HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: "students" / Marek, Re: Phil's apprentice
Date: 23 Nov 92 08:19:19 GMT
Article-I.D.: husc10.NIKOLAY.92Nov23001919
Organization: The Kremlin Wall of Harvard
In-reply-to: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu's message of 23 Nov 92 04:33:05 GMT

marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:

> In article <NIKOLAY.92Nov22214936@husc10.harvard.edu>
> nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev) appeals to (local)
> authority:

PN
>>For anyone who cares:

ML
> We don't.  Get stuffed, turkey.  It's that time of the year.  Get
> your friend to help you sew you up.

If you don't care, go scratch your hungering arse
instead of wasting your oppressive breath.

[deletia]

> I think you dweebs are not applying yourselves.  You sound like
> geeks from hell, with none of the tech expertise.  How sad.  We
> already have too many burger flippers with liberal arts degrees.
> Hit them books!  Get productive!  Learn awk!  Learn Emacs!

> 				-- Marek

Funny thing, I'm replying to your jumpy ejaculations 
in emacs. Ram your tech expertise up the said hungering 
arse, and stick to posting your endless smelly bedsheets 
for JJ's gustatorial delectation. Perhaps this will
keep both of you happily detumescent for evermore.

Philip Nikolayev
nikolay@husc.harvard.edu
From: benge_kl@lrc.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: When Rip Van Winkle Stirs
Date: 20 Nov 92 10:22:19 EST
Organization: Lenoir-Rhyne College, Hickory, NC

     Greetings, all!  For only the second time in about a year, I have
had an experience intense enough for me to feel good about the poem it
generated.  I hope it's general enough for everyone to understand it.
     In case it isn't, I'd better tell you about the origins of the 
poem.  Here at LRC, we have an annual event called the Coffeehouse,
where students (and a few members of the faculty) get together, usually
in the basement of one of the buildings here, and do whatever they want
on an open microphone--sing, read poetry, tell stories, whatever.
It's never a bustling social event, but it can get pretty personal and
involved.  That's where it happened.

When Rip Van Winkle Stirs
(Or, Ode to the Coffeehouse)
============================

Yesterday morning, I was alone.
My heart felt like a frozen rock,
Hard, heavy, useless, and cold.
I felt like my soul had been left unplugged
And that the world was going on
Living and loving
Without me.

And then, I walked into
A hot, crowded, badly lit, uncomfortable little room
Which smelled of caffeine and paint thinner.

And an angel kissed me on the heart.

I don't know if it was hearing that poem
Which touched me somewhere deep inside,
Or seeing those old friends
I'd been missing for nearly a year,
Or locking eyes with that girl
(Which made me remember what a romantic night it was,
 There being a full streetlight out and all).

But when I left, I felt plugged in again.
I felt the color gold running in my veins.
I could feel little copies of everyone's souls
Running and dancing in my heart.
I felt like hugging a river.

All is right with the world,
And the world is pretty darned OK with me, too.

				KLeB the NoMad
				(and probably won't be for awhile)

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: natalie / Marek (1990)
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 21:57:53 GMT

(c) 1990 Marek Lugowski.  All Rights Reserved, except for personal use copy.


		natalie
		-----------------------------------------------------------

		natalie, natalie
		your darkhaired spell
		hangs in the vicinity
		of your name
		and grows on me
		as you stand, at less than 5 feet,
		for all the natalies i got to see
		or wanted to
		
		longer, closer.
		
		na -- ta -- lie -- na -- ta -- lie
		raced -- ac -- ross -- the -- boat -- dock
		to -- meet -- in -- com -- ing -- kay -- ak.
		
		(after consulting with daddy, lance)
		
		"hi, nice out?  i'm natalie."
		
		accosted me -- me, already in trance
		awaiting
		natalie's imminent arrival
		like cosmonauts do
		await the bread and salt
		welcoming crew
		in kazakhstan
		too oppressed by the gravity of it all
		to move.
		
		it's not every day (well, maybe every other)
		that marek meets
		raven flying women
		of impeccable beauty
		and articulate seriousness
		and perception
		...into fractions, "drawing" and jewels...
		and what leg, what bangs!
		...who've not noticed themselves yet...
		
		"well, what do you expect!  third grade!
		although, actually, i'm in fourth now..."
		
		third grade?  come on!  you're already 
		taking fractions
		i'm forgetting mine...
		what's 9 into 31?  what's left over?
		
		talking of majoring in college
		in "dancing" -- i can see --
		but isn't life all a dance, at 9,
		for most women? 
		hope you still think so at 18.
		
		and "jewelry", describing rubies and diamonds,
		listening to some newly met hairy
		("he seems really nice, dad")
		speak in strangely flavored tongues
		of amber, elektron, and the baltic sea.
		
		"how far is your poland from sweden?"
		about 200 miles
		"oh, i could ride there on my bicycle"
		no one has tried...
		
		third grade, my, me, mine.
		you are exacting
		and beautiful,
		my little raven
		oh, talk
		please talk
		talk  some more to me
		about clouds and airplanes
		and "flickering" stars ("why do they?")
		
		good luck, natalie, and good time
		at the "gnaw bone summer camp"
		your first, and for a whole two weeks.
		
		"thank you!"
		
		great.  now i get to miss you...
		

			Marek Lugowski
			14 June 1990
			Lake Monroe, Indiana
From: wprovinc@polyslo.csc.calpoly.edu (drunken_philosopher)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Urdu Ignorance (part II)
Date: 17 Nov 92 07:11:22 GMT
Organization: Bleeding Heart Liberals Association (and proud of it!!)

rhh@alice.att.com (r hardin) writes:
>
>The business of the poet is Truth, not understanding.

   I find this difficult to swallow.  Before you can speak about
"Truth", you must have an understanding of what the Truth is.  To
make life more difficult, there is no guarantee that the world 
can ever be completely intelligible to us.  It might be better
therefore, to start with understanding, and only then worry about
truth with a capitol T.

   -- bill
-- 
(wprovinc@athena.calpoly.edu, wprovinc@polyslo.csc.calpoly.edu)
From: v124jw4y@ubvmsd.cc.buffalo.edu (Benjamin R Pierce)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Some more poems by Ben
Date: 18 Nov 92 19:26:00 GMT
Organization: University at Buffalo
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41

As before, criticism and comments are welcome.  I know that the haiku aren't
strict haiku, but that's life...:)

******************************
Broken glass rasping
As it marks the passage of
A pair of bare feet.
******************************
Five maenads dancing
In a ring of twining limbs,
Eternal, without end.
******************************
What is, always was,
What is not, will never be,
Is this all of truth?
******************************
4 AM HIGHWAY

A small boy in a ski jacket,
The color obscured by the sooty orange of the flames,
And the flashing red and blue,
Standing by the officer's leg,
He is sucking his thumb.
******************************
EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW

There's a little black book, somewhere,
In the bottom of a desk drawer,
(Probably in a government building of some sort),
Which contains, among other things,
The logic behind war...
Elvis' current phone number...
The reason for hate...
Where socks go when you wash them...
A workable plan to save the environment...
The number of a good all-night Chinese take-out...
What happens to us when we die.
It would be worth finding, I think...
I want my socks back.
*******************************

All poems @1992 by Ben Pierce
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: Brother, Mother, Brother, Father (Part 3)
Summary: Brother, Mother, Brother, Father (Part 3)
Keywords: Brother, Mother, Brother, Father (Part 3)
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 18:18:46 GMT



3.

five days after your birth
little brother (three years
after your death) you would
have been twenty five. It is
Sunday, November first. The
bedroom window is gray with
sky. rain. snow. streets. rooftops.
front stoops. It is only October
turning, shifting into November.
It is October storming around,
making all this racket outside
my bedroom window.

i am tucked on the bed beside the
radiator, not really watching 
the football game (i turn on football
games like radio and listen
to them chatter through Sunday
afternoons when i feel lonely for
a house full of brothers, father) the Oilers
and the Steelers, i think. You would have
been paying close attention.

i'm staring out the window
thinking about the book i
want to be reading, thinking
maybe i left it downstairs, or
in Gary's study, thinking i
should get up and get it, but
thinking about you, how it's
five days after your birthday.

The radiator is breathing
this pleasant, warm breath,
pressing lightly though my jeans
and sweatshirt, melting my will
to move, forget. It feels like
the womb must feel. It is
the airiest, warmest liquid
washing over me, rocking
me deeper into bed.

there is some confusion
over a holding call.
It isn't second down,
it's third down and
the Steelers coach (you would
know his name) is upset-
he's shouting out onto the field,
i can' hear him, just see his lips
move and he's shouting
it's third down, third down...
October is putting up a fight,
insisting on rain. November
won't have it though-
it's snow, it's snow...

Shel, i stand in this glen
and every gray fiber
of sky unravels and falls
to my feet. There are threads
of gray stuck in my hair,
slipping down my back.
I look up into a white shapeless
insanity. This is fear. This is
nothing. If these few crippled
trees for a minute stop  
scissoring their feeble
existence into this absence
of heaven, i will disappear.
i cannot move. If i take one
step i will rip through this
paper ground, i will spill
into a white fall
and i am thinking
this is where a gun
in the palm of a hand
is real
in this place the black
barrel will kiss
the temple and sweet
certainty rips
through the skull
like a brilliant
idea.

but this is only a
place little brother-
like October, Pittsburgh
the moon.
i would come here
alone
and now you've moved
in
and lumber about in heavy
boots, bruise the earth
kick in all the clocks
and peel the color
from the sky just to
waste time
i can't hear you
i only see your lips
move
and you're shouting
out into the field
hey sis, hey sis
it's third down.


--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: Jack.Wiggins@bbs.rn.com (Jack Wiggins)
Date: Sat, 21 Nov 92 01:48:00 EST
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Subject: Hamburger
Distribution: world
Reply-To: Jack.Wiggins@bbs.rn.com (Jack Wiggins)
X-Posting-Software: UniBoard 1.10b S/N 145921

I took my friend
not long ago
to see... now wait.
where DID we go?
oh well,
it doesn't matter now.
 
We saw a sign
whose letters read
"Hamburg-.98/lb"
I wanted her 
to see the sign
and so we drove around.
 
She cried...
 
"I think that if we went back there again,
 and they had that greasy red meat chopped
 into pulp and laid in a freezer for the 
 world to see, she'd say GOOD!"
 
and walk away...
<sigh...>    (sometimes, people are soooo stupid)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Haiku
From: conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstatin Kalikanzaros)
Date: Sun, 22 Nov 92 12:29:54 PST
Organization: Paradox Alley F&SF BBS 805-492-8789


	A little haiku

	despair 
     effete hopelessness
     hopeless effetes
       mirth

pretty bad but what the hey!
conrad


____________________________________________________________________________
Reality is for people that can't handle Science fiction.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: on Canada in Jon's .sig / Marek (Re: next)
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 1992 07:50:45 GMT

In article <BxxnFv.3s0@undergrad.math.waterloo.edu>
jlitchfi@undergrad.math.waterloo.edu (Jon Litchfield) .sigs:

>-- 
>Welcome to Canada, asshole. The land of gripe and loonie...
>
>jon litchfield
>jlitchfi@undergrad.math.uwaterloo.ca

This reminds me of my first visit to Toronto.  At that time our family were
not U.S. Citizens and after seeking and getting a visa in Buffalo, we
finally made it to Niagra Falls, The Pretty Side, and later on to lakefront
Toronto.  While we were having a picnic at one of the tables in a lakefront
park, a car passed by and a guy stuck his head out, yelling, "go home, you
Yankee dogs!".  Our car had NY plates.  We could not tell him that we
weren't terribly Yankee yet, or that my sister was the distinguished one
amongst us, as we discovered on the border visa-less the first time, who
was free to come and go into Canada on account of being born in India,
which like Canada is a British Commonwealth nation.  We could not tell them
any of these complex things because they didn't hang around.  I guess he
could have been protesting the unbridled influx of tourists to deserted
lakefront parks on cloudy days...

To this day, "go home you Yankee dog!" is one of my fonder initial memories
of Toronto and whenever I feel lyrical, and Marie is around, I say that to
her, like, on the computer, for farewell, my lovely, kissy, kissy.  So, if
you hear "go home, you Yankee dog" from me, be sure to feel warm all
over... and go home.... you Yankee dog.

				-- Marek
From: nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Turtles in the Ganges (Stereotypical Western tastelessness)
Date: 23 Nov 92 02:00:43 GMT
Organization: The Kremlin Wall of Harvard
In-reply-to: bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu's message of 21 Nov 92 18:17:56 GMT

bhattach@quip.eecs.umich.edu (sayan bhattacharyya) writes:

>Article-I.D.: zip.1992Nov21.181756.5839

> In article <2780@tau-ceti.isc-br.com> cecilw@access.isc-br.com 
(Cecil Williams) writes:

CW
>>			Turtles In the Ganges Eat Our Flesh
>>
>>
>>		To die in Varanasi and be burned along the Ganges is
>>		the dream of every Hindu.  But 530 Lbs of wood it
>>		takes to cremate one whole person.  Often the poor
>>		cannot afford this it's $12 that's two weeks wages and
>>		the dead don't pay their way. Sometimes partial burns
>>		then. And the corpora floating down the Ganges river
>>		partly toasted foul the view and wouldn't you know
>>		that some enterprising turtle farmer would come to
>>		solve the problem.  Snapping turtles!  Bred to eat the
>>		dead!  They won't bite your toe when you're swimming
>>		in the slurry, but if your pyre fire flickers early
>>		and your pieces are made flotsam then it's "turtles to
>>		the rescue!" in the
>>		Ganges river flow.
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>		Cecil Williams
>>		11/02/92
>>		**************
>>
>>		

SB
> I think that this tasteless poem panders to the typical Western
> stereotypes about India, and picks on certain grisly facts of Indian
> reality for their 'shock value' to hold the passing attention of the
> jaded reader. I consider poems as the above to be on par with
> sensational and yellow tabloid journalism.

I fully agree with what you say about the poem as such; but please
remember that *any* stereotypes are bad, and national pride only
exists to be insulted, because it serves no other purpose.

SB
> It was amusing to to read about the 'enterprising' turtle farmer.
> Doubtless, an American entrepreneur, or maybe an entrepreneur funded
> by World Bank loans to set up his business ?

Alternatively, it may be some efficient bloke in Tata's employ.
Or are you a preacher hired by the Arya Samaj?
Think about stereotypes.

> -Sayan Bhattacharyya.
> -- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Subject: What good is knowledge if you don't know how to use it?
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1992 15:28:50 GMT


What good is knowledge if you don't know how to use it?


	Drivel so banal the ear should not bear,
	Occupational hazard of Poet,
	Negates creativity, verily,
	Zealously spat by this literate kahn.

	Taking the word as a sancrosanct tool,
	Alimentary passage of spirit,
	Liqueur of the heart and the soul alike,
	Knowledge is passed from the mouth of a fool...


				msj
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gardabr@unix1 (Gard Eggesbo Abrahamsen)
Subject: Re: POEM (1st One C&C Welcome)
Organization: MRIH, More og Romsdal Ingeniorhogskole
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL6]
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 92 09:29:01 GMT

James M Eden (J_EDEN@unhh.unh.edu) wrote:
: Well here it goes.....
: 
:         Fool
: ---------------------
: People say that I'm a fool.
: A fool, cause my heart won't let go.
: To that which is hurting.
: 
: Memories of us.
: Together, happy.
: 
: My heart though, feels differently.
: Deep within there is still a glimmer.
: 
: .....a hope.
: 
: That I'm not a fool.
: 

Fools can't write poems without building it of cliches.

/Gard (ga@samson.mrih.no (my newsreader is broken))
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: Re: Another version of "artifacts" / Natalie
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Sun, 22 Nov 1992 18:27:09 GMT

In article <steele.722453255@chip.aem.umn.edu> steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele) writes:
>'fucked girls'


ugh. 


(trying to say, that "fucked girls" is a vocal taking-advantage of.
as if the girl does not have any verb in her! ha!
I am no "fucked girl"!)
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: math1rb@rosie.uh.edu (92F07486)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: BaSiC + RiTuAl
Date: 17 Nov 1992 12:10 CST
Organization: University of Houston
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: rosie.uh.edu
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    

BaSiC + RiTuAl  
------------------------ 

ain't found a way to cure me yet 
stingin' sweat in my eyes 
left my wife and kids for you 
fantastic nite of pleasure 
love rockin' in my mind 

lines of pleasure in the mirror 
your my only friend until 
i can't come again and 
stranger still is the lie 
that the feelings you've shown 
are betrayed with every moan 

one more sip of your nectar 
i'd leave my life to be with you 
till i'm laying on the floor with 
my head in my hands 
trying to figure what was said 
to make me walk across the room for you 

through you i meet my best friends 
till i cried my river one bridge too 
far for the hypocrites that shine 
their lights on me, 
then again i lie in the night 
thinkin' of the way things could be 

we lived it in the fast lane 
dedication to the truth of our love 
but we never could see the same 
nor sing at the same time 
i wish i hadn't flown so far 
i couldn't reach you no more 

these basic rituals keep us apart 
tell my dream to touch your ocean 
that i would eat your soul to keep 
the distances frozen in the time that 
i lived in, bringin' down that cage 
from which i survived 


   --- 	this is dedicated to those that meant so much,  
	you know who you are, even if all of you couldn't be here tonight, 
        sorry for the pain and the walls i put between us 

************************************************************************
**                            **                                      **
**   David C. Meyers          **  "I'm looking California,            **
**                            **    and feeling Minnesota..."         **
**   MATH1RB@JETSON.UH.EDU    **                  - Cornell           **
**                            **                                      **
************************************************************************


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dmcheste@quads.uchicago.edu (dennis michael chester)
Subject: Carnivore
Summary: I wrote this this morning.  Comments please.
Reply-To: dmcheste@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Distribution: usa
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1992 17:35:26 GMT

I'm reworking "What I got from the Sixties" even as you read this.  In the mean time, this is another poem entirely.


	"Carnivore"

	When I'm with
	Friends
	I feel like a 
	wolf among sheep
	All tooth, and claw
	and passion

	When I'm with
	strangers
	I feel more
	like the sheep,
	But I'm still the
	toughest sheep
	you ever
	saw.



	enjoy,
		D. Chester

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: small request, and a Stansilaw Lem poem thrown in for fun
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 15:43:11 GMT



skipp ahead to **** for Stansilaw Lem poem

I am mostly posting to very requery that if anyone feels
they have anything interesting to say, when creating flames
to put a warning on it, something like, sure this is a flame,
but I am not merely insulting people, I am defending the honor of all
that is True and Beautiful and besides, I have something interesting to
say. Maybe even you want to put, "MY GOD! I AM. things of utter truth and
interest" in the keywords, or summary line. Plus, if you
want to be helpful, give an outline at the beginning, something like,

   I. insults. whereupon I lay heavy crustacians at my enemy's back 
      back porch, hoping that one squeezes his cat's tail and makes it
      yowl beyond belief.

  II. interesting observations on criticism and intepretation. Watch as I
      interpret a poem with bare toes. (toenails clipped)

 III. insults. but witty, tidbits relevant to grand unified theory, so 
      sheila will be particulary interested in this.

  IV. btw, I just thought I would through in a nice discussion of 
      things we have to assume before we exist.

I don't know. things like this.

****
This poem is about Love and tensor algebra

	Come, let us hasten to a higher plane,
	Where dyads tread the fairy fields of Venn,
	Their indices bedecked from one to n,
	Commingled in an endless Markov chain!

	Come, every frustam longs to be a cone,
	and every vector dreams of matrices.
	Hark to the gentle gradient of the breeze:
	It whispers of a more ergodic zone.

	In Rienmann, Hilbert or in Banach space
	Let superscripts and subscripts go their ways.
	Our asymptotes no longer out of phase,
	We shall encounter, counting, face to face         * how lovely!

	I'll grant thee random access to my heart,
	Thou'lt tell me all the constants of thy love;
	And so we two shall all love's lemma's prove,
	And in our bound partition never part.

	For what did Cauchy know, or Christoffel,
	Or Fourier, or any Boole or Euler,
	Wielding their compasses, their pens and rulers
	Of thy supernal sinusoidal spell?

	Cancel me not -- for what then shall remain?
	Abscissas, some mantissas, modules, modes,
	A root or two, a torus and a node:
	The inverse of my verse, a null domain.

	Ellipse of bliss, converge, O lips divine!
	The product of our scalars is defined!
	Cyberiad draws nigh, and the skew mind
	Cuts capers like a happy haversine.

	I see the eigenvalue in thine eye,
	I hear the tender tensor in thy sigh.
	Bernoulli would have been content to die
	Had he but known such a^2 cos (2phi) !	



(could someone please tell me how to pronouce the a-squared
cosine-two-phi in order to get the pun? I have been blatantly,
stupidly missing it these past few days.)
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu