HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: mstringh@ent1.ent.ncsu.edu (Mike Stringham)
Subject: Liberation Theology:  2nd draft, 2nd send
Originator: mstringh@ent1.ent.ncsu.edu
Organization: Dept. of Entomology - NCSU, Raleigh, NC
Distribution: na
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 13:36:37 GMT

Apologies for the last post.  Somehow managed to send the last line into the
ozone.  In any case, here it is again.

LIBERATION THEOLOGY

I sit, toes content
to be possessed by sand,
woolgathering by this ocean
that reminds me of my father
and how I used to think
he would plow a continent
just for the smell of it;

recall how the rapture
overtook him each Spring
as he moved through the bottoms
from half light to half light
simply glad for the deep
rich sense of sod breakers
rolling in his wake;

and know for me, like him,
redemption depends
on this raucous descending
drum song and shanty of waves,
light's reflected leap
up from white-sanded beaches,
a host of seraphim birds.


			  -- Mike Stringham

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ross@cc.gatech.edu (Rosario DSouza, J)
Subject: Re: Request: Poem of Admiration from a distance (Geopoems #15: Plutonic)
Reply-To: ross@cc.gatech.edu (Rosario DSouza, J)
Organization: College of Computing, Georgia Tech
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 14:45:58 GMT



Here is a poem that you might want to use:



        Falling In Love
		  ---------------


        I sit alone,
        And watch you,
        As you walk, talk,
		  Sit and stand;

        Your method, your style,
		  Your anger, your smile:
        All of these, I try to understand.

        I do not know
		  Just what to say -
        How you caught my attention,
        And led my thoughts astray.

        I just know that I love you -
        That your charm and goodwill,
        Has taken my heart away!

..Ross D'Souza
ross@cc.gatech.edu
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Farewell...
Date: 5 Nov 92 22:46:29 GMT
Article-I.D.: rdg.1992Nov5.224629.20947
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation


	Farewell...

	You are the wind, I am the fire,
	But I have to set you free
	'Cause the sky brings stormy weather
	And the rain has come for me.

	You are the river, I am the dam,
	But your pressure's cracking me
	'Cause the rain has filled your banks
	And your water seeks the sea.

	We are the seasons, you and I,
	But our timing's not to be
	For the winter snows are coming
	And my tree still wears green leaves.

	You are the woman, I am a man,
	But there's no point now I see
	For the times we had were over
	When you bade farewell to me...


				M.S.J.
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Advice:  A Love Sonnet
Date: 13 Nov 92 15:47:08 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <5741@sumax.seattleu.edu) sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (   Kate   ) writes:
)Petrarchan or Italian sonnet, iambic pentameter dominating rhythm
)
)either		or		or
)a		a		a
)b		b		b
)b		b		b
)a		a		a
)a		a		a
)b		b		b
)b		b		b
)a		a		a
)/		/		/
)c		c		c
)d		d		d
)c		e		e
)d		c		e
)c		d		d
)d		e		c
)
)
):) Kate.

Dearest Kate,

Are you sure about this?  I was under the impression that you could juggle
those c d e rhymes any which way you wished.  I certainly wouldn't take
offense if someone did.

Yours,

Posthumous O'Toole, Defender of the Realm

-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: HELP NEEDED (Is poetry luxury?)
Date: 12 Nov 92 14:47:39 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstatin Kalikanzaros) writes:
> wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel) writes:
> > casteley@phil.ruu.nl (Eric Casteleyn) writes:
> > 
> > >   I recently overheard someone say that poetry is a luxury item. In-
> > > tuitively I disagreed, but I've had some trouble putting together a 
> > > definitive article to prove him wrong. Maybe he was right. Maybe I'm
> > 
> > 	if you need an argument
> > 	the other has won it
> 
> Shear defeatism!

Sheer defeetism? Perhaps I was a touch unclear. I only meant that
arguments are not always necessary for having the courage of ones own
convictions. Poetry, like water, doesn't need justification.



-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: maci9154@mach1.wlu.ca (macivor dawna)
Subject: Re: awful love & poetry
Organization: Wilfrid Laurier University
Date: Thu, 12 Nov 1992 00:44:43 GMT

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.....
From: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Miester aLster)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a floydish flavored pie...
Date: 10 Nov 92 02:37:38 GMT
Reply-To: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology


	lay me down
	lay me down to sleep
	and silently hover above my face
	to witness the scene
	when my forehead goes tense
	and my staring crazy eyes swell
	at what this could really mean...

	"are you cold, paranoid, unfeeling?
	 were you laughing too loud and feeling sad?
	 are you down and feeling bad?
	 won't you speak to me?
	 speak to me!
	 don't be tongue-tied
	 and have a mind too twisted to pray	
	 we can work things out today
	 don't let it carry on 
	 don't let it carry on from yesterday
	 ...a silent inner tear
	 will only gift you fear
	 and if u ever wondered where i was yesterday
	 i'd say that i died
         when i tried to go across a minefield
	 and i was gone very far
         but was still truly near...."

			- aL
			  /* inspired by roger waters and .... */
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,talk.bizarre
From: jcarroll@ferris.cray.com (Jeff Carroll)
Subject: Re: History repeats itself
Originator: jcarroll@ferris
Organization: Cray Research, Inc.
Date: 12 Nov 92 00:47:50 CST


In article <BxKuwt.F6z@cantua.canterbury.ac.nz>, mike@elec.canterbury.ac.nz (Cosmik Debris) writes:
> In article <1ds42gINNbuh@agate.berkeley.edu>, curtis@cs.berkeley.edu (Curtis Yarvin) writes:
> > In article <1ds38pINNdg@alicudi.usc.edu> joe@trystero.art.com writes:
> > >
> > >       Roses are red,
> > >       and violets are blue,
> > >       I'm suffering from a multiple personality disorder --
> > >       yeah, me too.
> > 
> > Your poem has been examined by an examination committee and
> > found to be scannously deficient.


I remember when I used to have scannous fluoride in my toothpaste.
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Request: Poem of Admiration from a distance
Date: 5 Nov 92 16:52:38 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA


   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....
>
>Merikele


Wellllllll, I have a couple of favorite classics, sappy, syrupy poems of 
admiration from afar, with natural themes... 



                           She Walks in Beauty


                   She walks in beauty, like the night
                   Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
                   And all that's best of dark and bright
                   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
                   Thus mellowed to that tender light
                   Which heaven to gaudy days denies.

                   One shade the more, one ray the less,
                   Had half impaired the nameless grace
                   Which waves in every raven tress
                   Or softly lightens o'er her face,
                   Where thoughts serenely sweet express
                   How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

                   And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
                   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
                   The smiles that win, the tints that glow
                   But tell of days in goodness spent,
                   A mind at peace with all below,
                   A heart whose love is innocent.


                           --Lord Byron



	        Love's Philosophy

	
	The fountains mingle with the river
	   And the rivers with the ocean,
	The winds of heaven mix forever
	   With a sweet emotion;
	Nothing in the world is single;
	   All things by law divine
	In one spirit meet and mingle.
	   And why not I with thine?-

	See the mountains kiss high heaven
	 And the waves clasp one another;
	No sister flower would be forgiven
	   If it disdained its brother;
	And the sunlight clasps the earth
	 And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
	What is all this sweet work worth
	     If thou kiss not me?


	   by  Percy Bysshe Shelley 


Enjoy,
Cecil
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Blistering Flame on How Not to Write / Marek (Re: ** How can any man)
Date: 8 Nov 92 08:42:35
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation
	<1992Nov6.233005.16027@news.acns.nwu.edu>
NNTP-Posting-Host: kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu
In-reply-to: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu's message of Fri, 6 Nov 1992 23:30:05 GMT

In article <1992Nov6.233005.16027@news.acns.nwu.edu> marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:


   You don't want to share her thoughts when she is defacating and having a
   hard time of it.  


FOR MY LOVE ON THE POT

Oh, love, my love,
how can I help you,
as you sit and strain, pushing
your delicate innards out
in an attempt to void
to fill the void
to fill the pot and null the voided void.

Ah, love, my love,
what can I do to ease
your way,
to stop the pain of
pushing, straining, endless hours?

Your suffering is my suffering.

Oat bran, carrots, broccoli, rice,
and you will eat none of them,
preferring instead the processed foods
of your mother, and hers before her,
and therefore, love,
your pain is your own, and I cannot help,
lest I shove the ex-lax down your face.

Should I squeeze you, hold you,
push on your body, held within my
mid-west strong woman's arms?
Or should I leave you to contemplate the 
errors of your diet alone?

No, I love you, need you,
feel you in my body at nights,
and hold you close, even as you
strain and pain...

Oh, love, my love...
I lament this caca with you.

--Nancy Howells
*grin* playfully, playfully.....
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Lost River...
Date: 5 Nov 92 22:25:11 GMT
Article-I.D.: rdg.1992Nov5.222511.19665
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation


	Lost River...


	Away from harm and fervent need,
	Streaming tears Lost River feed
	Of souls; despair entwining all
	Drowing hope in tangled reed.

	Taking all who enter lost
	From top to bottom current toss'd,
	Away from harm and fervent need,
	The river Styx their souls embossed.

	From pain the flow is cooling tears,
	From glut and greed, their darkest fears,
	Taking all who enter lost
	River flows 'neath troubled weirs.

	Unaware of those who pass within,
	The river Styx forever is.
	


				msj
From: wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: HELP NEEDED (Is poetry luxury?)
Date: 11 Nov 92 22:57:50 GMT
Article-I.D.: zeus.1992Nov11.225750.125351
Organization: California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo

nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev) writes:
>
>wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province) writes:
>[much stuff deleted...]
>>     Let's see how far I can push this metaphor : I write poetry for
>> the same reason that I learned how to speak.  I listen to/read
>> poetry for the same reason that I learned how to understand the
>> spoken words of others.
>>   -- bill
>

>Arrrrghhh! Aren't you people sick of meaningless, 
>moth-eaten metaphors? 
   Meaningless?  Unexplained at this point, perhaps, but hardly 
meaninngless.  By what definition of meaning does this metaphor 
lack meaning?  Moth-eaten?  Well, I personally have not heard 
this metaphor expressed in this way.  Granted, it is rather vague,
and that gives it the air of being cliche', but that does not
mean that it is not new (at least not in my experience.)

>Universal human functions have 
>no inherent aesthetic value. 

   Be careful, Philip.  I did not claim that my reasons were 
universal, only that _I_ "write poetry for the same reasons
that I learned how to speak".  Furthermore, I was not trying
to be ascetic with this metaphor, only insightful.  The question
that my point was arguing was a question of "Is poetry a luxury?".
If it can be shown that there exists a case where poetry is 
a necessity then the answer to the question must be anwered in the
negative.  I was (in a very loose manner) attempting to provide
that existence proof.

>Self-aggrandizing
>graphomania undoubtedly results from a tender,
>romantic attitude towards oneself.

   I am self-aggrandizing.  I am an arrogrant sonofabitch.
I make no claims to the contrary.  Do I hold a "tender, romantic
attitude towards [my]self"?  I do not know.  I work very hard
at being realistic.  However, I do not believe that the self 
is fully available to introspection, so the possibility of
maintaining a "tender, romantic attitude towards [my]self"
does exist.  Still, I believe that my notion of self is set
to its appropriate place.

>
>Philip Nikolayev
>nikolay@husc.harvard.edu

   respectfully, 
                 bill
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ramakris@gn.ecn.purdue.edu (Balaji Ramakrishnan)
Subject: Thoughts
Keywords: Thoughts
Organization: Purdue University Engineering Computer Network
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 92 14:29:37 GMT


Thoughts

What's in a poem
That ain`t in a rhyme
What's in a chime
That makes it ring all the time
It`s thoughts like these
That make this world so sublime

Neither music from 106.7
Nor the noise from the fan
Can stop the thought 
I just expressed
Every thought is unique
That`s lifes great mystique

                                      --- Balaji
From: "Marek Lugowski" <marek@moose.cs.indiana.edu>
Subject: Poem for Me / Halina Poswiatowska / trans: Marek
Organization: Indiana University, Bloomington
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 1992 16:45:24 -0500


Halina Poswiatowska in translation, #45.

If you would like to receive a file with first 40 translations from 1990/91
drop me a note.  If you want a random sample of one or several, it's no
trouble.  Includes Polish text.

draft translation from Polish to English:

		Poem for Me [Marek #45,
			 p. 386 of _Wiersze Wybrane_ (Selected Poems)]
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		Hasiu Hasienko
		don't you worry
		you have such pretty lips
		and such pretty eyes you know --
		you'll clam up the pretty lips
		you will shut the pretty eyes
		and you will even curl your hand into a little fist
		Hasiu Hasienko
		you had a polka dot dress
		you had
		you liked to tinkle beads
		you liked
		and the city which comes at night
		you loved it -- yes
		look --
		it's really not that far
		they say -- heaven
		look -- it's rather close
		they say -- night
		and you -- you will return to the city
		you will bloom with your name
		on their lips
		Hasiu Hasienko
		it's time to go
		come
		
		
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s
			translated by

			Marek Lugowski
			8 November 1992
			Chicago, Illinois

		[Translator's note: I left "Hasiu Hasienko" intact
		because these are diminutives of Halina and as such
		have no equivalents in English.  (A diminutive is like
		"Peggy" for "Margaret".)  I think that the English reader
		gets a better feel for the poem and the poet by crossing
		the language line in this case as opposed to having
		the translation do it for them.  Pronounciation is roughly
		"HAH-shu", "hah-SHE~-koh" where ~ is the soft n of
		Spanish.  Also, these dimmunitives are in the vocative
		case, as in, "O Halina", and in the nominative look like
		this: Hasia, Hasienka.  Taken together they connote
		a terrifically familiar, gentle, affectionate attitude.]


		Wiersz dla mnie (p. 386, _Wiersze Wybrane_)
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		Hasiu Hasienko
		nie boj sie nic
		masz takie ladne usta
		i takie oczy wiesz --
		zacisniesz ladne usta
		zamkniesz ladne oczy
		i jeszcze dlon w niewielka  zwiniesz piesc
		Hasiu Hasienko
		mialas sukienke w kropki
		mialas
		lubilas dzwonic koralikami
		lubilas
		i miasto ktore przychodzi w nocy
		kochalas -- tak
		spojrz --
		to wcale nie tak daleko
		oni mowia -- niebo
		spojrz -- to calkiem blisko
		oni mowia -- noc
		a ty -- wrocisz do miasta
		wykwitniesz imieniem
		na ustach
		Hasiu Hasienko
		juz trzeba isc
		no chodz
		
		
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960's.
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Bill, The Galactic Hero
Date: 7 Nov 92 07:55:49 GMT
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department


	[I'm restricting my news reading to the weekends now, so
	I'm responding a little late to earlier posts ...]


	Bill, The Galactic Hero
	-----------------------------------------

	Bill Clinton
	is about as radical
	as a flashing light bulb
	in Las Vegas,

	but 
	about as welcome
	as a discovered flashlight
	in a long blackout.

			- ml 92.11.6
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Critique of Stable Config...
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Sat, 14 Nov 1992 02:30:22 GMT

Help!

Somebody posted a detailed critique of my last poem, Stable
Configuration, and I accidentally spaced past it instead of saving it.
Could the author, whoever it was, please resend it to me if they have
it, or could anybody who can find it send it to me?  If you don't see
this message before Sunday the 15th, don't bother, as I'll probably
already have gotten a flood. :-)

Many thanks...

 - Mary Anne
Moh2@midway.uchicago.edu

-- 
More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads.  One
path leads to despair and utter hopelessness.  The other to total
extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.
						 - Woody Allen
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: Dennis Trudell: The Art of Poetry
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 92 22:49:40 GMT


Another comment on the what? of poetry.  This is from the book _Quickly
Aging Here: Some of the Poets of the 1970s_, 1969, Geof Hewitt, ed.,
Anchor Books, New York.  The editor obviously exercised his poetic
license (which has doubtless since expired) in subtitling the book.  In
1969, Trudell was 31 and living in Buffalo, NY.


	The Art of Poetry
	-------------------------------------------------------------

	You can say anything.
	That a young marine charging up a sand incline at Saipan
	suddenly thought of mittens on a string.
	That after hours in the museum
	all is quiet; the Rubens in Trafalgar Square,
	for example, stay well within their frames.
	That the lake of the mind no longer at civil war
	must be lovely and quiet, with delightful small fish
	nibbling near the surface.
	That Rasputin's toenails 
	must have been clipped by someone:
	where are such traces now?
	That the impossible sea
	is heaving tonight at the flanks
	of a ship with lights and music ...
	of many ships, carrying an unguessable number
	of indiscretions, and not a few smokers
	considering the jump.
	That a flagpole doesn't care---
	how silly to march past it on a fine Tuesday
	in a small group dressed the same
	and hitting the left feet at approximately the same instant.
	That the air above your sleeping son's head
	is as holy as rain.
	That nothing is perfect: an unpleasant woman
	said on television tonight I should think of my stink.
	That the next person you turn to
	may be the only one you'll ever have a chance
	to love more than yourself.
	That a statue is not a fiesta.
	That the snow makes so little noise.
	That a car goes by.  Slows down, stops, backs up.
	Pauses, the motor whirring---and drives off.
	It is midinght and October in America.
	The small towns are left to the leaves.

			Dennis Trudell
			1969
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: <<<<< by hilan
From: <DMP137@psuvm.psu.edu>
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 11:31:09 EST
Organization: Penn State University

little man sits

little man sits
before the screen
looks inside
and spills
a little
of his guts
upon the shined
flat community

white 3
11 11 92
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Subject: Re: HELP NEEDED (Is poetry luxury?)
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 1992 19:36:18 GMT

In article <1992Nov09.180907.195278@zeus.calpoly.edu> wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province) writes:
>        I write poetry for the same reason that I learned how to speak.

	Why did you learn how to speak?

>        I listen to/read poetry for the same reason that I learned how
>        to understand the spoken words of others.

	same applies.

They are also mixed up. learning to understand and learning to speak
that is. In your opnion can you really, _learn to understand_?
It is a neat statement. Think about it some more. I am.


Once a math teacher asked me how I was so quick at solving one of
the problems, and I told her that after I took geometry I learned
how to think (this was back in high school) after - she told me one couldn't
_learn_ how to think.

>  -- bill

Learning to speak is intriguing.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: in Olga's
Date: 11 Nov 92 09:47:53
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu


The morning found us in Olga's
several times each week.
First, I would get there (usually)
and order my caffeine of the day.
Hot or cold, but always caffeine.
It was Diet Coke in those days when it was cold,
and coffee when it was hot.
And usually I would order breakfast,
a muffin or a sweet bread,
or an egg Olga with bacon and the gamut.
Kim and Pam would come later,
sometimes (uninvited) Dick,
and we would study, or pretend to study.
It was German I and German II
and later, three days a week instead of four,
American Music History.  I 
got a C+ in American Music History,
showing that too much work is just too much work.
We would study,
cramming our brains full of useless jargon,
quizzing, and drilling, and discussing,
not Neitzche, not Goethe, not artistic values,
but case and gender and number.
Gender, ah yes, gender.
And I would sit and look out the windows,
hoping for a glimpse of Joe
on main campus.
The corner of State and Washington,
always bustling with students,
across from the Trueblood theatre
which wasn't really that, but that's what I remember it by,
Ubu Roi and Brad's unsung musical, and
whatever else we saw there (and Courtney)
and yes, one day, I saw Courtney
hurrying on her way to class.

But I never saw Joe.

Well, I never went there after the C+
but I probably should have done,
to eat an egg Olga,
to revel in the bitter onion taste,
to drink in the cigarette smoke of the various
people assembled there, each in their own
worlds,
big city Michigan,
small town charm, and
to find myself once more before I left
or even, just maybe to look for
what I'd lost 
to look for
Joe,
but
I didn't.

And now, there are not more mornings
at Olga's.

Ever

again.

--Nancy Leinonen
(Howells is the name now, but again, Leinonen was the spirit)
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu because I cannot even keep my own name anymore)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems