HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: in this time of
Date: 15 Dec 92 17:42:07 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

=


	in this time of night; this time
	of nothing dark; and dusty things
	in the hour of not quite rain,
	we remain; yours truly we remain
	in this time of night this time of nothing
	dark
	and dusty things in the hour of not quite
	rain
	we remain yours
	truly
	we remain
	in this time of night
	this time
	of nothing
	dark and dusty
	things in the hour of not
	quite rain we
	remain yours
	truly we remain
	in this time of night


Tom Wachtel & Sara Gordon
London & South Bend






-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: in your perfect fingers... / Halina Poswiatowska / trans: Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 03:37:04 GMT

Number 12 in my translation cycle, from very early in Halina Poswiatowska's
short career (1958), Upublished in her first volume, _Hymn balwochwalczy_
(_The idolatry anthem_).
 
English draft translation:
		untitled ("in your perfect fingers...")
		(p. 31 of _Wiersze wybrane_, 1989)
		-----------------------------------------------------------
		 
		in your perfect fingers
		i am only a quiver
		the singing of leaves
		under the touch of your warm lips
		 
		the scent irritates -- it says:  you exist
		the scent irritates -- plays havoc with the night
		in your perfect fingers
		i am light
		 
		i burn with green moons
		over the dead, darkened day
		suddenly you know -- that my lips are red
		 
		-- salty in taste, here comes the blood --
		 
		 
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s,
			translated from Polish by
 
			Marek Lugowski
			31 October 1990
			Cincinnati
 
 
Polish original (c) 1975 Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow, Poland:
		("w twoich doskonalych palcach...")
		(p. 31 of _Wiersze wybrane_, 1989)
		-----------------------------------------------------------
		 
		w twoich doskonalych palcach
		jestem tylko drzeniem
		spiewem lisci
		pod dotykiem twoich cieplych ust
		 
		zapach drazni -- mowi: istniejesz
		zapach drazni -- roztraca noc
		w twoich doskonalych palcach
		jestem swiatlem
		 
		zielonymi ksiezycami plone
		nad umarlym ociemnialym dniem
		nagle wiesz -- ze mam usta czerwone
		 
		-- slonym smakiem nadplywa krew --
		 
 
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: keneuner@rodan.acs.syr.edu (Kathleen E. Neuner)
Subject: Re: Several words about posting...
Organization: Syracuse University, Syracuse, NY
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 92 13:06:34 EST


	I would like to point out for you folks how well you have illustrated my points.  The people who objected to my comments, not surprisingly, used teh net
	to do so...  this of course neglects teh fact that, if someone listens to what I said, they WOULD USE MAIL.

	Someone stated I did not speak for the majority.  Well, I counted
	_7_ objections posted here, none on mail
	_39_ SUPPORT LETTERS on mail, none on net, Thankfully.

	Now, I don't kbnow how good YOUR math is, but 39 (as of this morn)
	to 7 (as of morn) IS A FRIGGING MAJORITY.

	As for the narrow minded people asking why I use an anon server
	to post, then give a .sig, EVER OCCUR TO YOU MY SERVER CAN'T POST?

	No, I guess that would require logic...  

	Have a nice day, and thank you for proving my point.

	btw: So far, I have gotten 5 copies of my own letter over RAP
	therefore, You also proved my point about not knowing how NOT to
	include every word (ok, ONE was truncated, I admit, to be honest).


			Sincerely, 

					Keith
Organization: Bar-Ilan University Computing Center, Israel
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 1992 14:28:50 IST
From: <X67107@BARILVM.BITNET>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem3

Some one on the net posted a poem starting

           'Take me to your garden'

Well one some one else has too.


     THE GARDEN OF DELIGHT
      TO THE LADY 'ORCHID'

     Take me to your garden,
     The garden of delight.
     Where once the land was barren
     And all the weeds did fight.

     Show that smallest seedling,
     Down in your nursery,
     Its future is awaiting
     Beside your rosery.

     One day it shall grow mighty.
     And reach into the sky.
     That is the natural destiny,
     It merely needs to try.

     Beneath your love's warm glow,
     No man-plant may partake to wilt.
     The healing powers seems to flow
     From lips that know not guilt.

     Teach me, then, your language
     The words are harsh, you say.
     And where there should be spaces
     The tongue forever races.

     Your keen descriptions I can sense
     Are lined with every type of tense.
     Your lips, as fluid as the night,
     Speak, clearly, what is right

     Your eyes, the phases of the moon-
     Could never hope to ape.
     At times all gazing white and round,
     At others times they can't be found

     And in your slightest smile sublime
     The rising sun does fully shine.
     I have one wish, if it's no crime,
     To pray within your shrine.

     Yet you remain a mystery
     And here I am, without a clue
     Except the ones which deep dreams give
     Within their dark reprieve.

     There, comes a pain from deep inside
     That wears and tears much like the tide
     A winter chill of loveless longing
     That every year has been prolonging

     And sweet as distant music
     That comes uncalled upon the breeze,
     That comes upon the airy breeze-
     The souls' own core does bite and freeze-

     But when your aspect I recall
     Away does fall the deathly pall
     Which in the dream-state oft abides
     With wing of darkness in its sides

     And once again the warm heart glows
     In splendour of your light serene
     And in its veins the blood that flows
     Is softly beating evergreen

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H
                       Oren THE Laughing Magican
        LAUGHING DOES TICKLE THE SOUL, THERE IS NO BETTER REASON
=========================================================================
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gaillard@panix.com (Ed Gaillard)
Subject: Re: Several words about posting...
Date: Fri, 11 Dec 1992 21:08:19 GMT
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC

In <1992Dec11.082309.1380@penet.fi> an1977@anon.penet.fi (The_Poet) writes:

[deleted the beginning for space;  he supports creation of a .d group
for r.a.p;  so do I.]

>	Most people don't CARE about other people's critiques of poetry.  It is
>a terrrific tool to the poet to get feedback (hence, I welcome LOTS to my
>works), but as no one BUT the poet cares, PLEASE E-MAIL.

I find it valuable to read comments about all sorts of poems here; it
is an aid in figuring out what works in my own stuff.  Reading
criticism of great poets is not as useful , since their errors are
more subtle than mine.  (I do agree that a request to critique by
Email only should be respected.)

[more deletia]

>				  Also a recent developement
>        is that of the truly IDIOTIC "O' Toole" shit on here.

IMHO, about half the good verse posted here has an "O'Toole" byline.

[rest deleted]

By the way, why do you post using an anonymous service, but include
your name and .sig?  Just curious.

-- 
Ed Gaillard <gaillard@panix.com> 
I can't see the lines I used to think I could read between.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: Re: sometimes
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Sat, 12 Dec 1992 16:37:52 GMT

In article <1992Dec11.133302.538@lrc.edu> blosser_cy@lrc.edu writes:
>...
>		sometimes sight can be a curse,
>		the blind far more content than 
>		you'd ever hope to be.
...

When I first read Oedipus Tyrranos
I decided that the writer gave up, esp at colonius.

Oedipus blinded himself.
He could see at the beginning, a physical as well as spiritual sense,
(our english formula was that oedipus traded physical sight for spiritual
insight)
After observing the shame/justice of the gods, he blinded himself in anger and
choze not to see.

If I can gather my thoughts well enough I'd like to attempt to
bring this discussion over here, Once, I started it with Doug, I'd
like to include a few more people, Occasionally it plays on my mind.

...
> This train of thought started when I was considering heirarchy of law
> because I was in the english study lounge and overheard some guy editing some
> girl's paper on Antigone. What if, I asked, a man considered his law highter
> than his gods?

[doug said the law is meangingless unless backed by force]

[I brought up GHandi. I decided to stick with my convictions in the face
of the gods, an eternal fuck you in hades. I don't agree with you and you
can't make me. I object.]

aside:
> My definition of fate is: that time passes. therefore, Something will
> happen. You can't do anything to make Something not happen. That is fate.
...
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: "Marek Lugowski" <marek@moose.cs.indiana.edu>
Subject: windswept... / Marek, Re: not poetry, profanity, and general disgruntlement 
Organization: Indiana University, Bloomington
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 1992 12:25:07 -0500

In article <1992Dec18.161728.5380@u.washington.edu>
zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (riene des tournesols) writes:

>hahaha.  ok Philip, yes yes.  but the difference was that you were 
>attacking someone who may or may not be used to the tone of the flames
>around here, and we all know Marek is not only used to the flames, but
>has several asbestos suits, one of which is rumored to be crotchless.

Rumors as to the content of my wardrobe are greatly exaggerated.  In
any case, Sweetness, you know and I know, and now the world knows,
that I would gladly take my clothes off for you had you only asked.  No
reason to get overzealous to the point of ruining your sentence structure.

		"I know what I like, and I like what I know,
		 getting better in your wardrobe
		 stepping one behind the show"

				-- Genesis, _Selling England by the Pound_


		windswept open spaces
		---------------------------------------------------------
		 
		i want to walk in windswept open spaces
		where wind and wind and sing and sing
		hurl oaths at bluest desert skies
		 
		i want to walk in windswept open spaces
		and eye with sunglazed glances
		how goldest grasses glide
		 
		i want to walk in windswept open spaces
		and see exactly nothing but
		glitterest peppermint nights
		 
		i want to walk in windswept open spaces
		to make best friends and not betray solitude
		and to live nearby
		 
		her.
		 
			Marek Lugowski
			12 December 1990
			Cincinnati


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,soc.culture.italian
From: mb2p@fermi.clas.Virginia.EDU (Marco  Bertamini)
Subject: Re: Venezia / F. Guccini (Italia, English translation)
Organization: University of Virginia
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 1992 01:39:57 GMT

In article <Byyz6D.288@news.cso.uiuc.edu> mcpg1309@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu (Maria C. Perissinotto) writes:
>Talking about decadence, this is a song about my favorite city
>and its slow, baroque decline. If it is, indeed, a decline.
>
>Venezia.
[..]
>
>Stefania affondando, Stefania ha lasciato qualcosa
>Novella Duemila e una rosa sul suo comodino
>Stefania ha lasciato un bambino.
>Non so se i parenti le han fatto davvero del male, 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I like this song a lot myself, and I love Venice,
but I thought that this line was:

Non so se ai parenti gli ha fatto davvero del male,

Are you sure about your version? I might very well
be wrong, but it seems to make more sense this way.

>vederla morire ammazzata morire da sola 
>in un grande ospedale
>
>Venezia e' un imbroglio che riempie la testa soltanto di
>fatalita' 
>del resto del mondo non sai piu' una sega, Venezia e' la gente >
>che se ne frega>
>Stefania ha un  bambino, comprare o smerciare Venezia sara' il
>suo destino>
>puo' darsi che un giorno saremo contenti >
>di esserne solo lontani parenti.>
[..]


ciao,   Marco d`Arco
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: fucking, john
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 18:37:21 GMT




I will point out some things, but I think main point is
that perhaps John is mimicking one of Marek's styles with whatever 
connotations this has for content or irony.

Ask John, not me.

John True wrote:

[poem]	

[aside: note that bacteria don't fuck,/but they do conjugate,

this was an interesting observation.  I probably paused a while to think about 
bacteria fucking. John makes up a rule, any way, bet he would break it in some 
other poem to give a different way of looking at bacteria and fucking.
Just like I can remember reading something about trees fucking by someone
sometime.]

[a lot of rules are set up: this does this, this doesn't happen, this does.
connotations of rules.]
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: migarcia@hfglobe.intel.com (Mike Garcia)
Subject: Christmas
Summary: Christmas story/poem
Keywords: Holidays
Organization: Intel Corporation
Date: Wed, 16 Dec 1992 21:39:30 GMT

 The alarm awakens me from a
 dream forgotten.  I lay
 reflecting of what I will do
 this day.   Then I recall,
 today is a special day.  Today
 is a day of love and deep
 feelings.  I sit sipping my
 coffee, watching the flakes
 float down outside.  My breath
 fogs the window as the steam
 from my mug rises.  I smile
 and regard the years gone
 past.  Of the times spent with
 family and friends.  The
 children all laughs and giggles,
 as they shake the
 gifts under the tree.  Oh the
 tree, such a lovely creature.
 We always cut our own, taking
 great care to choose just the
 right one.  The smell fills
 the house as we place the
 lights and decorations upon
 it.  The glimmer and glisten,
 the intuition and incense.  It
 all fits so well together.  I
 recall back to when I was
 young.  The night before
 christmas, unable to sleep.
 Thinking of Santa and the gifts
 he would bring. The
 excitement, the anticipation,
 the suspense.  I smile as I
 remember the feeling of warmth
 come over me.  The embrace of
 magic in the air.  The
 kindness of others.  Yet I
 feel sorry for those who do
 not understand.  The people
 who have never had the peace
 and love.  I pray for them to
 believe in love.  I send a
 piece of myself to everyone.
 I am not rich in money but I
 have plenty of love to share with
 all.  This story poem is
 a part of me I give to you.
 Please send it to those who
 need it.  Thank you and have a
 Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

 Hawk ..................
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: being playful, not a poem, not a comment, just a funny picture
Date: 15 Dec 92 16:02:50 GMT
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park


The idea of grammar as technology has turned out to be so fun because
I have imagined a spy thriller suspence with black coated linguists named
Tom stealing grammers from foriegn* countries. sleek yawnings, signaling.**

When will Tom Clancy make a novel? (unfortunately I can't make myself
read any of his yet, but I bet he has fun doing the research for them)


*this doesn't make sense, the foreign country

**There is a hat somewhere to be found in this.


-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: jstc_ss@troi.cc.rochester.edu (j. collins)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem:  No Title (C&C Welcome)
Date: 19 Dec 92 13:57:26 GMT
Organization: University of Rochester - Rochester, New York



I know
yesterday is past

I feel
what I do not know

I cry
for what was

I scream
at what is now

I run
trying to escape

I want 
but can not have

I crave 
but I do not want

I ask
please let me be free

12/19/92

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

let me know what you all think...

peace,
-justin
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: (untitled)
From: loredich@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu (That one girl)
Date: 14 Dec 92 14:04:54 EST

Cream in his coffee,
change by the cup 
on the counter
near napkins,
and a dozen, boxed,
plain glazed,
to go.

To be in that dozen, 
I'd happily wear
the silliest crown
of colored sprinkles,
the heaviest cap of chocolate goo.

But no.  I stay, not taken, made a donut
by loneliness, not filled with cream
or fruit but with a neat round hole
right through my middle.

I long to be plugged with a donut hole
so I can be a donut, whole.



Loredich
November, 1992
Time to make the donuts
From: jfox@sumax.seattleu.edu (---------FOX---------)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: i'm a poet and i didn't know it
Date: 12 Dec 92 00:05:53 GMT
Distribution: rec.arts.poems
Organization: Seattle University

the sky turns crimson red 
your blood running down the walls 
i now cleen the big hammer 
with witch i bashed in your fool head

your whine made me hate
and your annoying questions made me puke
i'm finally so so happy
so tonight i have a new date

Shadoxx

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: "Marek Lugowski" <marek@moose.cs.indiana.edu>
Subject: a postcard from the road to clayton, new mexico... / Marek (1990)
Organization: Indiana University, Bloomington
Date: Sat, 12 Dec 1992 07:41:22 -0500

[um, sorry about posting a double-plus ungood address for me -- you
cannot reach me via Nashville, Indiana anymore.  Try: 5445 Sheridan
#3003, Chicago, IL 60640.  Please be advised that the official US Postal
regulations strictly forbid mailing turds unless safely encased in
tupperware or rubermaid.  The long rectangular kind, please.]

		"I want to stick a turd in her mailbox"

				-- The Roches, _Nurds_


		a postcard from the road to clayton, new mexico,
		going east at sunset
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		there is aching in the telling and there's grass, greening
		but really, goldening, in the naked blossed and ripened
		zuni sun.
 
		you look out over the mesa country, so sparse with trees,
		ouch.  none here.  none here forever.
 
		golden foothills raced up to the rockies.
		clayton, new mexico.
 
		i want to move into a cabin here, far from the trees, far
		from the moist breeze that seas give, that humans do, too.
 
		i want to live in the dry ocean of golden late shadows
		and sharp skies turning dark not yet. 
		with venus in or not in the blaze, near the
		lion-roared silent corona.  i wander in thoughtscape,
		i wonder if there's been born a girl.

		no, i've not yet found a cabin.  but, clayton, santa fe,
		los alamos, taos, farmington, yea, but new mexico, i've found.
		here, it spreads like a playful woman, smiling at all to see
		from all directions at once, but mostly downstream
		from the sun, now behind me, smiling all the way, all the way
		from santa fe, smiling all the way to bloomington,
		my hoosier home cheated-on.

		oh, but look again, look at the map, once again, on the map
		at the very least.  breathe the open spaces, the open seas
		of grass, greening, but i saw it goldening, remember...
		at the vastly blue margins: not a cloud,
		not a tree, not a breeze or a howling breeze.
 
		i brought a fine postcard from there, though sadly not of
		the same cloudless sunset i saw.  pretty to the touch.
		the mind's touch.  let your mind experience sorrow, soar,
		taking in the treeless prairie as it breaks up in
		stilled waves, as foothills, as dry as honest handshakes.
		once you too pass through there, new mexico, you
		are too hooked for life, or scared for life, by or of
		the desolate.

		and I?  I'd wish to see a well-oiled ancient singed-glass
		lamp, barely of wick, and a fourpost bed without a canopy,
		and i'd like to see her, in spirits mysterious and good,
		and a bracing homestead that
		a fine book makes.  when there's two to read to.

 
			Marek W. Lugowski
			13 February 1990
			Lake Monroe, Indiana
---------               [reedited 12/12/92]
flames regarding prose poems as such won't affect much.  this is rhymed
for ease of mind in those who sweat when verse says nyet to the contortions
sanctified by the Esteemed Dead Poets...

				-- Marek

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: we turn lyrical for one another / Halina Poswiatowska / trans: Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 03:08:15 GMT

Halina Poswiatowska's (Marek #38).
 
English draft translation:
 
		untitled ("we turn lyrical for one another...")
		(p. 84 of _Wiersze wybrane_, 1989)
		-----------------------------------------------------------
		 
		we turn lyrical for one another
		to spite one another
		little by little
		we set into the evening sky
		 
		extended fingers shot apart
		suddenly bloom
		with the delicate purple found at the feet of fences
		 
		drunk on scent
		we journey from star to star
		 
		twinkling and unsettled
		cognizant of the future
		the stars menace us
		wagging an apocalyptic finger

			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s,
			translated from Polish by
 
			Marek Lugowski
			28 November 1990
			Cincinnati
 
Polish original (c) 1975 Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow, Poland:
		untitled ("liryczniejemy sobie...")
		(p. 84 of _Wiersze wybrane_, 1989)
		------------------------------------------------------
		 
		liryczniejemy sobie
		tak na przekor
		po odrobinie
		zachodzimy w wieczorne niebo
		 
		rozstrzelone palce
		nagle kwitna
		delikatnym fioletem u nog plotu
		 
		pijani zapachem
		krazymy od gwiazdy do gwiazdy
		 
		mrugajace niespokojnie
		swiadome przyszlosci
		groza nam gwiazdy
		apokaliptycznym palcem
		 
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: wasteland
Summary: wasteland
Keywords: wasteland
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 1992 13:44:23 GMT



wasteland


in southern california
there are no seasons,
only excess or its

extreme absence. in
march when the
jacaranda trees spill

purple blossoms along
los robles avenue like
spring tumbling down

the mountain, don't
think of fertile beginnings-
think of chipped paint,

teenagers, or blue
smog settling above
the desert- think

of beauty and waste
pressed on top of
one another like

the woman clawing
her way out from
under the rapist.


sls
--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: An Occurrence At A Rainbow
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 1992 18:22:00 GMT






An Occurrence At A Rainbow
-------------------------



A rainbow in scaffolding.

Torn skin and bruised ribs
where someone bound 

a literal rope
around a figment.




Alex L. Karan




Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems