've come up with.  If anyone has any comments, criticisms
  or ideas for additional verses please mail greene@cs.odu.edu



Who can tell me How I feel
Give me substance make me real
Silent days and lonely nights
Running in circles, flying kites

Am I standing on shakey ground
Does this room go round and round
Could it be that you are near
Could it be I'm full of fear

What my purpose for standing here
Watching the time disapear
Its too much ration to comprehend
We'll never know until end

Why must I leave all so depressed
What do you know I've become obsessed?
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems