HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: ktw@cbnewsb.cb.att.com (kenneth.t.wolman)
Subject: The Drapers: A History Lesson, 1953
Organization: AT&T
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 18:33:56 GMT


THE DRAPERS: A HISTORY LESSON, 1953

Silent, they measure the windows,
pass tape and yardsticks back and forth,
silent, this father and son,
bent, furtive-motioned, eyes sunken, darting,
hands trembling that cut drapes for my mother,
heavily, heavy, to shut out the sun,
wring out the air, fill the room
with their silence.
Only their numbers speak:
purple forearm blotches, strangely angular.
When I hand the father the tape he has dropped,
I stare at the numbers, then into his face:
and, taking the tape, his eyes
become a soft blow, like a wounded butterfly
flaring outward, swirling away
from the question he fears.
But I am only nine, the Simple Son,
concept-mute, who cannot conceive or question.
And seeing this, he nods, takes the tape,
and turns to the son who watches:
and in their faces, the smirk of tragic knowledge
spreads like hot wax lips on a mask:
not from mockery but from hiding the special Garden
where nothing grew, not even questions.

Kenneth Wolman, September 7, 1992
-- 
Ken Wolman   AT&T Bell Laboratories   (201)564-2866   ktw@hlwpk.att.com
	"Stare.  It is the way to educate your eye, and more.  
	Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop.  Die knowing something.  
	You are not here long." -- Walker Evans
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,talk.bizarre.rabbit
Subject: Re: Love/anonymous
Date: 6 Sep 92 00:53:48 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

In article 15054@borg.cs.unc.edu, denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo) writes:
>Another of my  favorites.  The author is "anonymous", who is, I think,
>distantly related to Posthumous...

>		Love

>	There's the wonderful love of a beautiful maid,
>		And the love of a staunch true man,
>	And the love of a baby that's unafraid --
>		All have existed since time began.
>	But the most wonderful love, the Love of all loves,
>		Even greater than the love for Mother,
>	Is the infinite, tenderest, passionate love
>		Of one dead drunk for another.

>			-- anonymous

this is by Anonymous of No Fixed Address
who carries in a stolen backpack
the space behind doors
the faces behind smiles
the punch-line a million steps
on highway shoulders anticipate
who waves you over, sits you down
among the fallen leaves and paper bags
a wonder, a crystal, new pair of eyes
for all of this and how it used to be
who shows you reason, reason the cycle
reason the husband, the killer, the park,
the open wallets and open legs
the names of bank managers,
screws and train drivers
a pianola yarn with gestures and groans
polished as often as the chrome on a Bentley
the crusty hand on your arm and pleading frown
the moment your eyes
ask the second hand what to do next
i will not see reason
i will not destroy time
i will not buy the gentleman
a bottle of sherry
i must go bearing this new ennui
into the senseless world
for i am destined to play out his truth
and he has bored me stupid.

-/\/\/\/-
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lugowski@ils.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: my life without christie brinkley / Marek
Organization: The Institute for the Learning Sciences
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1992 18:16:55 GMT


		my life without christie brinkley
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		it starts half past seven, my life.
		i detest so obscenely early goodmornings
		made doubly miserable
		that there's no christie brinkley to say hi to.
		i would not begrudge her the bathroom
		for an hour -- provided she let me in first.
		as it is there's not too much contention
		without her around.
		
		when i make my breakfast, and often i do not,
		i don't hear marek, would you fix me some coffee,
		i'm running late and the limo will be here any
		second.  so i skip the coffee.
		
		when i take my shower i don't have to
		take her hair out of the drain, saves me time.
		and when i dry my hair i don't trip over her
		cosmetics.  if i did, she might get sore.
		
		when i'm at work christie never calls
		to say wanna do indian for lunch?
		when i get home, there's hardly any mail for her
		except for or current resident.
		
		you know, i could get her on some sharp catalog mailing lists.
		i think she might like that.  always so busy.
		too busy to shop.  too busy to stop by.
		too busy to be around
		
		much.
		

			Marek Lugowski
			15 September 1992
			Chicago, Illinois
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--The candidate
Date: 5 Sep 92 21:36:04 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                             The candidate


He was
something to everyone
generous dad to fatherless children
caring son to destitute elders
stalwart ideal of husbandhood
to abandoned wives
understanding co-worker to jobless former workers
he was
someone to everyone
it was only during the autopsy
that it was discovered
that he had no heart.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From:  (Michael Snider)
Subject: Re: sestina??
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: BNR
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 17:58:52 GMT

In article <9SEP199214321176@vax.sonoma.edu>, connorm@vax.sonoma.edu
(Michelle Connor) wrote:
> 
> Hi!  I have a silly question to ask. 
> 
> In one of my texts, the author mentions (without providing an example) a form
> of poetry called a 'sestina'. What is this? Who wrote one? Any info or examples 
> will be greatly appreciated!
> 
A sestina is a 39 line poem in 6  6-line stanzas and a final 3 line
stanza, any meter.  The final word of each line of the first stanza is
repeated as the final word of a line in the next stanza in the
following pattern, where  number indicates original order: 6 1 5 2 4
3.  This pattern is then applied to each followin 6-line stanza,
giving the following:

1   6   3   5   4   2
2   1   6   3   5   4
3   5   4   2   1   6
4   2   1   6   3   5
5   4   2   1   6   3
6   3   5   4   2   1

Note that one more transformation would yield the original order. The
final verse usually contains all six end words, two to a line, in this
order:

26
43
51.

Sometines midline repetitions ( 2, 4, & 5) are left out.

The sestina was very popular in the renaissance.  This century Ezra
Pound wrote a famous example (the name of which escapes me).  I don't
have my books with me so I'll give an example from my own stuff, though
I don't think I like it much.  Blatant Eliot steal in the middle.

Sestina


How to speak with the world
When I hear
My own blood, not the moon drunk tide--
At dawn it's I who rise
I who break
From dreams, I who know--

What is it that I know?
Not the world,
Unless between me and world the break
Is pierced by voices, hard to hear,
Which teach which way to rise--
Voices from my blood?  Or from the tide?

If they are voices from the tide
What speaks?  What can know
More than how to rise
As the moon pulls the world?
And what ear can hear
That rock and wave will not break?

The waters break, the stones break,
Drowned and dried in turn by tide
And sun, weed and worm hear
No voice as voice, yet they know
A way to make their world,
Can make a way to rise--

And they rise,
And they break
Free of ocean, find a world
They cover with a tide
Of life, and come to know,
To speak, to hear--

Is it their voices I hear?
Have I learned, with them, to rise?
Have I learned to know
A way to break
Out of the world's tide
And still live in the world?

I know I hear the waves break
And hear the rise and fall of the tide--
But what voice can know this world?


> Thanks - Michelle O'Connor


***** Michael Snider ********** alas, no email, so reply by post ******

Talk of fame, honor, pleasure, wealth, all are dirt compared with
affection.
                                                   Charles Darwin          

Critics quarrel with other critics. With an artist, no sane man quarrels.  

                                                   George Santayana
From: jaguar@netcom.com (Crazy Poem Head)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: labor day
Date: 7 Sep 92 19:08:30 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL5

close eyes fall through glass swiftly shift
time streaming by a fish underground
green the color flaming twined of hair
sweetly crossed the boats of tween
hemingway hemingway
house oblique sharp shadow doorway
jaundiced in paper crinkle fold crumple
crazy silver ending so soon


-- 

*jaguar woman*				near wild heaven,
[jaguar@netcom.com]			not near enough
[jaguar@ardath.slisp.cs.cmu.edu]
From: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM (George O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: TB: Poem: Barometer
Date: 12 Sep 1992 01:23:04 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems
Distribution: world
Reply-To: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM
NNTP-Posting-Host: inkstone

In article 1zK@phage.cshl.org, boutell@cshl.org (Tom Boutell) writes:
>Barometer   (8/27/92)
>---------
>
>In electronics, we talk about holes
>Moving. In Somalia we talk about famine
>Spreading. In meteorology we talk about depressions
>
>Moving. All this mobile emptiness,
>More usefully real than the medium.
>Like an artist drawing a specific chair
>By drawing the gaps between the struts
>To avoid drawing just any old chair,
>
>We need negative space to see ourselves.
>It is in our deepest depressions we are honest:
>We see with the eye of the storm.
>
>-- 
>Tom Boutell, boutell@cshl.org
>
>Clausthaler is the best non - alcoholic beer in the known universe.
 xxxxxxxxxxx
I will have to disagree with this. You obviously haven't tried
St. Pauli's "NA"

  I did like this poem, though it troubled me in spots.
All these "we talk about"s, y'know they just make it sound
so ..um.. plebian. This, though:
   Moving. All this mobile emptiness,
   More usefully real than the medium.
That's the kind of tone I like to hear. The next line is a bit lacking as it stands,
and I think would go down better without that simile-in-your-face word "like."

hmm... now that I'm here, how would that first stanza look with 
my favorite choppy diction:?

  
   Electronics: holes
   moving. Famine spreading in
   Somalia. Meteorology --
   depressions

   Moving. All this mobile emptiness,
   More real. Where's the medium.


ANyways, I could hack it up further, but then it would be me, and not Tom.
Keep at it. There's potential here.

You seem to lapse into platitude-ism in the penultimate line and the one before it.
"We need negative space to see ourselves.
 It is in our deepest depressions we are honest:
 ..."
I don't know how to pull you out of that one. Perhaps 
candlestick or sharon would be a better coach here.
(I'm sure Wlod would love to tell you how Tu-Fu or Li-Bai
(most call him Li-Po, gads I have no Idea why?) would
be able to pull something liek this off without even doing it.


(Signed!) George O'Toole, maker of trouble!



Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jcbarnes@pluto.acs.oakland.edu (Terson - Sod Lord)
Subject: Re: i need a poet + Poetry Inspiration
Keywords: Is it theft?  -- Trying not to step on toes...
Organization: FryTools International
Date: Wed, 16 Sep 1992 01:04:47 GMT

Laurae & Marek write:
:) 
:) 
:) 		i need a poet
:) 		------------------------------------------------------------
:) 
:) 		write me a poem, please.
:) 		write me a poem of court jesters and fools.
:) 		tell me how love slips and slides
:) 		and talk of the delicious scent of brown hair
:) 		pulled away from your mouth. ah, marek,
:) 		make me wet with your words.
:) 		
:) 		flirt with me, friend. 
:) 
:) 
:) 			Laurae Pearson / Marek Lugowski
:) 			15 September 1992
:) 			San Jose, California / Chicago, Illinois
:) 




            i need a poet
            someone to explain
            what love really is

            you can't trust the news anymore
            they're only good for
            finding dirt in the elections
            or finding the next
            murder victim

            i need a poet
            to show me what love is
            tender embraces,
            is that love?

            where are they when you need them...
            or is love just a word
            thrown around in
            slavery?

            i need a poet...

                  J. Fritz Barnes
                      Sept. 15th, 1992


P.S.  I guess this might be what you would call using someone else's
ideas to help inspire you to write a poem... the words i need a poet
just seemed to glare... hmmm... I know this poem needs work, but what
are other peoples thoughts on this poem?  Is it too close to
Marek/Laurae's original poem?  How would you feel if you wrote the
first poem, and I wrote this one... they are different... yet...

Terson -- Sod Lord
From: rat@ravel.udel.edu (Paula Marie Briggs)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: the blue of the sky
Date: 11 Sep 92 23:10:20 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: University of Delaware

the blue of the sky


I think it was the blue of the sky.

Maybe it wasn't--
Just the way the snow fell
Or how the sunlight turned your hair to gold.

Somewhere it's all vaguely familiar:
Another identical scenario played out
On different stages in different places.
Nevermind that it's all new to me
This time around.

Never quite sure when it all happened.
You can stand on the edge for just so long
Before the speculation turns into reality
And some reversible mechanistic step suddenly becomes
Irreversible. I should know.

I'm sure it's all some kind of logical progression
But to me it's a whirl of colour and music--
Nothing's where it should be and oh,
The look on your face...

Isn't it odd, though--
That riding our respective sine and cosine waves
     in a trigonometric sea of uncertainties and apprehensions
We should be as fortunate to cross paths
     once or twics a cycle.

None of the worn out old phrases I know
     or all of the Rayleigh scattering in the world
Can change or describe the blue depths of those skies
     or the unguarded honesty in your eyes.
At least, as it seems to me.
And scientific observations are often in the wrong.

But where the science meets the dream
There is a region that defies logic and denies any derivation.
It is there that I am unique among a set of ordered variables
Unpredictable and independant in the wind and starlight.

And as you stand just so close as to almost feel you breathe
I am hesitant to even reach for your hand
     as if you would dissipate into the charged atmosphere.

Maybe it was just the blue of the sky.
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Pedophile
Keywords: Impressions
Date: 11 Sep 92 23:33:23 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana

PEDOPHILE


He watches her with languid eyes, his fevered
palms itch, clenched behind his back;
  she takes her candy, sucks obscenely,
licks with timid, tender tongue
  as though she sees him, knows his
thoughts and savors his discomfort.

She smiles sweetly, squints and sneezes from
the sun, her lower lip quivering with the force;
  how soft she looks, so dainty-pink! He
drinks her with his mind
  and agonizes in her childish glory
coupled to his fantasies.

At first she would resist, he tells himself, and
then would acquiesce to do his bidding;
  her simple, unaffacted charm would
linger nibbling on his ear
  and douse him as she'd squander
youthful, dew-laced pleasures.

He would give her reign, this he insists, and
shield her from the keening of remorse;
  never let her know how strong her pull is,
never let her see him
  beg and wrestle with desires that control
and stifle rationale.

Tiny princess, wreathed in halos dancing in her
hair contrived by morning's honeyed rays;
  her sweet, pursed mouth she bathes
with sugar-coated joy and
  he, with feral eyes, embarks upon the
too-short journey to her kiss.

Ah, little one, if you could only know what
ruminations fog his mind your play would cease;
  for you, someday, will know that fleet
anticipation mars the hunt and
  you would beg him stay his course and
give you time to grow, and love, and dream.

His eyes are haunted as he looks into her own,
and genuflects, a supplicant before her;
  grave, huge and green her soul stares,
limpid, and she understand
  the cabalistic force that drew him here
to worship her with longing.

A tender, nested strength within her weakness is
her treasure and she proffers it to him;
  she thrusts her sucker toward his mouth,
volunteers a taste of something
  that she never even knew was hers to
offer, or to understand.

A startled comprehension dawns, appreciation
peering from the deep recesses of his reason,
  no little girl, this morsel, nor mere
mortal, yet - to her shall he grant
 time to grow, and to forget her
faeries' teachings.

His finger graces one, small dimple with a
curving, fond caress, a kiss, of sorts;
  and then he leaves, no backward
glances, for he knows that someday she
  will have dominion, she will find him,
she will train his jaded taste.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
From: tony@swrinde.nde.swri.edu (Anthony R. Benitez)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: TEACH ME
Date: 14 Sep 92 13:29:08 GMT
Organization: Southwest Research Institute, San Antonio, Texas



TEACH ME

Teach me as I run untaught
unlearned into your gravity
unearth all buried treasure there
in thoughts, the jeweled gallery
to view, and point in wonder, awe
or gaze, the eyepiece you implore
is nothing less, or nothing more
than I, the unlearned clever thought
and teach me as I run untaught!

Teach me, as a viewpoint dare
persuade, convince the mindful whim
instructing, marking little tags
within the margins of our fate
and in the moment we conclude
another thought itself exude
so run the unlearned without care
and teach me as a viewpoint dare!

Teach me, in the woman's craft
or manly arts as much we would
re-live, expose, reveal as much
or more intwined our flesh consume
the gestures our felicity
our fleeting concentricity
this harmony, my soul would waft
to teach me in the woman's craft!

Teach me as I run untaught
unlearned into your gravity
unearth all buried treasure there
in thoughts, the jeweled gallery
to view, and point in wonder, awe
or gaze, the eyepiece you implore
is nothing less, or nothing more
than I, the unlearned clever thought
and teach me as I run untaught!

A.R.Benitez
September 2, 1992

*****************************************
tony@tex.nde.swri.edu
*****************************************
From: luk@ohstpy.mps.ohio-state.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Date: 6 Sep 92 17:16:25 EDT

> In rec.arts.poems, scottj@tahiti.dml.georgetown.edu (John L. Scott) writes:
> 
>> I will soon read a poem to my Toastmasters club (a club for people
>> interested in improving public speaking skills).   I am looking for a
>> particular sort of poem to read--I want an inspirational poem, a rousing
>> tribute to the power and spirit of the human race.  I want a poem that
>> brings a lump to your throat and makes you proud to be a human being.  I am
>> particularly interested in something that celebrates the the noble or
>> courageous individual.  I also need it to be from a reasonably well known
>> poet, one that I would be able to find in a public or college library.
>> 
>> So how about it?  Anybody out there have any favorites that fit the bill? 
>> Any suggestions you can give me would be of the greatest help and would be
>> sincerely appreciated.

I am looking for a poem of friendship; I am going to lose a friend of 
mine...sad.... I like poems that are short and have subtle themes. 
any suggestion...

luk
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: Re: imagery
Organization: The Land of Earthquakes (Southern Cal)
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 92 03:35:03 GMT



	Interesting, but not exactly original.  Sorry, it's
hard to do good natural poetry nowadays with all of those
poems out there about nature.  It really takes a fresh
set of descriptions.  Perhaps more effective than sheer
word imagery would be a combination of that with similies
or metaphors.

		just a thought
		(nothing personal)


		jennifer
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: zhu@athena.mit.edu (Erin Zhu)
Subject: dawning
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1992 18:39:41 GMT


darkly
always so darkly
the black that seeps
from the straying strands
of my long uncombed hair
staining the humming lamp
spreading across the 
disorderly table 
leaping across the unkempt floor
to emerge unscathed 
in the flowing darkness
shut within the closet doors

what truths i hide
behind the inscrutable
and oh-so-solemn shadows
trembly at the sight
of blushing teasing grasp of dawn
still held in abeyance
undispelled

burn baby burn
fire sizzles around
the halo of my untended hair
stinking of knowledge
shot through
flaming

  --Erin

   /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
      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: jmoulton@rodan.acs.syr.edu (Yer mom)
Subject: Poem: 'For Mark'
Organization: Syracuse University
Date: Sun, 13 Sep 92 19:20:05 EDT

For Mark...

Once upon a memory
My heart reached out
The air, still...
Did nothing.
My head a jumble
Thoughts, emotions, confusions
Pulling me apart... from there,
Thought I knew not where there was.
Stinging tears fell day after day
At my feet.
Alone, misunderstood, and lonely.
I fell
Into the cold darkness,
It pulled me in..
I called out to no one
Surrounded by emptiness and silence.
The only sound that of tears.
I reached out... not even knowing why
Or expecting anything there.
Your thoughts reached back to me,
Your hand grasping mine
Your voice comforting my tears.
Being there to hold me the only way you could.
A sigh as my heart realized it wasn't alone
Never wanting you to let go.
I press you hand to myh lips
Comforted more than you could know
By just the love of your thoughts.


-Jen, 9/13/92
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tordm@vana (Tord G.M. Malmgren)
Subject: life?
Reply-To: TordM@VanA.PhySto.SE
Organization: Department of Physics, University of Stockholm -- Sweden
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 08:57:25 GMT


 weariness and gloominess
 toil and drag
 is this what life is all about
 if it is then we should scream and shout




---------------+--------------------------------
 Tord Malmgren | InterNet: TordM@VanD.PhySto.SE | These opinions are my own,
               | BITNet  : TordM@SESUF51        | and NOT of this department!
---------------+--------------------------------
 Department of Physics, University of Stockholm 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: Re: RFD: rec.arts.poems.urdu
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1992 18:38:41 GMT

In article <3004@ucl-cs.uucp>, B.Kumar@cs.ucl.ac.uk writes:
> 
> >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! 
>  
                               [...deleted...]
> 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?
> 
                                [...deleted...]
> Forget it. If you need to discuss the poetry. You can discuss on SCP or SCI.
> 
> B. Kumar

On the contrary, that sounds like JUST the sort of thing we need right
here on the ol' rap!   "A little Urdu every day" ought to be our motto.

Seriously, why can't we read and discuss Urdu poetry on rap?  Must we have a
separate newsgroup for every language?  One of these days you won't be 
allowed to disuss Spencer and Cummings on the same newsgroup.  Ridiculous!

Marie Coffin
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems