HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: zhu@athena.mit.edu (Erin Zhu)
Subject: Dark Lust
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 20:56:06 GMT


    Dark Lust

dried geraniums languish
at the edge of my vision
withered arms held akimbo
in frozen suspension.

ungainly unlamented
loathing
distorts the air
the shape of dripping sarcasms
venomous and stark
piercing forked tongue
and careless ears 
alike. 

desultory glances
on those
dried tuffs of petals
browned an exact shade of decay

unseen attack
returned in blighting slights
double-edged fury
scraping through phone lines
like mental fingernails
on the graffitied blackboard
of my mind

just my luck that i should 
be staring 
at those dusty geraniums
and not the proscribed crumbly
roses the color of dried blood

forget the spleen-venting:
so much more satisfying 
to feel the sullen petals
yield and part under scarlet fingertips
silkily resistent
like long nails steeped in temptation
raking across
your flushed skin

i. wanna. touch. you.


   /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
      Erin Zhu    (617) 661-8151  /   Out of the ashes
      872 Mass. Ave, #707         /   I rise with my red hair
      Cambridge, MA 02139         /   And I eat men like air.
      zhu@gevalt.mit.edu          /                     --Sylvia Plath


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: Flying a Bed
Organization: The Land of Earthquakes (Southern Cal)
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 92 09:29:34 GMT



	Flying a Bed


	the time-yellowed glass dish
	     two bright blurs of light bulbs
	stare at a young woman
	          dressed in a frail blue cotton nightgown
	she lies on a pink hearted hand-sewn comforter
	     a yellow blanket with matching roses in still-life
	          wraps her translucent lotus-white legs
	     bound like a fresh fish from the butcher's
	those are her only real roses
	     besides the ones on her doormat with trampled dirt
	           to nourish their roots

	     she has dreams of hurtling on her bed through history --

	rural Cambodia the rice paddies shorn
	     by machine guns and booted feet  the peasants weeping
	          hysterically and waving kitchen towels at their sons
	     steel-made soldiers dragging them away
	African government Kung! camps
	     hand-out grain diminishing daily
	          like the endangered gemsbok
	     rock jazz playing on radios sheltered by cloth tents
	on an Aztec sacrifical ziggurat Montezuma
	     plunges a daggar into a white god's chest
	          beating heart lifted
	     hoofbeats gunshots ringing close his sweaty neck
	smoking black Kuwait oil fields set afire
	     by fanatic followers of a man who
	          wears his beard like Samson's hair
	     pillars of flame meters high spurting wasted wealth
	women sprout and fall from her mattress seeding
	     histories changing every leader replaced by compromises
	     herself none other than Christine Columbus . . .
	
	in the midst of her dreaming flying bed her
	     thought interrupts this is silly what am i thinking
	the bed collapses containing crushing her into
	     this rustic hovel middle class America suburbia
	     a portrait of romanticism
	          a porcupine quill in tender soles
	     idling quiescent she watches flowers laundry cars
	littered mcdonalds cups cats shining helmeted children
	wheelchairs aids patients smog rivers mechanics even
	fireplaces
	     passing her by as she meticulously sews hearted
	comforters


					-- Jennifer Crystal Chien


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Subject: Re: test
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 22:09:45 GMT

In article <1992Sep2.112849.202634@uctvax.uct.ac.za>, mrxall01@uctvax.uct.ac.za writes:
>just testing


Just replying
|       |    __      _      _    _ _ _    __ 
| \    /|  /    \  /   \  |   \         |    \
|   \ / | |      | |__ /  | _ /    |    |     |
|       | |      | |  \   |   \    |    |     |    MIKE
|       |  \ __ /  |   \  | _ /  _ _ _  | __ /

Death is boring;  slaughter is fun.
Thank you for not smoking!!
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rbear@inferno.uoregon.edu (Richard Bear)
Subject: South Sister
Organization: University of Oregon Network Services
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL5
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 92 05:27:12 GMT


The huge crows walk unconcernedly about
on the quiet ice of the summit glacier.
No one else is here. Strong winds, weak sun.
Far to the south, stealthily approaching,
a wide wave-front of storm, spitting sparks.
We turn our backs to it, gazing north, admiring
things we have seen only from below: 
Middle and North Sisters, Jefferson, Hood,
and, half-hidden in the smoke from forest fires,
Rainier, wrapped in summer ice. We sit stunned,
like two newborns, and gape at the silent crows.
                                
Well, what did we suppose we would do, once arrived
to look, at forty-three, from this breathless place?
Dance? or burst into song? Run naked along
the broken rim? Instead, we set out socks
to dry, and examine our toes and heels for damage.
It is, after all, a very long way home.


rbear@oregon.uoregon.edu
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poetry / Emily Dickinson
Keywords: cento
Date: 8 Sep 92 14:08:58 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <15055@borg.cs.unc.edu> denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo) writes:
>Last one.  This is a pretty amazing piece of work -- it's a "cento", or collage
>of various pieces or writing, pasted together to make a poem.  Sort of like
>found poetry, but with some selective editing.  This one was given in Lewis
>Turco's excellent "The New Book Of Forms".  Composed from gleanings of the
>letters of Emily Dickinson, it has some wonderful moments and a super ending.
>See what you think.
>

In case Kevbo is once again having doubts about my consummate poetmanship,
I here post my own cento  (Don't all consummate poets have one of these?):


Learning to Dance


if you try there are no
limitations in what you can
do you're not a loser you're
a fighter choose what you want
to do love what you want
in life walk in the forest
control your own life make
your life happy I am just
beginning to make some
definite changes in my life
you will need to go against
the better judgment of many
people try hard enough find
your ideal and follow it we can
do anything we want to if we
stick to it long enough don't
waste precious time worrying
about what you should have
done but rather focus your
attention on what you are
doing now and what you want
to do in the future learn
from them if it should happen
that your dreams are shattered
do not be afraid have the
courage to pick up the
pieces and smile at the world
for dreams that are easily
shattered can just as easily be
rebuilt know who you are and
what you want and why you want
it if you don't go after
what you want in life
it won't come to you you
deserve the best choose your
goals carefully know what you
like and what you do not like
be critical choose a career
or lifestyle that interests
you and work hard to make it
a success for the rest of my life
I'll be sitting in a chair beat
a baseball bat into the head
of a gentleman some people
like killing hamburgers some people
like killing sodas some people
like killing other people some people
like killing eyes sometimes
it's pleasure sometimes it's pain
we will learn to dance
if it's the last thing we do


Posthumous O'Toole
June 4, 1991
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8764 alt.butt.harp:238
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,talk.bizarre.rabbit,alt.butt.harp
Subject: Re: poems about children
Date: 10 Sep 92 09:43:59 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

In article JA@acsu.buffalo.edu, v110ju95@ubvmsb.cc.buffalo.edu (Aron S Klein) writes:
>Hello all,
>
>I have been away for awhile, and have just gotten into this group again.
>I was wondering if any one has any poems about school aged children. Since
>I plan on going into teaching (around the second grade, hopefully), I was
>hopeing that someone had some really good poems.  Please either post them 
>here or send them by E-mail to me.

It was a good explanation
Put their minds in about the right orbits
Left some questions to ponder
A glance at the goals for this lesson
A sip of water turns chalk
To slurry on fingertips
A hand shoots up; another
Always the sparky ones
This is the best part of the day
The pleasure of seeing a solution
Well started, flawed by common snare
Handwriting so much neater than my own
Skin so much smoother with satin hairs
Delicate breath like bells on my cheek
Distracting, enticing, distracting
Handing out hints to my treasure hunt
Disguised as a question revealing an issue
But searching for the perfect word
To find instead the perfect nape
Miranda, your naked deep blue eyes
Swallow the ends of my sentences
The pen that draws a diagram
Could take a likeness of your form
Reclining on a sheepskin rug
And Jing, the Grade Three Golden Boy
Your textbook answers, textbook smile
Textbook grip of soft hands
Firm around an unchewed pencil
Make it hard, so hard
To be a teacher.

			--Michael N.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: frank@IASTATE.EDU (Frank A Poduska)
Subject: Hinges
Keywords: Doors
Reply-To: frank@IASTATE.EDU (Frank A Poduska)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 16:32:21 GMT

       two rusty hinges
       creaking in an autumn breeze -
       Oh! twilight stillness

--
Frank Poduska                 frank@iastate.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--We lie
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 4 Sep 92 23:29:15 GMT


                                We lie
                               (for She)

We lie on the white floor
looking up at the carpeted ceiling
watching the inverted house
dirtying itself with time
becoming saturated with the living
of unknown folk
there is the man
who moves silent
among the upholstered stillness
dull and removed
as if he too
were purchased
once
sometime
and deposited here
to become layered
covered
with domestic sediment
gradually fossilized
into some strange and silent
thing
among
things
as we lie on the clean ceiling
holding each others' sweating bodies
here above the starving room.
From: hornpete@uctvax.uct.ac.za (Peter Horn)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: UP
Date: 7 Sep 92 10:37:47 +0200
Organization: University of Cape Town
Summary: Wake Beloved (Poem)
Reply-To: HORNPETE
Followup-To: Heinrich
Keywords: Wake Beled

WAKE BELOVED
------------

Grey this morning is endless and everywhere
the ashes fall lifting old people out of their bed emptying

their pans and glasses barefoot he comes through the
mountains of glass and steel and concrete the morning

descends on mint and scented stubble next to me you are
a shape under a grey lawn of wool breathing below 
			my hands

and a web of hair kind to the naked lost face of a man
who hears the clattering milk cans are delivered but the sun

is overdue lovely lost love wake beloved for I must
go and the cold enters through the door


Peter Horn
-- 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Peter Horn 
German Department, UCT 
43 Trevor Road, Lansdowne 7764, Cape, Republic of  South Africa . 
Phone Home ZA-(021)696-1983		e-Mail: HORNPETE@UCTVAX.UCT.AC.ZA 
      Work ZA-(021)650-2936		Fax ZA-(021) 650-3726 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Peter Horn, Walking through our sleep (Poems), Ravan Press 1974
Peter Horn, Poems 1964-1989, Ravan Press 1991
Peter Horn, An Axe in the Ice (Poems), COSAW Publishing House 
forthcoming September/October 1992
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Ravan Press, P.O.Box 31134, Braamfontein 2017, Republic of South Africa
COSAW Publishing House, P.O.Box 421007, Fordsburg 2033, Republic of 
South Africa.
USA: Ohio University Press Fax (614) 593-4536
Britain: Central Books, Fax (71) 378-1811
Australia: New Era Books, Fax (02) 596-0045
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ktw@polaris.att.com (79243-wolman)
Subject: What Thou Lovest Well Remains
Originator: news@cbnewsb.cb.att.com
Organization: AT&T
Date: Sun, 13 Sep 1992 23:31:50 GMT

 
     WHAT THOU LOVEST WELL REMAINS

     The language of flowers gives us distance.
     We hide behind the symbology of the rose,
     and the spreading blossoms of the mums are a mask:

     but like O'Keeffe's exploding desert flowers,
     the meaning is neither distant nor obscure
     to those whose minds live inside the blossoms,

     and my thoughts of you penetrate the petals
     held before you so I need not see your eyes,
     hidden from me, filling with tears:

     your eyes are in the moistening blossoms,
     and their wetness is your promise of our lie,
     told in damp heat, the hothouse of our mouths together.

     But we come at last to autumn, when flowers die
     and only remembrance preserves.
     The petals dry, wither in the cold,

     curl and fall, leaving memory in the scent,
     pressed in the book we have written together.
     You will go because you must, but your scent will remain.

Kenneth Wolman, September 13, 1992
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--I ask you
Date: 14 Sep 92 15:21:16 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                              I ask you
                              (for She)

I ask you
in a gentler moment
to treat my anger
as a small boy
to stand firm
before this empty wind
and tell in your clear words
the truth of compassion
"Go to your room
if you're going to behave like this
and don't come out until you've grown up!"
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Lips
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 92 15:31:25 GMT


                                Lips
                             (for She)

She sent me her lips
a red kiss on a postcard
embraced by a rose-scented envelope
using special technology
from my home planet
I reconstructed her spirit
which now lives with me
forever
in the cave of my heart.
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Unicorn
Date: 9 Sep 92 07:00:35 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Outreach Services - Oregon State University

As some of you know I was recently "let go" from my job.  I haven't posted
anything for a while because most of what I have written lately could
probably be labeled unprintable. :-)  However, I do have something to post
that I wrote a while back.  This poem came about as a result of some email
conversations with a charming individual.  You see, I have never written a
unicorn poem before and well...... Anyway, I have now and submit it for
your perusal.


        THE UNICORN

Drifting mist at early morn
Curling tendrils round my door
As I prepare to go in search
Of mythic unicorns.

Protected by my talisman
Of knowledge and enlightenment
With which I calmly gird myself
I head out on my quest.

To far off darkened woods I ride
On faithful mare of dusty grey
Not knowing if I'll ever find
That which I seek this day.

For I believe that unicorns
Are real and do exist somewhere
And so I search in darkened woods
For that one spot of light.

It's said there is a meadow fair
Wherein the air is perfume sweet
And flowers strewn about the grass
There lives the unicorn.

I ride through dark and brooding woods
The trees are gnarled with moss entwined
And fairy rings I see yet pass
And Elven shadows flit.

My journey's long and I grow tired
So with my grey mare tethered near
A sip of wine, a bit of bread
I close my eyes to nap.

Awakened by a sudden sound
I rub my grit encrusted eyes
A friendly whicker from my mare 
Assures me all is well.

And then I see upon a rise
A patch of almost blinding light
Illuminating, standing proud
The noble unicorn.

I approach with trepidation
Not quite believing what I see
Expecting it to dash away
Or to be illusion.

It's golden horn shines in the light
It's coat is smooth, the purest white
I touch the silky nose and ears
The unicorn stands still.

But I won't ride this unicorn
I sense this one is not for me
I am no virgin, pure and chaste
Nor can I ever be.

He nuzzles me with gentle stroke
And tossing noble head just once
He stamps his foot and dashes off
A glorious sight to see.

I gather up my things to leave
My grey mare waits impatiently
I ride back through the gathering dusk
My eyes within my mind.

My grey mare whinnies suddenly
And I reach down to stroke her ears
And when I do a horn I see
Where none was there before.

Amazedly I touch the horn
It's real and golden as the sun
Her coat has changed from grey to white
She is a unicorn.

The woods do not seem quite so dark
The path back home not quite so long
What others see I do not know
I ride a unicorn.


This poem is Dedicated to jcbarnes@vela.acs.oakland.edu.

Affectionately,

Kathleen O'Toole, Bringer of Light
From: rsquires@cyclops.eece.unm.edu (Roger Squires)
Subject: Re: I give up...
Date: Fri, 04 Sep 92 22:01:05 GMT
Organization: University of New Mexico, Albuquerque
Distribution: usa

In article <79123@ut-emx.uucp> jzimm@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (Joann Zimmerman) writes
>
>>The quote you have posted is from "Dover Beach," by Matthew Arnold. 
>
>And shouldn't this be an FAQ? I'm quite sure this has been asked at
>least twice this calendar year.
>

	What should be a FAQ is not this particular quote, but the
	means whereby joe average can look these quotes up himself
	online -- a kind soul just posted the info.rutgers.edu
	telnet address, which has the Concise OED and the Ox. Book
	of Quotations.  I've tried this, and it found both the
	Arnold and Doyle quotes that have taken up a good 30
	posts between them, in just a few seconds.

>Evelyn?
>

	Ms. Leeper's FAQ file is admirable, and she has included
	every one of my suggestions in her file, which I thank
	her for.  Perhaps a "How do I find this quote?" insertion
	would make it even better.

Roger Squires
rsquires@cyclops.eece.unm.edu
From: REGHC@CUNYVM.BITNET
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Looking for poetry contests
Date: 10 Sep 92 16:39:55 GMT
Organization: City University of New York/ University Computer Center

My mother writes pomes and I usually enter them into contests for her.  The
ones she has entered so far are for Essence annually poetry contest.
Does anyone know of any others contests coming up?  Also, does anyone know how
to go about publishing a book?
From: bacarlso@silver.ucs.indiana.edu (Brad Carlson)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem:  Forgotten
Date: 15 Sep 92 23:30:19 GMT
Organization: Indiana University


Forgotten

For so long i have given her 
nothing but love and 
now she stands before me
with compassionate hatred 
shredding my devotion
into a thousand pieces
littering my life with 
shattered dreams and
infecting my soul with
desperation
This diversion called love
has met its purpose 
and i am conveniently forgotten. 


Brad "Shit on again" Carlson
bacarlso@silver.ucs.indiana.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: chem8w@rosie.uh.edu ( Norby )
Subject:  poem
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    
Keywords:  poem
Organization: University of Houston
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 01:02:00 GMT

I am new to this group as well as writing.  Please let me know what you think.
This is the first thing I have ever written...
_____________________________________________________________________________

A Warning.

Not much of one, but enough to anticipate what will happen...

Grind to a halt
     Circles screaming in pain to avoid disaster

Then it happens

     Fire erupts  I freeze

     I see a flood of lightning, a river of dragons tear through the darkness
     Breathing smoke and chaos, a blur of colors.
     They hate.  They kill.  And destroy

They tear past me so fast they burn me


Daniel Ratzlaff  (Norby)
Chem8W@Jetson.UH.edu
From: rat@ravel.udel.edu (Paula Marie Briggs)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: kaleidoscope
Date: 10 Sep 92 21:54:52 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: University of Delaware

kaleidoscope


A curiosity, at best.
That which so exquisitely killed the cat
Inspires in me the scholarly desire.
Why the spectrum is in constant change
	(all the while remaining constant)
Or why the sound of the rain has so many voices.
It is not at all what I would expect.

Least of all you
With your curious smile
And my chameleon eyes.
Behaviors have many shades, did you know.
Only a shadow of what was,
Only a blend of the fog and rain.

"The world is spinning," she said with a half-smile,
Though she knew it was only the colour wheel
And the beating of her heart.

If thoughts were dreams
I believe I could fly
Into the far reaches of the unbound infinity.
From: B.Kumar@cs.ucl.ac.uk
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: RFD: rec.arts.poems.urdu
Date: 15 Sep 92 16:34:30 GMT


>CREATION of "rec.arts.poems.urdu"
>
>Charter:
>This group will serve the needs of all people within the Indian sub continent
>that have a interest in the Urdu Language and its rich poetry collections.

NOoooooooooooo! 

It is *NOT* required as soc.culture.pakistan is already there. The cultural
news groups are proper place to discuss literature. Moreover, Urdu hardly
has any literature worth separte discussion. To be more objective,
it does not have even 0.0000000000001 percent of literature compared to 
English, French and Russian to warrant a news group.

What "rich" poetry collection?. Other than mostly third rate shers  all of
those *obessively* talking about women and wine again and again and again...
till they make its reader sick. I would call its so called poetry of mentally 
retarded neurotic sexophiles who could not see any thing beyond wine and 
woman. What is there to discuss about such rubbish in a separate news group?

Poetry has much wider scope. It must have its style. Other than a single
"Gazal" style borrowed from Persian what is there in Urdus so called 
Poetry? Other than talking about *women and women and women* what does it 
talk about? It awefully lacks substance and style (just think of literature 
in Bangla to compare with, and you would know why Bangladeshi rightfully
insisted on Bangla being the national language of Pakistan).

>Will be a forum of discussion for Urdu ghazals and interpretations.
>
>Will be a forum to discuss the Urdu Language and its impact on arts within
>the subcontinent

Urdu has no impact on any langauge. It has borrowed its grammer and upto 75
percent vocabulary from Hindi and rest 25 percent from Arabic/Persian and 
Turkish. Its literture is miniscule and most is third rate cheap expressions 
of wanting to see a woman whom mostly muslim poets couldn't see because of 
traditional Islamic restrictions of keeping women behind doors in full
body covering clothes or Purdah. 

Forget it. If you need to discuss the poetry. You can discuss on SCP or SCI.

B. Kumar
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems