HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: jww@evolving.com (John W. Woolley)
Subject: Advice:  A Love Sonnet
Summary: Comments welcome.  Copyright of course.
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 01:50:20 GMT
Organization: Evolving Systems, Inc.
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL4

                        Advice
                    A Love Sonnet


      You gotta stop this shit.  What kind of fool
      are you, anyway?  Sure she's cute, but use
      some brains, OK?  You'd really better choose
      someone else.  Remember the Golden Rule:
      Don't love a girl who doesn't love you -- you'll
      get burned for sure.  So love's a bitch -- big news!
      Get back on the track, Jack.  You're gonna lose
      a few from time to time.  Stay loose, be cool.

      You've missed, all points.  Love's aim's a mile above
      my comfort or desire.  No longed-for bliss,
      no thrill of pleasure, poetry, or pain
      brought me to love her, no, nor any gain
      I hope to have of her, but only this --
      that she is who she is, and love is love.

-- 
Fr. John Woolley (jww@evolving.com); vastly enthusiastic about Augustine,
Austen, babies, Bach, backgammon, baseball, beer, the Bible, Botticelli, Burke,
Chesterton, Dante, Dixieland, hardboiled, Hitchcock, Dr Johnson, Latin, Mozart,
Shakespeare/de Vere, St Teresa, Tolkien, Trollope, Fats Waller, and Washington
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: blue Re: CopyRights
Summary: and they're off!
Date: Fri, 06 Nov 92 19:30:07 PST
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us




In article <7710625@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM> daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
writes:

>I am so angry at Phillip Nikolayev that I was tempted
>to come in and engage in all sorts of name calling
>in defending myself.  But I really know nothing
>about Mr. N., so I do not want to cast
>general aspersions against him.  An e-mail exchange
>has revealed to me more specifics of his "charge"
>against me, and I wish to make a public defense.
>
>Apparently Mr. Nikolayev thinks I plagiarized
>a gesture made by Joe Green.  Note that
>he apparently is not accusing me of plagiarizing the IDEA
>but the style and the gesture.

To talk about stealing poetry, ideas and gestures is absurd ... but we
of the RAP persuasion keep doing it ... I wonder why? Doug, you started
this, how could you?

Bullshoi spewed by one n2412@cray.com on or around 4/12/92: 

>My muse is panting at the very bottom of Helicon right now.  She never
>did get past the first little cabin on the lower slopes but -- if
>anyone wishes all my poetry is available for their use.  Perhaps
>you want the satisfaction of the immortality of the little journal
>and can't get it.  Please adopt one of my poems as your own.  Maybe
>this is just what is wanted.

Looks like you're safe doug ... even from PO'T ... but not from
abbie hoffman .. tho' he's dead ... oops, so's don, i forgot. 

>
>You should, however, contact me before you do this -- some are
>being published here and there and we will have to wait for the
>"rights" for the poem to revert to me before you can take it home.
>
>There is enough (not all posted here) to make a little book.
>Think of it -- your own book with a dedication (good for a lifetime
>of gratitude) and your picture.  On rainy nights ten years from
>now a cat locked in the garage of a fellow who used to wear leather
>patches on his sportcoats but now wears old sweatshirts and worries
>about his kidneys pisses on the only copy that has not been
>remaindered.  Everything is so sad.

If it means anything (and it probably doesn't) I thought your piece,
doug, the better of the two .. by a very WIDE margin. For one thing, your
piece neither whines nor insults (the intelligence of) the audience.
Your poem is precise and focused. This ramble of the pontificate's is
disjointed and diffuse, a common problem of most of the things he's posted 
here.

                           JJWebb











  
--
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Request: Poem of Admiration from a distance
Date: 5 Nov 92 14:13:11 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <Bx7MAL.5vo@acsu.buffalo.edu> v110ju95@ubvmsb.cc.buffalo.edu (MERIKELE) writes:
>Alright this request is for the Romeo in all of us,
>
>   I have been admiring a women from afar and now want to 'tip my hand' to her.
>She is a friend of mine and she beleives that we are just friends (though I
>think that sometimes I sense a lit more than just friends from her).  Now i
>humbly request a poem that is the typical " her eyes are like sunlight..."
>but i want it related to natural themes with a twist....
>
>please send to me, via E-Mail, on if u want, by post, a poem of love
>from afar...   She has long dirty-blonde hair and blue-gray eyes 
>
>Merikele


		Love From Afar
		---------------------------------------------------


		The waterfall wraps around some shadow,
		the violent foam boldly carressing some form,
		some darkness in the overwhelming white.

		I stumble on the cliff's side,
		kick a rock or two, screaming
		as I slip--but no response.  An echo only,

		like a distant spoon on linoleum,
		an acorn cracked by a deer's hoof,
		a pencil snapped years ago.



		Posthumous O'Toole, Defender of the Realm
		11/4/92

-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: awful love & poetry
From: conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstatin Kalikanzaros)
Date: Thu, 12 Nov 92 01:56:29 PST
Organization: Paradox Alley F&SF BBS 805-492-8789

maci9154@mach1.wlu.ca (macivor dawna) writes:

> I may sound like a hopeless romantic by saying this....
> 
> Isn't there more to love than just fucking?  I always thought
> that part of love was supposed to be special, not just a cheap
> physical act.....
> 
Yeah but even people in love sometimes do cheap physical things.  I mean
the soft caring warm fuzzy shit gets boring after a while.  A wild bang 
can perk things up a bit if ya know what I mean.

conrad


____________________________________________________________________________
Reality is for people that can't handle Science fiction.
From: klaus.gerken@synapse.org (Klaus Gerken) 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: New Poems 2
Date: 11 Nov 92 20:07:00 GMT
Distribution: world
Organization: SYNAPSE BBS - GATINEAU, QUEBEC - 819-561-4321
Reply-To: klaus.gerken@synapse.org (Klaus Gerken) 

The power of darkness conquers us
We argue all night on prayer mats
We cover our wailing in a veil
Of ecstacy and proper sex appeal
The power of darkness conquers us

We argue all night on prayer match
We chant to the daemons in our mind
We carry the stigmata of the cross
We sweat beads of blood and cannot cough
The Power of Darkness conquers us

We cover our wailing with a veil
The priest sprinkles holy water on our heads
The air is heavy with decay
A vision of something appears behind the high alter
The power of darkness conquers us

Ecstacy and proper sex appeal
Heighten our senses and the nails
Pound in our hands and feet releasing blood
Into the silver chalice of our mind
The power of darkness conquers us

Upon our knees we sing praises to the lord
Of comfort and self examining
We lie prostrate on the cold marble floor
We would lie to get into heaven, but we fail
The power of darkness conquers us

               11/11/92


Copyright (c) 1992 Klaus J. Gerken

---
 . OLX 2.2 . Chicken heads are the chief food of captive alligators.
                                                                                                     
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Children later
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sat, 7 Nov 92 20:14:51 GMT


                            Children later

                I hate you
                because
                you were not there for me
                you don't love me
                else you would have been there
                it doesn't matter the reason
                you were not there
                so I hate you
                so what
                if your car broke down
                fell off a bridge
                ran into a summer snowdrift
                the truth is
                my truth is
                you don't love me
                so I will hate you.





-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kt1@hera.cc.bellcore.com (tellefsen,karen a)
Subject: Requiem
Organization: Bellcore, Livingston, NJ
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 92 14:47:46 GMT


Requiem

They put you in a little box
Then hid it in a narthex niche
Behind a door of polished brass
Your name engraved upon its face

Chrysanthemums were left behind
Entwined in ribbons of our grief
For what was human flesh with wit
Lies silent, charred and thirsty dust

The pastor speaks the liturgy
Through holy mercies none may die
But I trust not the hope he gives
There is no after beyond this
From: melynda@titipu.resun.com (Melynda Reid)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: I Hate This World
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 92 12:26:33 EST(-0500)
Organization: Paleolithic Refugia
Reply-To: melynda@titipu.resun.com (Melynda Reid)
X-Mailer: uAccess - Macintosh Release: 1.6v0


In article <1992Nov8.041142.56000@ns1.cc.lehigh.edu> (rec.arts.poems), jcg2@ns1.cc.lehigh.edu (JASON GIRARD) writes:
j.g.writes:
>     All that I ask is
>     When judgement day comes
>     May my talents be revealed
>     In Heaven above
> 
>     -J.G.  3/91
>     jcg2@lehigh.edu

but it is this world which needs the imperfect revelation of gifts. in heaven
talents are superfluous currency. gifts and talents are to be shared imperfectly
in this hateful spiteful cruel world. an artist cannot afford the luxury of
waiting to be appreciated and recognised. talents are not an essential aspect
of being but seeds to be planted in the manure of the present moment. there
is no solace in talents for the individual artist just a responsibility to
employ these gifts in the shadows of heaven.
                            melynda claire reid who is more certain of
                            less and less every day but who feels very 
                            strongly that no one owns their own talents

melynda reid   who wears hats but does not type caps
  eel:   melynda@titipu.resun.com  or  nosc.mil!titipu.resun.com!melynda
  snail: p o box 378 greensboro, florida 32330
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dogar@rtsg.mot.com (Haroon H. Dogar)
Subject: Re: The Lady's Reply
Organization: Motorola Inc., Cellular Infrastructure Group
Date: Sat, 7 Nov 1992 20:06:51 GMT

kt1@hera.cc.bellcore.com (tellefsen,karen a) writes:


>The Lady's Reply

>You wrote again to waste my time
>A letter filled with sticky rhyme
>Hyperbole and outright lies 
>Described my lips, my cheeks, my eyes

>She basks in beauty like a dream
>Her eyes like pools, her skin like cream
>I'd say it's more like cottage cheese
>With eye bones filled with moldy peas

>You claim sweet love's all you require
>'Tis carnal favors you desire
>Your syrup did not pass my test
>So go away, persistent pest


AWESOME! Terrific! The most entertaining I've read in
a long time [and that's a hell of a compliment considering
how great some of the stuff posted here is]. 


And, no. I'm not hitting on you.  :-)
I'm just very amused.
From: gt7244c@prism.gatech.EDU (John G'alt)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: awful love & poetry
Date: 12 Nov 92 23:45:03 GMT
Article-I.D.: hydra.74630
Organization: Georgia Tech

>I may sound like a hopeless romantic by saying this....
>
>Isn't there more to love than just fucking?  I always thought
>that part of love was supposed to be special, not just a cheap
>physical act.....

   I place myself in that category, but get real.  Get yourself.
You should know much better than to doubt the definition of what you
call "hopeless romantic."  
   Oops, I didn't mean that tone, but...  I think we all know the
difference, but sometimes - many times - we confuse the two.
   I've had a great deal of fun these last few months trying to
explore the line between fucking and love.  I invite anyone else to
try this, too.  Though, I keep ending up with stuff that says, "No, I'm
not looking for love in you, but I'm not looking to be impersonal, either."

   P: from which side of the relationship did all those o'tooles sprout?

i don't ever wanna feel like i did that day
-RHCP

   happy love-butchering!
-- 
John Greenawalt, alive for this particular branch of reality...
Tourist lost somewhere at Georgia Tech            
Internet: gt7244c@prism.gatech.edu
un pelirrojo q' prefiere las morenas...
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Air Collusion
Keywords: colly-wobbles, Colonel Blimp
Date: 10 Nov 92 12:23:12 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams) writes:

>                        Air
> 
>               Where has this air been,
>               that fills my lungs each breath?
>               What past could this one breath reveal?
>               Does it often climb to stratospheric     
>               currents, then back to ground as breath
>               for another? Has this breath
>               ever been a warm beach breeze
>               under a pale moon sky in Havana,
>               or a bitter Siberian mid-winter's gale?
>               Has this air ever dashed round wildly
>               riding the eye of a storm?
>               Did Tutankamon or Jesus Christ           
>               or the Bhudda ever breathe this air,
>               now mine for one moment? 
>               Whose breathe was it yesterday?          
>               Will it be your breath tomorrow?            
> 
> 
>                            11/06/92
> 
>               ---------------------------------
> 
>               Cecil Williams  |  Liz Haight
>               Spokane, WA     |  Valley Falls, NY



	where that what does
	currents for ever under
	or has riding did
	or now whose will
	your breath tomorrow






-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: the riddle song tonight / Marie Coffin
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1992 23:23:35 GMT


	the riddle song tonight
	------------------------------------------------------------
	
	it's better now
	i'm flying high and sober
	you are both drunk
	i am becoming the me i remember
	the holder of secrets
	and you are finally showing
	why i wanted to marry both of you.
	
	in the beginning you talked guns
	and motorcycles, exchanged salaries
	was the wrong end 
	of the telescope,
	so i turned myself to wine
	i understand.
	
	music bridges us
	tonight we are the three
	living in one house
	betrayal and marriage
	have not happened
	and i want to stay
	in this chair.
	
	but jerry jeff is on the la 
	freeway still (again)
	and we got together because
	next week will be the last --
	i don't believe it.  
	we are not a journey with two ends.
	we are planets in orbit
	and the astronomer in me
	can forsee the next conjunction.
	
	when neil young harvests,
	it's time to go.  otherwise
	i might never leave this room,
	your beautiful hands, the songs
	that taught me two-step,
	your voices of loyalty, betrayal,
	friendship, heartbreak, and love
	nested like wooden dolls
	with smooth smiling faces.
	
	they never tip over.
	
	in the end, we are a riddle
	that has no answer.
	let's leave it like this.
	saying good-bye again,
	we are still a story
	that has no end.


Marie Coffin
November 10, 1992
From: klaus.gerken@synapse.org (Klaus Gerken) 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: New Poems 5
Date: 12 Nov 92 19:20:00 GMT
Distribution: world
Organization: SYNAPSE BBS - GATINEAU, QUEBEC - 819-561-4321
Reply-To: klaus.gerken@synapse.org (Klaus Gerken) 

Walls
Brick walls everywhere
Office dividers
Points of view
Different records
Music painting poems
Different clothes
Different status symbols
(Different snobs)
"My wine is better'n yours"
Children at play
Playing just playing
THIS adult
And growing up
Build brick
Walls -
Between the shadow
And the sun
Between the woman
And the man
Between the father
And his mother
Between the wife
And child
Between the Sunday Sun
And Sunday Times -
It's all walls
Walls Walls Walls
When we tear one down
(Walls between these
"Civilized" communities)
We are quick to build
Another one
(Apathy, Hate, Racism)...
It only proves one thing:
We are cowards.
All of us!
(And why not?
The Hero's die...)
Walls
If you see a wall,
It's futile
Forget about tearing it down,
Just take a crayon
And scribble in your finest scrawl
On it
One word...Just a
Word will do...
What word?
I leave that up to you...

     11/11/92

Copyright (c) 1992 Klaus J. Gerken

---
 . OLX 2.2 . Backup not found: (A)bort (R)etry (P)anic
                                
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--No metaphor
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 92 16:48:01 GMT


                                 No metaphor

                Walking by himself
                along a sandy beach
                of an endless ocean
                no metaphor
                except reality present past
                a feathered scream above bears down hard
                and he is a fish pierced by the beak
                crashing through his flesh
                he becomes a snack on a gray winter day.


-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: music dying
Date: 12 Nov 92 03:21:19 GMT
Article-I.D.: zeus.1992Nov12.032119.115635
Organization: California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo

beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses) writes:
>
>music is dying in my heart
>
>she once asked me if I understood
>the meaning of the melody,
>and I answered yes,
>and knew yes, and felt yes,
>even when the song had faded to nothing.
>
>Music is dying in my soul.
>
>She once asked me if I understood
>the meaning of the words,
>and I answered yes,
>even though I couldn't read them,
>and sometimes still cannot.
>
>Music is dying in my soul.
>
>She once asked me if I knew the 
>names of God, and I wondered,
>did she mean all the names of God,
>or just the name I call him when I sing...
>
>Music is dying in my soul.
>
>She once asked me if I was sung
>or song, and I didn't know...
>
     Up to here, I am fairly unimpressed.  Not that there's nothing
in it, but it just doesn't move me.  However,


>Music is dying in my soul.
>
>She once asked me if I believed in the 
>power of my own voice,
>of the high notes and the low notes, and
>the small notes, and the long notes,
>and whether being a doctor of music
>would make me heal myself, and I,
>I answered, no,
>and I was right, for
>it isn't music dying, not that,
>but my soul dying in music, for music,
>for the words gone past, and the songs
>uncalled, un-invoked
>unsung.
>
>Music is dying
>
>in my soul.
>
   This latter part is worth something.  There's a transformation
in "it isn't music dying,
    but my soul dying in music,"
These are the phrases that you want to emphasize.  In fact,
I think they deserve their own lines, not surrounded by "not that,"
and "for music,".  In order to use the previous part of the poem, 
I think that you need to strengthen the imagery; it just seems
too vague otherwise.  Another alternative is to simply drop the
first portion of the poem all together.  Personally, I don't think
that it's necessary.

>--Nancy Howells 
>(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu)

    -- bill
From: gt7244c@prism.gatech.EDU (John G'alt)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: now for some fun
Summary: limericks!
Date: 13 Nov 92 17:14:36 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: Georgia Tech


    I've not seen but a couple on here, so I thought I'd give
everyone a treat (or trick) and maybe even start something.
    These I wrote *way*back*when* about mis amigos, so I guess
they're pretty much introductions...

    (Don't anybody bring up 7-7-5-5-7: I will hurt you)


   QUOC (pronounced WOK)
 Quoc is the guy I thought I knew
 Until the SATs he most heinously blew.
 He claims he was cheated,
 But his mind overheated
 Due to his infinitesimal I.Q.

   RUSHING
 Robert is of status-yet-to-be-seen,
 And although it's rumored that he's sorta keen,
 Don't judge him too far
 Until you've seen his car -
 Its color is Vulcan Vomit Green.

(maybe you can get a laugh from that, Jensulu)

   DAVIS
 Gannon is a man of great might,
 And though his face isn't really a fright,
 He's definitely too tall
 To have a brain at all,
 Or maybe I'm just jealous (yeah, right).

   CHIANG
 There was once a Mike on Conley Street
 Who, in betting, could never be beat.
 His luck was sweet honey
 That drained all your money,
 And he made you think defeat was sweet.

   NO SE RIMA, MIGUEL
 At poetry Chiang is a flop
 It's a class he really should drop
 You know he sucks
 He got a B-plus
 And now his GPA rhyme with his B.O.
      (and oh my, but he rhymes so well, too)

Let's see some more friend-shredders, though I admit
writing limericks about people is WAY easier than writing
a decent sonnet.  I'm never satisfied with the latter...

Impress yourself.
-- 
John Greenawalt, alive for this particular branch of reality...
"Can I interest you in a little something special? Though,
 Pity if, but if you have no money, your attention'll do."
un pelirrojo q' prefiere las morenas...                 ^T.S.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: messer@utkvx2.utk.edu (The Jagged of your Dreams!)
Subject: This is a poem, called "This New Sin", and I'm tired.
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    
Organization: University of Tennessee Computing Center
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 14:13:00 GMT

This New Sin

This innocent
and shy thing,
this sin,
which might
be thought of
as one-half of
a chestnut burr,
as a thimble,
or both;
this sin which
exists independent
of ethical
label and judgment,
name, barrier,
and name;
this more-pliable
thing in which are
created-saints,
in which is
a stranger's glee;
on stipped/cold
bed sheets in summer,
bald/clumsy fingers
tripping on
wonderful flesh,
brand-new flesh;
taking down moments,
but only as motions,
and as time does not
stand still
fingers make the charm
of this new sin.



Damian K. Messer
Knoxville 1992





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long column in brand-new overseas boots weeping  ~Bitnet:messer@utkvk         
blisters stick to the hard wool grey of          ~5809 Haynes-Sterchi Rd.    
government socks."                               ~Knoxville, TN 37912         
               --David Jones, _In Parenthesis_   ~(615)689-5722                
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