HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Rules for Survival
Date: 3 Jan 93 04:50:12 GMT
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago

Rules for Survival

1.  Never kiss.

Procession moves through her rooms,
night after night.

Racously over-friendly, one tries to 
kiss Karen in the hallway;
she evades deftly (long practice),
pulling him into her bedroom.

2.  Never let them stay the night.

Soft brown wisps fallen across her cheek,
and she is eight again, vulnerable.
Sleeping she may murmur again the name
she tries to forget.

3.  Never learn their names.

Smothered willingly between layers
of faceless
nameless
men.

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
January 1, 1993


-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: dreampoems   / Z.
Date: 1 Jan 1993 07:09:07 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu



Dream poems are born of dawn-thoughts
... words 'twixt dreaming and waking
Nebulous unfettered mind-pictures
Before ...
     they are photofixed ...
         in  the daylight of reality.

                 ***

zita maria evensen
c1992, New Year's Eve

-- 
 ...  increase the number of variables,
      but the axioms, themselves, never change ... algebra 2
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: postcard/harvard square  -- Z / Marek
Date: 2 Jan 1993 16:11:30 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu


In a previous article, marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) says:

>In article <1i3u4tINN89r@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu>
>bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen) writes:
>>
>>
>>         Postcard from Harvard Square
(much deleted)

>Brookline and all the college kids from UMass/Wellesley/BU/BC and MIT? -- none
>qualify as jugglers, let alone young intelligentsia.  Most of the people in 
>the restaurants are denizens of the People's Republic of Cambridge with
>no connection to Hawad... The red line brings many a foot to the square.]
>
>				-- Marek
>
............

Thanks Marek. You have been of great help indeed.
However, as one would notice the original poem isn't posted,
Thought I deleted it ... 

I guess I need to research the Cambridge environs before I
write a postcard next time :)  Thanks for the info.
BTW, I thought leven means lawn. Please explain.

This is a very good example of an EFL poem.

Thanks again.

Z.


-- 
--{--{@  i am a romantic ... no apologies  @}--}--
From: slp9k@cc.usu.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: _Sanctuary_   by Darrell Fuhriman
Date: 29 Dec 92 19:40:13 MDT
Organization: Utah State University

     Below is my contribution to the poetry world.  All types of
criticism is appreciated.  But I ask that if at all possible it
be E-mailed to me since I can't read the post very often.  For
reference here is my address:

slp9k@cc.usu.edu

Thank you to everyone who reads I hope you like it.



SANCTUARY--Darrell Fuhriman

streaks
the red/black hand
slither
slide
snake
stop
trails of red
to the vanishing point
pain

a fly
spitting
sucking
sucking
dissolving the trails
removing the ties to the past
memories fade

isolated

"Booze and bars. Is that all you have in your life?...is this all
you want?...Sleazy women and prayers to the porcelain god.  'oh,
it's only a mild form of speed,' you said, 'not really drugs'"

flash
transparent membranes whir
flash--a path of light traces
vodka bottle
knives
garbage can
cracked floor

eyes see eyes
papers--pictures
remind of
dissolved memories

"This was you.  This was us."

mountain side
lake
embrace
photo paper rain
red/black smears
splatter
lake
not water
blood

"But look what you have now, look, you bastard."

the light moves
bright circles
dizzy
no oxygen

"'I'll make it,' you said, 'Next paycheck.'  How are you making
it now, huh?...you bastard."

flashing resumes
pain
disconnecting
dissolving the past
dissolving the future

"You told me it didn't hurt."

flashlight falls
light shines
in the eyes
goes out
-- 
********************************************************************************
Darrell Fuhriman          *    "Are you guys modern dudes?"
SLP9K@CC.USU.EDU          *    "As opposed to neo-classical dudes?"
                          *    "Or neandrethal dudes?"
"Oh, just like an         *             --Exchange between my friends, myself
 orange cloud of          *               and some people from Clearfield, Utah
light that just blows     *               with an abnormally large
right out of it. Wow!"    *               amount of hair.
********************************************************************************
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: propagation of error     /  Z.
Date: 31 Dec 1992 08:59:46 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu



       propagation of error


sandstone gargoyle
a-perched by a cathedral's spire
winged three-toed monster
art ... medieval gothic
cracked during a catapult seige

restored ... improved by master guildsmen

limestone gargoyle
leaning against a cathedral spire
winged four-toed monster
ravaged by time and acid rain

reborn ... rebuilt
lovingly, meticulously
repeatedly polished
by men of craft

plastic gargoyle
hanging by a cathedral's spire
winged five-toed monster
copied by the craftiest of men

computer enhanced ... mass-produced

polyethylene gargoyle
with long neon nylon hair
multi-toed monster
swinging from
the rear-view mirror
of a totally rad Edsel!

         ***

zita maria evensen
c1992,sept
-- 
 ...  increase the number of variables,
      but the axioms, themselves, never change ... algebra 2
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dsoconne@quads.uchicago.edu (Daniel S OConnell)
Subject: Pie, Fruit, Beginner, Remain Calm, All Will Be Explained / Dano
Keywords: (c) 1992, all rights reserved
Reply-To: dsoconne@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: Dead Poets Society
Date: Sun, 27 Dec 1992 03:45:09 GMT


Pie, Fruit, Beginner, Remain Calm, All Will Be Explained

If you are just learning to cook
I recommend making a pie: a fruit pie.

No forty-seven ingredients
that start and end
in a soggy, heated mess

Just a pie &
every pie
expresses the essence
of pie-ness. No one will
ask you: What is it?

A pie is good, a pie is basic,
a pie is primordial baking.
It is innocent, it has integrity.

A pie in the refridgerator
is infinitely more appealing
than any other left-over.

Pies are manly & womanly &
childlike all at once.
Pies, even more than bread,
waft their way deep into the body.

A pie knows what it is &
has no pretensions

The advanced student may experiment
with the exotic: mincemeat, rhubarb,
shoo-fly, four and twenty blackbirds;
but if you want to do one thing that is
simple and good and true and wordless,
make a fruit pie.

It is perfectly content to be 
a perfect pie &
glory in its pie-ness.


--
Dano (C&CA)
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Christmas Gift - Stephanie Steele
Date: 23 Dec 92 20:44:41 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

Someday in a Cafe


I will order berries, eat them
slowly, one by one.  You will
mention Trotsky, blink suddenly,
and I will think it Morse.

The waiter will ask questions,
you will answer like a sage
while I confuse him, always
the fool, but you will laugh.

You will mention houseplants
and I will see two poets,
one a tree, one a vine.
We are in a forest,

and my meandering might lead
to your branches or your trunk
as we seek sunlight.  
Let's split a chocolate cake.


Posthumous O'Toole
12-23-92
for Stephanie
-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: 6:56 to O'Hare  (c&c welcome)
Date: 30 Dec 92 05:27:50 GMT
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations

6:56 to O'Hare

Driving to Hartford in a slow
	relentless drizzle
Seems singularly appropriate.

And the dregs of our last argument
	surround us in the silence
Leading to the airport.

Hauling out my bags and then
	confronting naked grief
Shatters my control.

Crying silent I avoid
	the arms you do not raise,
And walk into the airport.

The ticket counter lady,
	pretending not to notice;
Blessed kindness.

And the thought of friends awaited
	is suddenly cold comfort
Without you.


*****

M.A. Mohanraj
Connecticut
December 29, 1992
-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
From: rainbow@qiclab.scn.rain.com (Donita Thompson)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: I've always liked this poem...
Date: 1 Jan 93 01:36:53 GMT
Article-I.D.: qiclab.1993Jan1.013653.14867
Organization: SCN Research/Qic Laboratories of Tigard, Oregon.

Spread your lips and get ready
Put your hands around me tight
Stir me with your fingers
I won't put up a fight...
Gulp my flowing juices
Take me straight and fast
Or sip from me my nectar
And make my goodness last...
Press me to your mouth
And give a gentle sigh
Close your eyes and swallow
And kiss your thirst goodbye...


(It's on my coffee cup)  ;)


--
From: jdblake@csd4.csd.uwm.edu (John David Blake)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: His End (a poem)
Date: 29 Dec 1992 03:42:48 GMT
Organization: Computing Services Division, University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: 129.89.7.4
Originator: jdblake@csd4.csd.uwm.edu

This is another poem by my friend David King, which he asked my to post.
Again, c&c are very much welcomed, by e-mail if possible to
jdblake@csd4.csd.uwm.edu. Thanks!
-----
His End

I remember the hidden details,
the little qualities that become singed
into the memory on such occasions -
the wind, softly caressing my left side,
the darkening sun reflecting my right.
Your job, so hard it must have been to
tell me the news, that horrible event
that marked a futile, final beginning
in my life.  The heels of my feet, next
to the rubber, brown soles ached
because I ran, ran so desperately
crying away from your words.  You
were braced for this response, so calm
and gentle, but your own face betrayed
the shared hopelessness.  As I listened,
the tenacious brown leaf hanging on the
branch overlooking the road fluttered
in Fate's wind and hours that were
seconds passed as the last fiber split
and the dried carcass spun to the dead,
cracked concrete.  I stared, entranced
at the poetry; I might have stood there
forever, but I had to go with you to
identify the body.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: Damian.Turner%bbs@quake.sylmar.ca.us (Damian Turner)
Date: Wed, 30 Dec 92 23:15:11 PST
Organization: Quake Public Access, San Fernando Valley, CA (818)362-6092
Subject: Poem for Your Perusal
Distribution: world
Reply-To: Damian.Turner%bbs@quake.sylmar.ca.us (Damian Turner)
X-Posting-Software: UniBoard 1.10a S/N 210921

Here is my first poem post. Please email c/c and pull no punches please...

I go this way for a taste of chocolate, and there's this warm funny feeling
in my chest.  I
go the other way for a cup of hot tea, and there's a sadness welling up to
tears.  If it were not for
the [whispered].  I remember the graveyard and the green grass and the
quiet.  I remember the
rain in Israel (gunfire in the distance?), me sitting crouching in some
corner, typing away, trying
to huddle under the awning, trying to keep the rain away from me and my
laptop.  I'm smoking,
typing, no longer responsible for the [whisper].  To the east backwards?  To
the west, flying?
Any which way, sadness for now, when I go to the open celldoor I smack my
nose against the
wall, and when I turn around the door is on the other side of the room.  I
hold out something for
a child, but when I approach he disappears.  I feel an old man's fingers
tapping my shoulder
from behind, and I am afraid to turn and face the sadness in his eyes.
When I think of you I think of an old farmer reaching deep into the dirt and
pulling up a
potato or a beet or an orange, lastly an orange, sun-drenched and so juicy
it trickles down your
cheeks and neck.  Pulled up from deep under the ground.  A cup of hot tea. 
Quicksand.
Memories.  Oranges.  Thoughts, and levels, never near enough.
With a motion you are kissed.  With a memory I am missed.  Over and over,
again and
again.  In a fraction of a second you are you again.  And closer.  And
further.  And out of me,
and in you, and with me, but far from you.  I go this way and it comes again
and again.  I go the
other way but you are always you again.  A beam of light, a
straight-as-an-arrow, and out the
window it seems I'm sure it can't happen again.
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: skanky
Summary: skanky = homely, insignificant c.1930
Date: Tue, 22 Dec 92 16:59:46 PST
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us



American slang c.1930 ...  skank* (also skag, scag) n. a homely
                           girl or woman. During the first world war
                           skag was used for "cigarette butt" by
                           the American soldiers. By the early sixties
                           skag/skank was used by American teens as
                           "someone or something foolish or insignificant."
                           Also, skag was/is used for "heroin" in the
                           drug subculture.

This what you need?
          
-- 

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Rapt Attention (c&c welcome)
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Tue, 22 Dec 1992 23:41:02 GMT

Rapt Attention

Sheet lightning arcs
	beneath closed lids.
Clawed fingers arch
	motionless.
Mirroring other fingers
	curved around a bare throat,
Clenched too taut
	to scream


*****

M.A. Mohanraj
England
December 21, 1992

-- 
 
Here, write it, or it will be erased by the wind.

					 - Isabel Allende
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: The sandy shore -- jchien
Organization: The Land of Flowers (Stanford U.)
Date: Sat, 26 Dec 92 20:31:01 GMT



	[Don's Christmas present inspired me to write this
	followup to my poem, "The cerulean ocean." 
	It's in my .plan, so finger me if you'd like
	to read it.]
	


The sandy shore


     It's lonely here, standing in shifting sand, the view
across the horizon watery.  Heat-wave illusions of sun tanned
surfers and shapely, sunglassed bodies flicker across the beach.
A bright summer's day, and even the seagulls seem golden.
     I start to stroll on the sands, always parallelling the
shoreline, a lesson taught to me by psychologists, and 
the golden gods and goddess part, shimmering, flitting out 
of existence as if on a palsied t.v. channel.  I feel the
warmth of their bodies, walking by them.  It's good to feel
hot like baking bread, rising with life, instead of the 
cold serene ocean.
     Once or twice a mile, a sharp fragment penetrates my
bare feet, whether a scalloped bit of shell, dried driftwood,
washed-up jellyfish, or beer bottle.  Usually it draws blood,
a little drop or a small puddle.  The sand doesn't mind, it
thirstily drinks what fluids one has to offer.  But the wound
stings like a malicious needle, prickling over and over 
along the smooth length of the sole.  Sand isn't likely to
soothe it, so I look across the dunes to the white-topped waters.
     Shuffling along with one good foot and the toes of the hurt,
I work myself to the wet shore.  The descent takes longer than
it used to when I was younger, when I stayed near the shore,
splashing.  I liked the wet chill, the breeze whipping
my damp skin.  Not anymore -- it takes a certain masochism
to endure the cold for long.
     But with a touch of the soothing waters to my bare sole,
and God!  how I miss the salty embraces, the cold, the calm
floating in deep sea.  I dunk my foot in whole, but the new-found
frigidity hustles me to the sandy shore.  The time apart has
tempered my nerves.
     For now, I've touched enough water to heal the wound.  The
bright sands are lonesome, deserted at times, but they offer
a richer solace than a watery surcease.  The hidden dangers, yes
they will prickle, but the wounds will heal.
     And the cerulean ocean, yes it will allure, always tempting
like a long-time lover.




					--jennifer crystal chien


c/c welcome, as always
From: alpope@acacia.Eng.Sun.COM (Alan L. Pope)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Sisyphus
Date: 1 Jan 1993 03:43:14 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc., Mountain View, CA, USA
NNTP-Posting-Host: vichon


                            Sisyphus

                  For the hudereth time this trip
                  tie me again to the masthead
                  that I might hear the sweet song
                  and know the anguish of longing.
--
"I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several
 weeks." -- Daniel Boone.		Alan Pope <alan.pope@Eng.Sun.COM>

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Revolution
Date: 28 Dec 92 15:24:16 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                             Revolution


Believable in dark Africa
in the southern country where everyone watches
the animals are becoming strong
the hyenas plot with the lions
(desperation and opportunism linking paws)
for the overthrow of the humans
they all embroiled over matters of color
stand looking at each others' bare arms in the bright sun
and dispute the significance of brown and pink
the animals plan to chew on legs only
that way escaping notice...






-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Christmas Gift - Rebecca Lowell
Date: 24 Dec 92 16:58:41 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

xmas eve already?  It looks like I'm not going to be able to give gifts 
even to those few I had planned, but here's one for Reebie.  Warning:  As 
noted, this poem is chuckleheaded!


Chuckleheaded Ode to Candlestick O'Toole


I walked toward the mountain wearily,
my eyes blinking in the smoke of dirt
brought on by wind.  The mountain
was surrounded by this smoke
and I was forced to stop.
The haze seemed familiar to me
as it danced atop the peak
and spread among clouds.
The wind swirled through my collar
in frivolous circles,
its gentle giggle as it shaved
the mountain--yes, the mountain
was lessening, looking now like
a tidal wave, now like
a giant sail, now like
a stuttering entelechy, now like
her--it WAS her, and I understood
the familiarity:  this mountain
was a candle now melted into her,
who now not moving, shrouded,
beckoned me not with fingers
but with regrets.  I ran
with both legs broken
and embraced her
with both arms broken
and saw her
with both eyes blinded
by a wind salted with timber
and temerity, fin and cycle.
Any kisses that occurred
are not to be remembered,
not to be inferred.


Posthumous O'Toole
12/24/92
-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: postcard/harvard square  -- Z
Date: 2 Jan 1993 11:26:21 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu



         Postcard from Harvard Square

misty rain wets the sidewalks ...
chalk pictures disappear into the water film
on the pavement and mona lisa's rosey red smile
takes on an ash-pink hue.

a runner sprints through the graffiti-ed brick walk.
under his strides are silent messages
about hating war and teaching peace,
of loves, lost loves, and pink floyd
and "please keep the surface free of graffiti!"

nearby , a tree wears a ring
of flower-painted stones...
an investitute of royalty
on the square?

twanging guitars reverberate
as street singers prepare for their minstrelsy
and around the corner a talented drummer
blends his beat with catchy rock and roll
as coins clink into an upturn fedora.

window washers admire their masterpieces
of shiny spotless windows ...
their worl perfect ... evanescent
as the mischievous summer rain
tiptoes on the panes.

enticing aromas from eateries fill the square
as they cater to the palates of a palette of people .
they fill up the corner, 
lured by the myth of harvard square.
tennis shoes, high heels, mocassins, birkenstocks,
and bare feet cover the silent stone missives ...
they are cobblestones again.

in the early evening,
clowns and jesters, and jugglers
transform the square into a medieval world
of magic, trickstery, and wonderment
as the crowd of rainbow people
share magical, mystical moments together.

as slowly as it grew, the crowed thins ...
tourists go home to nurse their aching feet ...
jesters, jugglers, and troubadours
disappear as if into a time-warp ...
and the young intelligentsia walk back
to the realities and ivy'd halls
behind the wrought-iron fenced legend
called Harvard.

             ***

zita maria evensen
c1993, jan 2

disclaimer ... not sponsored by the cambridge cc   ;)     c/c requested




-- 
--{--{@  i am a romantic ... no apologies  @}--}--
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: The Wind and the Minstrel -- jchien
Organization: The Land of Flowers (Stanford U.)
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 92 06:45:50 GMT



	The Wind and the Minstrel


	Desert sands swirled,
	stirred by immortal West Wind
	rushing down from rounded hills;
	Wind denied Rain its life-giving
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	Her wheaten hair twirled,
	strummed by her minstrel's hands;
	rushing down from rounded hills,
	jealous Wind stole her precious life, slowly,
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	The minstrel sang
	with his beguiling lute, riding to Wind's home;
	rushing down from rounded hills,
	Wind heard the songs, filled with sorrow
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	West Wind sighed
	letting songs of loneliness
	rushing down from rounded hills
	touch his solitary air
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	The minstrel stole
	the Wind's vital breath with music
	rushing down from rounded hills.
	He took with him West Wind's immortality, stealing life
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	His mount galloped
	outracing enraged Wind's breezes
	rushing down from rounded hills
	which did not temper the wind
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	Wind heaved,
	seeking to blow down the minstrel
	rushing down from rounded hills
	but its vitality was drained,
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	The minstrel sang;
	his lute's songs
	rushing down from rounded hills
	restored his beloved breaths, un-
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.

	The lilies swayed
	as life-giving Rain,
	rushing down from grassy hills,
	transformed desert to forest
	like the knobs of an elder's fingers.




				-- jennifer crystal chien

c/c welcome, as always.