HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: UNTITLED...
From: bgrueber@desire.wright.edu
Date: 26 Jul 92 19:47:34 EST
Organization: Wright State University 

In article <0095E0C5.520C3A80@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu>, ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu writes:
> 
> 	The faceless assassin 
> 	Am I.
> 
> My cross-hairs 
> Float
> Across the masses.
> Her head,
> Slight pressure,
> Shoulder nudge,
> Silent puff of smoke.
> I have power.
> 
> 	The nameless killer
> 	Am I.
> 
> My blade,
> Ice.
> Stalking silent
> From behind
> Jarring jab
> The quiet gasp.
> Seemingly slow 
> Collapse.
> I walk on.
> 
> 	The fluid liquidator 
> 	Am I.
> 
> My swords swipe,
> Parry.
> Bloody blades
> Piroette
> One high, one low
> High slice stopped.
> Low thrust through,
> Hilt deep.
> I know victory.
> 
> 	The infactuated lover
> 	Am I.
> 
> My arms around her,
> Warmth.
> Her body
> Mine.
> Consuming hunger,
> Unsatiable appetite,
> Her empty eyes.
> She slits my throat.
> 
> 
Micheal,
If you are looking for a collective title for these little pieces, who about
looking at the increasing intensity of the emotion of the stranger murderer. 
Thematical the use of blood and the increase in a form of maturity.  How about
Ripening Blood for a collective title.  I assume of course that you have
written more of these short shockers.  I hope this is helpful.  I write a
little myself, but do enjoy helping others get their owrk prepared for
publication.  Enjoy your view of life, and may others see your wisdom.

Bob > 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Could ya all help me with a title for this??
> (maybe a bit 'o C&C)??
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Michael...
> 
> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> Only when you have to hold onto the grass to keep from falling off the earth
> are you drunk enough to enjoy life.
> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From: agathos@ccs.northeastern.edu (Michael W Wojcik)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Folk poesy: Ramsay & Gay
Date: 23 Jul 92 13:36:14 GMT
Organization: Comp. Sci. @ NU

In article <1992Jul22.173544.21507@morrow.stanford.edu> francis@oas.stanford.edu (Francis Muir) writes:
> [re Gay's lyrics to popular songs, vs. Ramsay's]
> [Ramsay elipsed for brevity]
>
>So that was Allan Ramsay writing in behalf of his rustic swain. Here
>is John Gay now with the words given to Lucy Lockett who has been
>seduced by MacHeath into setting him free from the gaol that her father
>keeps. 
>
>	I like the fox shall grieve,
>	Whose mate hath left her side,
>	Whom hounds, from morn to eve,
>	Chase o'er the country wide.
>	Where can my lover hide?
>	Where cheat the wary pack?
>	If love be not his guide,
>	He never will come back.
>
>I find this much more affecting. Far removed from the conventional 
>tone of Ramsay's text. How do you rec.arts.poets find this early
>18th century folk verse?
>
>						Fido

I'd have to choose Gay as well.  His lyrics, I think, are in general more
technically sophisticated than those of his counterparts in the popular
song business; in the case of the stanza above, it's the extended metaphor
that does it for me.  (Ramsay's are mostly confined to couplets, and his
verse, while euphoneous, reads a bit like a Hallmark card.)  Gay strikes
a nice balance between accessability and intellectual appeal, which may be
what made him rich (yes, and Rich gay...).  Blake (_Songs of Innocence_ and
_Songs of Experience_) versus Robert Burns strikes me as a similar comparison.


Michael Wojcik
-----------------
"Another chapter in my life is closed," said Anne aloud, as she locked her
desk.  She really felt very sad over it; but the romance in the idea of that
"closed chapter" did comfort her a little.
				-- L. M. Montgomery, _Anne of Avonlea_
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kruus@gpu.utcs.utoronto.ca (Kaia Kruus)
Subject: Topple the Memory
Organization: University of Toronto Computing Services
Date: Wed, 29 Jul 1992 16:54:53 GMT


You tap on my mind like you'd stand at my shoulder
You tap like you'd rap on some public door
You tap into me; and something bursts open
Memories of you gush out once more

I turn and retort from my stockpile of brilliance
I catapult you out with revenge fantasies
I turn you into a shrivelled, snivelling witch
When you're banished, I know I'll be free

I've stoppered the flood; I'm atop of my emotions
I stamp on the patch just to make sure --
But what am I now, dried out, empty of feelings?
I let leak the ghost of you once more
I tap into and drink of you once more

----------------

These are actually lyrics to a song I wrote.
Good, bad, and ugly comments all welcomed!


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poetry
Subject: Topple The Memory
Followup-To: 
Distribution: world
Organization: University of Toronto Computing Services
Keywords: 

You tap on my mind like you'd stand at my shoulder
You tap like you'd rap on some public door
You tap into me; and something bursts open
Memories of you gush out once more

I turn and retort from my stockpile of brilliance
I catapult you out with revenge fantasies
I turn you into a shrivelled, snivelling witch
When you're banished, I know I'll be free

I've stoppered the flood; I'm atop of my emotions
I stamp on the patch just to make sure --
But what am I now, dried out, empty of feelings?
I let leak the ghost of you once more
I tap into and drink of you once more

----------------

These are actually lyrics to a song I wrote.
Good, bad, and ugly comments all welcomed!


-- 

 k a i a -
  r     - 
   u   -  Kaia Kruus
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (jestem oczarowana)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Author of quote needed ..
Date: 28 Jul 92 23:14:42 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle


 gatchall@rtsg.mot.com (Scott W. Gatchall) writes:
>I've got a quote from a poem that's really bugging me
>because I'm not sure of the title or author of the
>poem.  Could someone please e-mail me with this info?
>
>quote (something like this):
>
>"Do not go gently into that good night.
> Rage.
> Rage.
> Against the fading of the light."
>
>Thanks ...


Dylan Thomas - about the death of his father I believe.
I don't have the poem with me now, but it is in almost any 
collection of Thomas' work.  There is another marvelous 
phrase, maybe in the same poem, about owls stealing the farm
away at night while he sleeps.  Please forgive my memory lapse,
I don't have the whole thing memorized.

-Rebecca
From: Ralph.Cherubini@mdf.FidoNet.Org (Ralph Cherubini)
Sender: uucp@mdf.FidoNet.Org
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--How the little boy
Date: 29 Jul 92 08:04:01 EST

                        How the little boy
 
How the little boy
still lives in the man--
visiting the old parents
he tries to help
in the little ways he can
wants
still
to make things all better
but the time is past
things will never be better
again
the decline
is beginning
has begun
its downhill acceleration
which will not now ever end
all he can do is
run along beside them
be with them
as they lose everything
health
memory
the world outside themselves
all he can do is accompany them
down the sloping hill
that is all he can do
now
that is all.
Not much
but he dare do
no less...


 * Origin: Connect America #5, Austin, Tx, 512-459-3351 (1:382/10.0)
From: an26@sol.acs.unt.edu (Dave Roberts)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Night Worship
Date: 29 Jul 92 18:07:48 GMT
Organization: University of North Texas


Night Worship
		by Dave Roberts

Hold the feathered staff against the sun
the dying light of the desert
and fill me with your mystic power
to make me dance and shout my joy

The firelight dances with me
flickers in the cooling wind 
and casts my spirit into the heavens
where stars shine in the night sky

All of creation sings with me
the power thrilling through my bones
as I melt into sweet divinity
and run with the gods into forever

--
Any comments/critiques/flames are welcome.
-- 
+----------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Dave Roberts         | Disclaimer:  I've already wiped the keyboard  |
| an26@sol.acs.unt.edu | down, and no one saw me type this, so don't   |
+----------------------+ even try to implicate me.                     | 
| Entropy Happesn      +-----------------------------------------------+
+----------------------+ Hey, cool!  My fingers are growing!           |
| cogito, ergo doom    | No, wait... it's just my fingernails.  Again. |
+----------------------+-----------------------------------------------+
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ac@cheshire.oxy.edu (Aileen Cho)
Subject: Affair of an Intern
Organization: Occidental College, Los Angeles, CA.  USA
Distribution: usa
Date: Wed, 29 Jul 1992 18:57:40 GMT



Too Cool for You                  
*****************
Remember when I had
rust on my hands and
fluid running down my puffy face
red with allergy and embarassment 
but thinking you seemed really cool
Two days later at a tecchie party
you asked me for a backrub
and sparks flew,
rumors flew
but that was okay, it was cool 
Then we started the silly games,
acting so nonchalant 
behind sunglasses and sweat
Til finally one night after beer
you came with me to my room     
and we fucked
and it felt really cool.
And we tried to pretend like what we skipped
didn't matter, it was okay we never talked
at least you wouldn't
and I couldn't
So I went home with you that weekend  
washed your dishes,
helped you find the veggie burgers
slept in your mama's waterbed
and said nothing.
But now you act oh so cool
and whenever I tried to talk with you
like we were just two human beings
shooting the breeze
all I get is the breeze
So I figured what the fuck
All you wanted was a fuck
So I said, that's okay, that's cool
Then you got on a high horse of morals
Leaving me in the dust of your potsmoke
to wonder what you want
--or don't want,
How the hell am I supposed to know?
So I watched the flower you gave me fade
And shook my head and walked away
Because you're just too totally cool
for me

--AC 7-92

This is a rough draft...it's hard to structure something that comes out
of immense frustration, I've found...but all C's (comments...etc.) welcome.
From: boris@athena.eng.hou.compaq.com (Boris Litinsky)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Time
Date: 28 Jul 92 21:13:09 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: Compaq Computer Corp.


TIME

--------------------------------
Like raindrops from the sky
I see time raining by.
The water is barely at my feet
There is very little feel to it.
Now the water is at my knees
and I can hardly breathe.
Soon the water level rises.
Swept away by my despises,
I can swim no longer now
Like a rock I must drown.
--------------------------------






--
| Boris Litinsky	          "I came to the woods to live deliberately,  |
| ASIC Design Engineer 	          "so that when it came time to die, I had    |
| boris@athena.eng.hou.compaq.com "not learned that I have not lived."-Thoreau|
| "The views expressed here are my own, and not those of my employer."	      |
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@trauma.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: dav
Keywords: DAv
Organization: Gator Conferencing Systems - 219-289-0777 - 6 lines
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 1992 02:30:52 GMT





 
the realization i must protect you at all costs comes slowly
working and weaving its threads thru my brain in blue
pulling me along enough slowly so as not to cut thru the tender meat
still inside my head
 
a million bees in my head when i think your name
so you are safe
for now
 
you are the warrior of the last resistance.
 
 

-- 

_________________________________________________________________________
 "Blessed is she who expects nothing, for she shall not be disappointed"
____________________________sara@gator.rn.com____________________________
From: rininger@gn.ecn.purdue.edu (Christopher A Rininger)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Winter Tree
Date: 27 Jul 92 19:22:42 GMT
Organization: Purdue University Engineering Computer Network


     Here is a recent one that I wrote with my [ex-]girlfriend when
she broke up with me a week and a half ago after ten whole months.
I hope that both she and y`all like it.  Thanks!




				  WINTER TREE

             Dead and living trees look the same in winter.
             Leafless frames; tower tall
             Squirrel shelters, resting stops for weary birds.
             How does the woodsman know which trees to fall?
             For when on living trees he draws his "X"
             The life inside cannot protect 
             From axe-inflicted death.

             And so lovers, when the leaves fall off your love,
             Consider a winter tree.
             Wear not until at least a season`s pass your chopping gloves;
             Allow the chance for springtime green.



{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
	     Comments to rininger@gn.ecn.purdue.edu   -------Chris
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Christian Dylan Losinger)
Subject: Re: not even well-written letters...
Reply-To: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 1992 12:47:51 GMT

In article <9490@uqcspe.cs.uq.oz.au>, michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
complains:

>> 	or the empty postponement of this poem 
>
>No, no, no. You can't get that far and just give up on the very last line.
>I say take it back and give us a different last line. Harrumph.

	oh cant you see that that was my unconquerable sense of hopelessness 
crushing me at the realization that there is nothing i can do, being this far
separated from my true love - that everything i can do or say is merely empty
vanity and nothing , no nothing can ever take the place of my true love's face
resting trustingly in my hands as we watch ....*snap out of it, man!*

	:)
        --------------------------------------------------------------
        	c  h  r  i  s   l  o  s  i  n  g  e  r   r  i  t
From: 78witherspoo@cuavax.dnet.cua.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Peace
Date: 22 Jul 92 19:43:22 GMT
Organization: The Catholic University of America

Okay, okay, enough with the persecution of Mr. Bang.

All parties can go to their corners and take 5.

And now a silly poem:

	Peace

I look out my window, and what do I see?
Three cop cars, an ambulance, and a boy like me.
What is he doing, you ask with surprise,
Why nothing, I reply, he already died.

-- 7/22/92

Tom W.(itherspoon)

P.S. Okay, so it wasn't silly.  At least it was short, cynically speaking.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Subject: Re: snip
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU
Date: Mon, 27 Jul 1992 17:34:30 GMT

In article <9552@uqcspe.cs.uq.oz.au>, michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel) writes:
>(response to the opposing Michael's recent morbid streak)

Me????  Morbid????  :)  Not really, just trying to relate to the masses...
I think you might enjoy my latest one...



            My Relationships

Her head used to shake when she was angry,
My stomach would churn with fear.
Her outline in the moonlight 
Sliced me to the bone.
Her voice insenced my desires,
My fear cut out her tounge.
Her desires forced her to leave 
My desires forced me to crush,
Crush her head
Like an over-ripe tomato.
Now, I sit and contemplate
Why did she leave?

Burning fire in my bones,
I retaliate farther.
I see women with her hourglass form,
My desires sprout,
Fear overtakes me--will she leave me again?
The ice-pick will I use, 
One strong blow when she, spead-eagle, moans
Severing the brain
She can not leave.




I appologize for the misspellings!!!





Michael...
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Death is a way of life.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Tue, 21 Jul 1992 19:34:49 GMT
Subject: Re: Re: Art Despot
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel) writes:

> 
> without judges, there is no art. there is only activity. i mean the
> artist as judge. decision and consequence. the only criterion is that
> there are no criteria except new ones.  and all the things that are
> known by people who know what the things are that need to be known in
> order to be one of the people who know the things that need to be known
> to make long pompous meaningless sentences.

Beautifully said.  My first child to the author...

doug
From: bob@netxcom.netx.com (Robert Thralls)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Untitled love poem (the pot calling the kettle black?)
Date: 22 Jul 92 14:18:58 GMT
Organization: NetExpress Inc., Vienna, VA, USA


>I like this poem better and am glad to have been even a small part of its
>genesis.  It's so much better when we really dig into words instead of just
>saying them.
>And yes I do call you poet.  I am glad you are honored and hope you don't
>take it lightly.
>POSTHUMOUS HAS SPOKEN
>
[still more deletions...]
><+-+-+
><But you don't have to call me a poet (although I'm honored that you did).
><
><	-- orpheus (still no .signature required)

great, long live the subtle .signature!

I now a brave new insight as to what dad meant by 
"The pot calling the kettle black"
and I thought it was derogatory for so many years.

could it be that I allowed my fathers pesimism to interfere with my own
interpretation of what he was saying? Perhaps, I too, have only been an
extension of a parent at some time, and those ties are only now releasing
themselves from the rings around the family circle.

no signature required
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: never to return
From: kupixel@oread.cc.ukans.edu
Date: 26 Jul 92 19:36:52 CDT
Organization: University of Kansas Academic Computing Serces

i cannot understand
the kind of mind that makes
jumps like Escher down staircase
tumbling linebylinebyline.
terminal verse,
staggering,
a vortex of doggerel in the
whitewater of sound and sense.
i know
this does
not rhyme.
but what would your poetry be
without a random return key?

c.j.
poet for the public domain
KUpixel@oread.cc.ukans.edu
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Mon, 20 Jul 1992 18:10:10 GMT
Subject: Re: Attention, please!
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems


I am yet unpublished, so I probably lack a certain credibility, but:

> 
> i write quite a bit of poetry and am experiencing a recurring problem
> with said activity.  friends and strangers alike often read my work and
> tell me that it is of excellent quality, and often tell me i should 
> consider doing it "professionally" (ie publish). 

Friends are rarely a good source of criticism for your work.
Strangers are only more useful if they have the knowledge and 
the will to actually give you constructive criticism, which means
pointing out what you are not doing well as well as what you
are.  This is very rare.  Most people do not care to criticize.

> in addition, i am usually
> satisfied with what i write. 

Maybe this is part of the problem.  If you REALLY want recognition
as you suggest, perhaps more viscious self-criticism is needed.

> however, the problem is that whenever i enter
> a contest or present my work to some similar "authority" i never get any
> sort of notice, good nor bad. 

Have you submitted for publication?

> so, i have come to the masses of r.a.p.
> (rap? hmm... what an unfortunate acronym) to ask that you would please
> solve the dilemma once and for all:  am i really good or do i stink?

Probably neither as a matter of fact.  It is most likely that you
are like most of us, a poetic Dilettante who is not dedicated
enough to the craft to get truly good.

doug
From: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Christian Dylan Losinger)
Subject: not even well-written letters...
Reply-To: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Tue, 21 Jul 1992 12:20:25 GMT


	my eyes grow greener
	as they stare out the window
	absorb the grasslight
	the vegetable sameness of summer's humid sigh 
	reflecting nothing - blank 

	her eyes are grey
	stones 
	cold

	there are wonderful things vaulted in her eyes 
	tears
	the grey blues in the softest lights 
	her eyes unlocked 
		with softest words 
       		kindest praise
       	tears
       	as foreign to her as honesty
	her cheeks wet mine  
       
	my arms are thin and empty
	my hands flaccid and idle
	her skin is five-hundred miles away
	not even well-written letters 
	can cup her face in my hands and not kiss her
		when everything Hollywood has taught me says kiss her
			and the sun will set across all oceans 
			and the closing music will play
			and our story will be set happily forever
	not to kiss her but to look at her
	and know she would let me kiss her
		that she wants me to
	to look at her and try to shout I Love You as loudly as my 
		face eyes hands can
		lips still barely open 
		breathing 
	not even well-written letters
	or surprised phone calls
	or wishes upon stars
	or memories
	or the empty postponement of this poem 
        --------------------------------------------------------------
        	c  h  r  i  s   l  o  s  i  n  g  e  r   r  i  t
From: bob@netxcom.netx.com (Robert Thralls)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Art Despot
Date: 22 Jul 92 16:08:15 GMT
Organization: NetExpress Inc., Vienna, VA, USA


>> Now, I'm upset that someone would judge art, for to judge a piece of art is
>> to step upon someone's toes. Judging art is pretentious and squelches many
>> personal opinions. Just as the poem speaks, just as the story speaks, on 
>> many levels, cannot a piece of art do the same? The same piece of art will
>> change in my eyes throughout life, if it didn't, then what purpose would it
>
>No, judging art *is* personal opinions. Art is personal expression loaded
>with opinions. If someone says some "art" I produce is crap, it means that
>they think it's crap. Whoopee. It doesn't mean it is crap. If everyone but
>me thinks it's crap, it means I've got something special that nobody else
>appreciates. Criticising art is just a big game because it doesn't mean
>anything, but it's nice to try to communicate to someone the neural storm
>that happens when your brain eats some art, and to figure out how make
>more effectively stormy art.
>
>$0.02
>
>-m.

I have nothing against personal opions. I just don't like it when
I see them squashed by a professional one. You may be able to let
those professional ones slide off with a "Whoopee", but many do not,
they trust implicitly, and have a lower self esteem because of the
clash in opionions, so I am not opposed to the opinions themselves,
just the value attatched to them.

Now let me be more clear. To *"JUDGE"* art is what I am opposed to,
not personal opionions. For a judgement *is* a personal opionion, nothing
more. The main problem is that a judgement usually carries credentials
and is somewhat respected in [that] community. This has many reprocussions,
it tends to make some pieces more [monitarily] valuable than others.
So what i am opposed to is the professionalization of a personal opinion.
No opinion is more valueable, nor more correct than any other opinion.
A game, yes; and quite lucritive from what I understand.

Ya, know, if we killed all the lawyers, that would also include 
judges and a great many congressmen, too.
(just a thought)

$2.000.000,02
(I put a high value on MY opinion)

-b.
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Another UNTITLED one...
Date: 24 Jul 92 17:42:46 GMT
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU

Help on the title, please...(c&c too...)



despair driven,
you crave
another.
flying fears,
you cry 
"awesome!"
pleasureful pain,
you desire 
more.
biting bliss,
you feel  
tears.
open wounds,
you grab
salt.




Michael...

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Illiterate?  Write today for free help!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!