HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: armenon@top.cis.syr.edu (Anil Ravindran Menon)
Subject: Re: Translated Bengali poem / Rabindranath Tagore
Organization: Syracuse University, CIS Dept.
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 92 07:29:42 EST

In article <1992Nov26.181843.9246@zip.eecs.umich.edu> bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu (sayan bhattacharyya) writes:
>                  
>                      Song
>                      ----
>
> 
>
>              All the songs that I had sung to you:
>              Forget them all, if you wish to
>              At star-rise on the evening-ocean's sky.
>
>
>		---- too many fine lines deleted ----
>
>
>              All the songs that I had sung to you:
>              Forget them all, if you wish to
>              At star-rise on the evening-ocean's sky.
>
>
>                                  Rabindranath Tagore
>                                  (1865-1941)
>
>                                  Bengali poet
>
>
>Translated June 1992  
>Sayan Bhattacharyya
>

	A truly lovely poem Sayan. Thanks.


	--Anil
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ekankaan@kaira.hut.fi (Eero Kankaanp{{)
Subject: les yes
Keywords: The Meterless Troubles It's Seen
Organization: No Body Knows
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 1992 03:37:58 GMT


    dance before an eternal lie
    close to the edge
    your fragile yes
    is doomed to talk nonsense.

    come eagle eye chameleon
    take a step back.
    change your scale 
    to some major siberian sunrise.   
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ekankaan@kaira.hut.fi (Eero Kankaanp{{)
Subject: sunday playtime
Organization: bluesweek news
    
       friday
    
    have you ever seen the rain
    in spain staying muh-inly in duh pluh-in
    soaking the shoes of the fisherman's wife
    coming dancing to a haitian war song
Date: Sun, 20 Dec 1992 00:26:24 GMT

          sunday
 
       watching sunday with jaques tati
       mon oncle. clone on m. mmmmm.
       mo' at home.
       then listening to erik satie.
       gymnopedies with pediatric practice.
From: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A real suggestion for reducing traffic
Date: 16 Dec 92 02:14:46 GMT
Organization: Carleton University

Reducing Traffic
----------------
 
Blow up their cars.
Kill pedestrians.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: PROWSE@Meena.CC.URegina.CA (Natalie)
Subject: drowning dream / Natalie
Date: Sat, 19 Dec 1992 11:52:03 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.24
Organization: University of Regina, Regina, Sask., Canada



		drowning dream
                -------------------------------------------------------------

		the green-grey waves dance up against the side 
		as you, eyes dark as pits, dance inside the boat.
		we are trying to get you to sit still 
		so we can put a lifejacket on you, 
		when you tumble, headfirst
		over
			the 
				side
		oh god.
		oh dear god god god god.
		i don't hesitate. i dive straight in after you.
		this time, the water is clear enough that i can see you
		dropping
			 down
				down
		so very far down. and still dropping.
		i swim to you.  deeper.  so deep.
		it must be twenty feet.  thirty feet. 
		you are still dropping away from me.  but slower now.
		my chest is hurting. blood is pounding in my ears.
		you are so close
		but   i   can't   seem   to   get   to   ...
		i struggle.  my mind screams.  i won't let this happen!

	        and he streaks past me.  down to you.
		he grabs you.
		he holds you above him as his powerful legs
		kick you both to the surface, 
		i let no bubbles escape from your mouth.  
		i hold the air in your lungs by force of will.
				up

			up

		up
		your head breaks the water, like it did 
		the day you were born.  and you choke and cough
		and gasp.  and then you both go under briefly.
		and i am there.  i help push you above again.
		hands pull you out.  pull you to safety.  pull you to life.

		oh god.  i saved you.  we saved you.  
		we never could before.  so why do i still shake?  
		why does my chest still ache 
		with the desperate demons of the deep waters
		and rob me of sleep this night?
		
		i go in and look at you.
		sweet breath warms your pillow.
		my hand strokes your head as my fears trickle 
		down my cheeks.  salty as the sea.


			- Natalie / Dec 19, 1992  (3:00am)
	

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

 "It's good to have a healthy sense of sin.  It adds *spice* to one's 
   transgressions..."  - J.H.
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Arrangements
Keywords: Re -
Date: 12 Dec 92 04:52:45 GMT
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us




   "I'm too lazy for my keyboard!"
   "I only like things that go smooth!"
   "But what about THIS language?"
   "You pricks just can't handle TRUTH!"

   Twice a year since God knows when,
   "Let's rearrange this group?"
   A dozen times we've heard the call,
   It always makes my spirit droop.


               JJWebb
-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kt1@herahera.cc.bellcore.com (tellefsen,karen a)
Subject: Re: squirrels in the ceiling / Frances+Marek (1990)
Organization: Bellcore, Livingston, NJ
Date: Tue, 15 Dec 92 15:45:44 GMT
Summary: Would you believe racoons?

Squirrel Trapped

Linda and I set a trap on the roof
A cage trap we baited with sweets
To catch us a coon, a ponderous thing
Galumping on Mother's ceiling
But squirrels, it seems, are faster than coons
With dangerous tastes for cookies
Our cage had trapped us a chittering rage
That we were afraid to set free
With a long handled rake and a stout bit of rope
We cautiously climbed on the roof
And lowered the cage with the rope to the ground
Then opened the trap with the rake
A swift flash of grey made a sprint for the trees
No more did he crave sugar treats
We caught that old coon on the second go round
Ten times bigger and quieter too


------------------------------------------------------------------
 The news poster gives a bad address;
 send e-mail to kt1@cc.bellcore.com  or  kt1@hera.cc.bellcore.com
 or it will be lost in the ascii aether.
 Karen Tellefsen

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu (sayan bhattacharyya)
Subject: Woman Keats saw at railway station?
Organization: University of Michigan EECS Dept., Ann Arbor, MI
Date: Sat, 12 Dec 1992 19:54:48 GMT

In article <1992Dec12.134756.1@cua.edu> 32downey@cua.edu writes:
>On 4 Dec 1992 at 21:17:15, stellis@nyx.cs.du.edu (Steve Ellis) wrote:
>
>                           for a certain woman
>
>         more mysterious and distant than the woman Keats glimpsed
>         in a railway station, you are not even an image:

I am confused about this. Who is this woman that Keats saw in 
a railway station and in which poem does she appear?

I do remember a poem by Yeats, "Beautiful Lofty Things" in which
he speaks of "Maud Gonne at Howrth station waiting a train"...but
that was Yeats, not Keats.




-- 
Sayan Bhattacharyya          |   Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.
Graduate student             |
Artificial Intelligence Lab  |
The University of Michigan   |
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Euphemism
From: loredich@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu (That one girl)
Date: 14 Dec 92 14:02:33 EST

Euphemism


Some women carry a dozen pink roses,
bearing bouquets between slender white thighs.
Poetic convention relies upon flowers,
metaphors petaled and veiled with dew.

The delicate flower will bruise when you touch it;
baby-lipped petals grow pale at the center.
Well-suited in theory for living room vases, 
but really concealed between tender shy folds.

These flowers will blossom, if given attention,
a gardener's nurturing, sunlight and rain.
First a slow budding, then slower, unfolding,
but never a burst of colored surprise.

Some women are roses.

But I
am more
of a bright neon sign,
a flash of interested,
shocking,
licked-candy
pink.

There isn't much romance, 
no pretty allusion,
no delicate whimsy in calling it cunt.
There is raunchy reverence,
a strange low endearment
that flowery language
will never approach.

"He touched her core, her center, her sex,"
is how it is said in a lavender novel.
My core is my mind, and my center my heart.
He touches my cunt, but does not interfere.



Loredich
November, 1992
Revised
From: eric@npri6.npri.com (Eric Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Winter Impromptu
Date: 15 Dec 92 18:58:02 GMT
Organization: NPRI, Alexandria VA

[I lied. *This* is the last poem I will post here.]

	Winter Impromptu
	----------------

	Sometimes when I think of you
	The world ices over like a lake
	In a savage, hibernal land detached
	And destitute of heat.
	(A clamcrack, a distilled white light
	Leaks across the sickled shore.)
	What warmth once pooled in your open hand
	Must dissipate in a chafing wind;
	As well, the radiance you bestowed
	On men like me (your clockwork friend)
	Cannot reform us endlessly:
	The razored ray from one bare glance
	Could split apart encrusted seals,
	Anneal our wills so we might rise
	And love again without gray fears;
	Alas, our lantern gutters out.

	Sometimes when night lulls my wits,
	I slither down the muted street;
	Black-robed, somber and body-free
	I slip into that fieldstone house
	Where bedlights limn the windowframes
	And cursive prayers peel from the walls,
	Where you may one day wane from me.
	Do not go there, steady friend,
	Thinking death inters our lives--
	See, this gate adjoins the park
	Wherein eternity dwells, asleep
	Under the starfield's static stare,
	Which you awake with a splintered gasp
	And help in preparing my own reception.

-------- eric@npri.com ---------- or ---------- ...uunet!uupsi!npri6!eric -----
        "If Petersburg is not the capital, then there is no Petersburg."        
Eric C. Williams/ NPRI/ Alexandria, VA/ USA/ (703) 683-9090/ Usual disclaimers.
From: alk4@quads.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: No Ducks
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 18:31:03 GMT

No Ducks           
--------

Marie and Marek
and no ducks

two bagels
two poems

two words
two worlds

and no ducks
fly between

her world 
and his

but Marek
and Marie

held hands.

Alex L. Karan

Folks, friends of Rec.Arts.Poems,
maybe we can find some experience we share
and show how worlds overalp in words?

Anyone interested?

Alex

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kt1@herahera.cc.bellcore.com (tellefsen,karen a)
Subject: Crusade
Organization: Bellcore, Livingston, NJ
Date: Fri, 11 Dec 92 20:28:04 GMT


Crusade

Our leaders claimed our foes began this war
Through moral right the victory was ours
The television showed such sterile scenes
The bombs red glare, no corpses to be seen
Well, they have shown us vain Nintendo war
A button pushed, a building fell to naught
But I saw mothers gather babes in bits
And I heard wails of relatives distraught
Bulldozers pushing thousands to their graves
As Christians shunned the mercies Jesus taught
They claimed that Islam was the lesser creed
Jehovah, Allah, if God does exist 
Then why would soldiers cause a hell like this
For freedom's sake or even their own greed



 The news poster gives a bad address;
 send e-mail to kt1@cc.bellcore.com  or  kt1@hera.cc.bellcore.com
 or it will be lost in the ascii aether.
 Karen Tellefsen


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Out, out
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 05:36:49 GMT

Out, out
--------


Eyes cease to reflect;
Cover the mirrors in the house.

Keep the coffin closed.


Alex L. Karan

If I get more thrifty in my word choice, more latent and less manifest, 
then I'll have to not only use no words, 
but I'll have to make the reader give me a few.

Oh well, just too many finals,
and and and
a loose thought just took off
for some unholy destination.

Goodnight

Alex
From: mib@geech.gnu.ai.mit.edu (Michael I Bushnell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a poem about loneliness
Date: 17 Dec 92 06:47:25
Organization: MIT Artificial Intelligence Lab
NNTP-Posting-Host: geech.gnu.ai.mit.edu


Last week someone asked for love poems.  Here's a lack-of-love poem I
wrote several months ago:


I feel the moon's cold warmth upon my head
I see the shadows faint upon the road
And all the huddled faces with their load
Of pain and fear, weighted down with lead
I want to know the grief that they must shed
To break inside their lonely secret code
To hear each person's private episode
Or else for me they will remain so dead

I'm scared that I will end up so like they
Alone and dark, without a care or joy
To huddle, rumble, shuffle, here and there
I really wish I could be sure someday
Sure that I needn't play aloof and coy
And that I will at last find one to share


The legal stuff:
Copyright 1992 Michael I. Bushnell
Permission is hereby granted to make and distribute verbatim copies or
excerpts of this poem, provided the copyright notice and this
permission notice are preserved in all copies.

--
Michael I. Bushnell      |     Watch, for you do not know when the master of 
+1 617 625 4518 (H)     -+-    the house will come, in the evening, or at
+1 617 253 8568 (W)      |     midnight, or at cockcrow, or in the morning, 
mib@gnu.ai.mit.edu       |     lest he come suddenly and find you asleep.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jcbarnes@vela.acs.oakland.edu (Terson - Sod Lord)
Subject: Re: Suggestion for Reducing Traffic
Organization: FryTools International
Date: Fri, 11 Dec 1992 22:53:05 GMT

In article <JMC.92Dec6034933@SAIL.Stanford.EDU> jmc@cs.Stanford.EDU writes:
:) In article <1992Dec6.112618.29599@leland.Stanford.EDU> jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien) writes:
:) 
:) 
:) 	   Just a suggestion here for creating a sub-group of
:)    rec.arts.poems.d (for discussion) or r.a.p.comments or something of
:)    that sort, so that r.a.p. would consist of poems only, where the other
:)    group would include feedback, replies, and flames.  It would reduce the
:)    number of posts to sort through, and also would help those who wish
:)    to only read poems.
:) 
:) 			   What do you all think?
:) 
:) 				   Jennifer
:) 
:) 
:) A good idea, and the name, according to usenet naming tradition,
:) would be rec.arts.poems.d (for discussion).
:) --
:) John McCarthy, Computer Science Department, Stanford, CA 94305
:) *
:) He who refuses to do arithmetic is doomed to talk nonsense.
:) 

Hi... 

  I'm jumping in in the middle so a million people may have already
discussed this.  But I'll repeat it anyways.

  Okay, I'm not familiar with any of the usenet discussion groups
other than alt.prose.d.  From correspondence with a few people who had
been regular participants of alt.prose (before it broke into two news
groups alt.prose(.d))  I discovered a couple things...  Yes, traffic
of discussion interrupting messages were reduced, but if you take a
look at alt.prose.d, you will find maybe one message there a week, I
know when i read this group more frequently (unfortunatley that hasn't
been recently but my horizons have expanded reducing my time here:( I
enjoyed the constant feedback on poems you wrote, and the ability to
spark indepth discussions.... discussions I learned from, because I
could see a versimilitude (sp) of views... not a narrow few.

  alt.prose writers have complained about the lack of responses they
receive on stories posted to that newsgroup.  Think carefully before
deciding that r.a.p should be separated similarly.

P.S. For those of you who don't want to see all of the responses,
perhaps you could set up KILL file.  So that you don't have to read
all of the responses, and can have your pure poetry.

  I don't mean to be as vile and nasty as I sound, it's just I feel
that r.a.p into pieces would be like tearing apart a marriage that is
thriving.

                ...ramblings from fryland
                    ...Terson -- Sod Lord

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alvin@ucsu.Colorado.EDU (Kenneth Alvin)
Subject: White Wind
Organization: University of Colorado, Boulder
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 1992 20:42:47 GMT



White Wind
----------


This dry white wind
breathes dust of a
thousand years
dust of death
bones of shamen
bones of freemen
free to run from my
   ancestors and die on
   white snowy peaks
This dry white wind
nibbles their chalky remains
and carries their sing-songs
back to my world
collecting on my windowsill
painting my moist eyes
   with shadows
snowing in my dreams.

-- 
comments, criticism welcome...
-Ken
alvin@ucsu.colorado.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: gulag  a poem
From: conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstatin Kalikanzaros)
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 92 00:48:11 PST
Organization: Paradox Alley F&SF BBS 805-492-8789

	Gulag
	-----

	what know I of persecution?
	naught i fear that much
	
	but if there be an elocution
	I'll vote for that as such

	I know not where I go from here
	my stomach sour, filled with fear
	
	last week they took my friend from here
	they called him the annointed	

	my mind may you, think to appear 
	a bit not undisjointed

	wrong not you are, for, and i hear,
	my council's yet to be appointed

	sorry that i write my dear 
	as though my pen were pointed
	
	meaning sent cannot be sere
	nor clearly undisjointed
	
	read it with a jaundiced eye
	what telleth you by heavy sigh

	alas my love be not contrite
	for non out break we not this nite 
	
	from the gulag of Chigago!

conrad

     Read not into it what you mayn't nor naught but what you do not wish.
But don't over analyze,  it is after all mere nonsense.


____________________________________________________________________________
Reality is for people that can't handle Science fiction.
From: watson@hg.uleth.ca (The terror that flaps in the night)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: COMPUTER POEMS, COMMENTS PLEASE
Date: 15 Dec 92 05:21:11 GMT
Reply-To: watson@hg.uleth.ca
Organization: University of Lethbridge

In article <1ggvanINNoap@athena.sdsu.edu>, jbartran@sciences.sdsu.edu (Jonathan Bartran) writes:
>My computer spit this poem out the other day when I ran a math routine that
>forced a division by zero.
>
>*^^[3
>%.]-
>@'@'#p
>;[.' <system halted>
>
>It sounds like this:  splat carrot carrot open-bracket three
>                      dit percent dit closed-bracket dash
>                      at bip at bip number-sign p
>                      dit wink closed-bracket dit bip CRASH!
>
>
>After reading his, I came up with one of my own.
>
>^^#@(|
>*.*.* <system halted>
>
>It sounds:    carrot carrot number at open-paren blap
>              dit spat dit splat dit splat CRAP!
>
>
>Do you have any computer poems?  Post 'em -- don't be shy.
>
>jbartran@sciences.sdsu.edu

Here's my contribution (a hi coo of sorts):

 ~  |----x
(:-)  8  >------|
 ~  |----x

I'll leave it up to you to interpret...

yerz,
Libby Doe 
with crooked pony tails
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: fuck / jtrue
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 20:57:54 GMT

In article <382@uiunix.ui.org> donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:

>>Also, you have not read any feminist erotica, pal.
>
>uh-oh, Marek.  You're picking on Sir True, who is not a mental midget.  
>You've been warned.  
>
>As per "feminist erotica"--Much like "English-language haiku", it has not
>been proven that such a thing exists.  What I mean by this is that there are
>plenty of feminists who don't believe in such a thing.  And believing makes
>it so.

Don, please go get fucked (in y'all's semantics).  'Tis the season to be
jolly, and I am flying the Jolly Roger.

When you return, Don, do look for _Pleasures_.  I leave finding the author
an exercise to the literature-assertive, well-read and proof-desirous
seeker.  Also, you might consider the rather harder to find, "girrrl" 'zines
from Olympia, Washington and Washington, D.C. that reflect the new "riot
girl" thing.

I was calm, but now I'm found :) by the ever so dweeby pronouncements being
made on this newsgroup by persons who pose loudly but who know not what
they talk about, save for their uninformed general prejudices or
specialized political axes to grind.  All men hate women.  Fuck means rape.
Marek's poetry contributes to violence against women.  Love is a dead word.

Also, Don, you have made the same point about mental-midgets when I did not
like, in public, Alex's "artifacts".  As it came to pass, you came across
as the mental-midget, because Alex admitted the poem's failure and
disavowed your heated interpretation, which, for the record, you stuffed
full of irrationalities, inanities -- and statements about me (as if that
had anything to do with my objections to the poem) that you could not
possibly know, such as that I "equate love with fucking".

More generally, the current dicussion on fuck belies how immature many of
you are about this most basic element of life.  I am beginning to see the
merit of the word douchebag :), though for reasons that have little to do
with judging poetry and more to do with facing your staggering incapacity
to see out of your prurient, prude, prejudicial mindsets.

Of course, nothing would please me more if I were way off base. Alas, my
woman's intuition is telling me otherwise. :)


				-- Marek

One ought only fuck in the bathroom because it's, ahem, a ...function.


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: How to not make up something
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 1992 16:53:30 GMT


how to not form a concept

Don't think of broken pocket knives
wet sheetrock walls
or grass blades

Don't especially
take a bite.

Don't find time to legend a mouth
of the fanatic blue sky
while wearing an especially pocket.




(to the guy claiming the o'toole shit was boring or dumb. no, it's
fun. the pocket business, Joe Green claimed that the 32 pockets were
because of thiry two districts in Ireland (districts wrong word). but
I later realized that the 32 pockets referred to the 32 holy marks of
the Buddha (misspelled, not on purpose.) and that because Joe was revealling
his holy marks, he was not a buddha, but because he was revealling his
holy marks he was not revealing them, and was the buddha. especially
since Joe denies this.)
(I also had lots of fun not filling in my personae, Lily, but suddenly
pretended paranoia of the occurance 'Lily" anywhere. which is delightful.
All of the writers in league with Joe. all of these dreadful flowers.
all of these people inviting innocence and death and harmful play.
What wonderful stories to beleive, and I even made one up and posted
it, a sort of autobiography of Don Zirilli and my friend Su, who was
a detective in search of the mass murderer of words.)
(games games games. play play play. deal with it.

	which reminds me of a religion I was inventing once, one of
the rules was "get real." and one of the rules includes my def of
fate, that time moves forward and so things happen, and you can't
stop time right now, so that things will happen. (paraphrased) and I had
a nice list, I made it up on the way to a car, sometime my freshman
year of UT, but I didn't write it down, and have forgotten it, excep
t that in exasperation I had, number 3 or so, "Get Real")
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu