HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: casteley@phil.ruu.nl (Eric Casteleyn)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: THE NIGHT OF VANDALISM
Date: 14 Apr 92 09:34:29 GMT
Organization: Department of Philosophy, University of Utrecht, The Netherlands



    THE NIGHT OF VANDALISM

 he watched his feet
 walking through dark hallways
 as tubes of light would pass him by

 he walked from his fears to nowhere
 moving through tonight
 he made himself less

 scared by a shadow
 overtaking him again and again
 he faded to air

 walked through a phonebooth wall
 bleeding from the glass
 he knew no number




              ...I hear the singing of the things
                 and I sing back in words. - EJC
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: klaw@ecst.csuchico.edu (Almighty Nodens the Master of the Elder Sign)
Subject: Re: hardly any unicorns (sorry..)
Organization: California State University, Chico
Date: Wed, 15 Apr 1992 22:31:02 GMT

I'm in awe at this poem.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 klaw@ecst.cscihp.csuchico.edu is Jason Livingston
				  305 Ash #1				
			 	  Chico, Ca 95928                            
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                               	 .PEACE.
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From: zen@death.corp.sun.com (d)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: yet another unfinished daddy doggerel
Keywords: sorry, no unicorns here
Date: 15 Apr 92 21:23:38 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: savage hackers
NNTP-Posting-Host: death.corp.sun.com
Flames: welcome
Comments: welcome


dad i still dont understand
what i can do to become a man
you left before you could tell me
i remember that day
    so clearly
as i cradled the phone to my head
mom dropped the bomb and zunge you were dead

i didnt mind the pain in your eyes
i knew that you were afraid to die
did i say that i loved you one last time?

daddy daddy cant you see
ive done so much, youd be proud of me
i used to feel id let you down
and now im a sucess and youre not around

i saw the fear in your eyes
i knew that you were afraid to die
cancer is pain and old news and so so trite

my life nows a bitter brew
of love, god and tears shaped like you
im really not obsessed with death
oh, but if you could rise -- take another breath
  and tell me
   do you love me daddy?
   are you proud of me?
   how can i be a man
  when i still cry like a baby?
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: she said she
Date: 14 Apr 92 16:51:30 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

=


	she said she tried but never ceded
	ground in time, he said, and bled
	unneeded, for this grime time on the slap-slap show
	is fine time...go down low
	she dried she said and left unkneaded
	bread around unleavened heaven
	raised to be with peers or peas
	on his knees he said inverted
	clauses clamped in dark grey teeth
	relief diverted (pure enjoy) from motives known to all
	appear appease appall



	

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: crystal@glia.biostr.washington.edu (crystal)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: My first post (warning: I'm prolific!)
Keywords: fear
Date: 13 Apr 92 22:29:08 GMT
Organization: University of Washington

This is the first of many poems that I write from the heart. I am not in any
classes, nor do I wish to rewrite my soul based on another's ideas. You may
play with them if you wish, but please do not post my versions anywhere else.
Thank you!  :>
 
 
     My, What Fear...
 
My pen shouts
What my lips
Fear to speak.
 
My page holds
What my thoughts
Fear to think.
 
My heart feels
What my hands 
Fear to touch.
 
My mind knows
What my eyes
Fear to see.
 
11-22-91
Crystal
 
 
An ONLINE poem. I don't recall ever writing such a structurally perfect poem
on the spur of the moment.  This poem has undergone NO changes.  Each line is
3 words long, each word is a single syllable, and the title shows up as the 
first word of each line in each stanza...totally unplanned, it just came
pouring out that way.  This one impresses ME because of all that.
 
And structurally, my poems all go downhill from here... ;>
From: melchar@west.darkside.com (Melchar)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: anthropormorphize
Date: 16 Apr 92 18:42:10 GMT
Organization: The Dark Side of the Moon +1 408 245 SPAM

that's the word (assigning human traits/emotions to inanimate objects or 
non-human creatures).
From: rhh@alice.att.com (r hardin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: The Business of Poetry
Date: 11 Apr 92 11:51:51 GMT
Article-I.D.: alice.22544
Organization: AT&T Bell Laboratories, Murray Hill NJ



>>If it's the vileness of a semiotic chain ending in Vietnam, why is it
>>different from the guy who wouldn't get on an airplane because Newark NJ
>>airport dropped three airliners on him in 3 months? 

>You lost me here.

In the 1950's, airplanes were dropping on Elizabeth NJ at about one
a month.  A guy I know lives there, who will not get on an airplane.
He knows what airplanes really mean.  His semiotic chain leads to
there, he knows the truth of airplanes.

As far as I know, he doesn't make a theory of it, but he could.
What should I imagine here?  I can parallel everything or nothing.

A choice here decides what will master the field temporarily, a
psychology, a sociology, a metaphysics.  Or choosing no choice.
From: Ralph.Cherubini@f46.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Inisde Out Woman
Date: 5 Apr 92 16:26:59 GMT


                                Inside Out Woman

 

I know a lady turned all inside out,

who wears her heart on her sleeve,

treats details of her life as so private,

while the men walk all over her soul,

won't tell you her name,

but spreads her legs wide

at a glance of the right, scathing, kind.

 

She's a whore--

and why is so perfectly clear--

she hates those who love her,

and needs those who don't,

the inside-out woman I love.


 * Origin: The Red Wheelbarrow-A clean, well-blighted place (1:382/46.0)
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Isaac Asimov Sonnet
Date: 8 Apr 92 07:47:37 GMT
Organization: CS Dept. Oregon State University, Corvallis, Oregon.

Someone recently asked if anyone had written any Science Fiction
poetry.  I have written some but all of it is of Classic Star Trek.
At least it was until now.  The ST poems I wrote were in the form of
Shakespearean Sonnets with the titles as acrostics.  The original 
was for a contest sponsored by Isaac Asimov way back in 1979.  The
rest were written last year to keep my sanity while unemployed.
I sit here with glass of sherry in hand and say "Isaac.  This one's
for you!"


                   SCIENCE FICTION



          Somewhere around my fourteenth year or so

          Conveniently, I cannot be precise

          I came upon a friend at school and though

          Exteriors diverse, we shared a vice.

          No one could have forseen the coming change

          Content were we to sit upon our duff

          Even then we knew that we were strange
     
          For girls to like to read that "awful stuff"

          I loved imagining huge ships in space

          Considered what strange worlds might be "out there"

          Toward the stars I soared while in that place

          Inside the magazines, "amazing", "weird".

               Of all the writers I'm enamored of

               No one can equal Isaac Asimov

                              Marguerite K.A. Petersen


In Memoriam to Isaac Asimov, Science Fiction Writer par
excellence.

Marg
petersm@jacobs.cs.orst.edu
a.k.a. Elvira
From: sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (sheila)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: no subject applicable at this time
Date: 16 Apr 92 10:02:46 GMT
Organization: The University of Texas at Austin, Austin TX


before i sleep
i think of you
i think
i do not want to die
-- 
stark raving sane -- sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Lucid Mirror
Date: 6 Apr 92 03:20:30 GMT
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations

Well, I'm back after a while, and wouldn't you know,
I've got poems to throw at you.
As usual, scalpels and smiles appreciated.

Lucid Mirror
-------------


I have a mouthful 
of broken glass
and wise words.
The line of sight
is bent around 
the image of a window.
The meaning of words 
dissolved through glass,
their form did not.

Who would dare
to paint in sound?
The ears hanging
in frames on the wall
are not mine.
The wall might be
made of glass.
The glass may shatter
when I speak.

What have I said?
The line of remembering
is bent around the image
of my words.
My voice dissolves 
through glass.
I do not.

Who cares to haunt
the sound with sense?
Words wear meaning
like masks;
like indian faces painted 
in war colors,
obscuring expression.
My face might shatter
when I speak.

I am serious.
I speak my peace
and leave myself
in peices.
I look through
a broken window;
   I see you.




Alex L. Karan

(its been a while since I've written (a few weeks)
so let me know)
From: Joe.Barr@f46.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org (Joe Barr)
Sender: uucp@p0.f39.n382.z1.FidoNet.Org
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Antihumanism
Date: 13 Apr 92  20:50:46 EST




        Earlier I posted a poem reflecting Jeffer's view of the
        business of poetry.  The thread which attached itself to
        that poem has pretty much flamed out.  Today I offer
        the best illustration of his antihumanist philosophy
        that I can, which is also one of his finest (short) works.



                        Hurt Hawks                   (1928)

                            I

        The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted
            shoulder,
        The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
        No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
        And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
        Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game
            without talons.
        He stands under the oak-bush and waits
        The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers free-
            dom
        And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
        He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity
            is worse.
        The curs of the day come and torment him
        At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble
            that head,
        The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
        The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
        That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
        You do not know him, you communal people, or you
            have forgotten him;
        Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
        Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying,
            remember him.

                            II

        I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
            but the great redtail
        Had nothing left but unable misery
        From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that
            trailed under his talons when he moved.
        We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
        He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the
            evening, asking for death,
        Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
        Implacable arrogance.  I gave him the lead gift in the
            twilight.  What fell was relaxed,
        Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
        Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded
            river cried fear at its rising
        Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.




* Origin: The Red Wheelbarrow-Home of Poets, Dweebs & Rascals (1:382/46)

 * Origin: The Red Wheelbarrow-Home of Poets, Dweebs & Rascals (1:382/46)
From: hacksaw@cellar.org (Hacksaw)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: LOOKING FOR: A poem about fathers
Date: 17 Apr 92 02:26:52 GMT
Organization: The Cellar BBS and public access system

This may be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I'll try anyway.

   About a year ago I saw a poem about fathers and how they are viewed by 
their children. It started off with the speaker as a child, and how he 
thought his father was the best in the world. Then it went onto how, a few 
years later, he thought his father was the dumbest person of all. Several 
stanzas later it ended with the kid being about 45 and realizing just how 
right his father was. 
 
   Does anyone have this poem? Or know of a book I could reference to get it? 
Any help would be greatly appreciated.

Cheers!

cellar!hacksaw@tredysvr.tredydev.unisys.com
hacksaw@cellar.org

------
hacksaw@cellar.org (Hacksaw)
The Cellar BBS - (215) 654-9184
From: n2412@cray.com (Joe Green)
Subject: Re: The Business of Poetry
Organization: Cray Research, Inc.
Date: 9 Apr 92 13:33:42 CDT

In article <22521@alice.att.com> rhh@alice.att.com (r hardin) writes:
>
>
>>Better yet, ask me about the nature of poetic imagery (don't ask me about
>>my grandkids).  I'll explain just what this kind of figurative
>>language figures forth and why it is typical and vile. 
>
>Why is it vile?  It seems like a great banality to me, that the human
>will can be laid hold of by a blade of steel.  Not that it isn't astonishing.

Vile because it helps reproduce the banality of a culture that wastes lives
to reproduce itself.  Vile becasue it is of a piece with the metaphors that
sustain that culture.  Vile because it is itself an act that smugly sublates
real bodies in the service of that which caused these real bodies to
be slaughtered.  

Standing outside of the great banality, weary of banality, one is
moved to regard the fact of the banality as astonishing.  One wishes
to save oneself and so one directs the gaze on the sublime object
that the great banality has become.  A typical millenial and even a
typical fin-de-siecle gesture.

Something different is possible.  In the Iliad the river Scamandrous
itself cries out at all the bodies thrown into it.  This revulsion at
least a counterpoint to the gore goons.

Or -- the responsibility to language that is a responsibility to those
without a language -- women here and there, the colonized, victims,
the dead.  You dislike a Jewish critic.  You suggest that the
critic be gassed.  This is obviously disgusting since the Holocaust
has somehow been able to maintain an outside.  Disgusting even if
(or especially if) you are a Jew.

However Vietnam remains to be appropriated for any use.  Walter Benjamin
said "If the enemy wins, even the dead will not be safe."  Vietnam
an available metaphor (as, perhaps, everything is).  Using "fragging"
in this way and then indulgence in the China Beach kind of talk 
repeats the gesture that made Vietnam possible. It is part of
the common necrology.   
--
From: leoncioe@ppc.ubc.ca (leoncio estevez-reyes)
Subject: Twenty third
Keywords: THE LOVE DUMP
Reply-To: leoncioe@ppc.ubc.ca (leoncio estevez-reyes)
Organization: UBC Pulp & Paper Centre
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 1992 17:43:40 GMT


	THE LOVE DUMP
			(To those in the business of recycling love)


I rip my whole heart out
every morning,
since she left.
I wash my heart with acid
to rinse
the pain away.

I gouge my eyes out, nervously,
each time
I think of her.
I scrape the images stuck to them
with a sharp 
and edgy blade.

I skin my body daily
to remove any touch,
she might have left, forgotten,
on my hair or my pores.

I don't know how to tear my brain
to clean some of 
my feelings.
If you can tell me how, For Christ!
Come help me 
with my healing!

How long do I still have to be 
put, all the way
through the mill?
How deep should I dig in my flesh
to root up
love that ill?

I rip my whole heart out
every morning,
since she left.
Why do I fail so miserably 
to throw
this love away?
From: dfs30@duts.ccc.amdahl.com (Denise Solis)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Two Lonely Planets
Date: 15 Apr 92 14:43:38 GMT
Reply-To: dfs30@DUTS.ccc.amdahl.com (PUT YOUR NAME HERE)
Organization: Amdahl Corporation, Sunnyvale CA

In article <1992Apr15.071512.5417@ecst.csuchico.edu> klaw@ecst.csuchico.edu (Almighty Nodens the Master of the Elder Sign) writes:
>
>P.S. If someone reads this who knows what the word is that means to give 
>     human attributes to inanimate objects is please tell me, its really 
>     bugging me that I can't remember the word.
>                                               -Jason


      The word you're looking for is PERSONIFICATION

      P.S. I liked your peace sign!         Denise



--
=========================================================================
  All poetry posted is Copyright protected, anything else is just talk.
  "Tis true; theres magic in the web of it." dfs30@DUTS.ccc.amdahl.com
=========================================================================
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: chungkuo@ais.org (Shawn FitzGerald)
Subject: Re: My first post (warning: I'm prolific!)
Keywords: fear
Organization: UMCC
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 92 02:47:41 GMT

In article <crystal.703204148@glia> crystal@glia.biostr.washington.edu (crystal) writes:
> 
>An ONLINE poem. I don't recall ever writing such a structurally perfect poem
>on the spur of the moment.  This poem has undergone NO changes.  Each line is
>3 words long, each word is a single syllable, and the title shows up as the 
>first word of each line in each stanza...totally unplanned, it just came
>pouring out that way.  This one impresses ME because of all that.
> 

That *is* pretty odd. Totaly unplanned? Hmmm...but then I never write with
any stucture usualy, I just let it happen. I guess if something comes out
whether through conscious. Writing in hypertext is even stranger, because in
addition to orginizing words, you are positioning graphical 'spaces' on a
field, and stucturing links and paths through your text. Gets confusing...oh
hell, I'm rambling on the net....I'd better get outta here before I get
flamed.



-- 
   Shawn FitzGerald           |   chungkuo@ais.org
   (Rational Romantic         |   University of Michigan
    Mystic Cynical Idealist)  |   Computing Club
"I love you so I keep dreaming . . ." -Bananas, _The House of Blue Leaves_
From: ndliles@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: re: re: Here's lookin at U
Date: 12 Apr 92 06:02:08 GMT

Dear Sheila,

	You sure didn't sound very happy in that post. 

					Norman
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: it got hot here last saturday! // wlod 1992-04-12/13
Keywords: from wlod not tom
Date: 16 Apr 92 10:23:36 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

Denise Solis writes:

> wlodek%wiltel@uunet.uu.net writes:
> >
> >(reply to wlod not tom)
> >
> 
>                     Yeah! Wlod is back!

Tell him! Tell -him-!

I am just the messenger boy. And he has no net access.

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: richh@tigger.jvnc.net (RICHH)
Subject: Re: love...
Originator: richh@tigger.jvnc.net
Organization: JvNCnet
Date: Thu, 9 Apr 1992 04:46:26 GMT


elsewhere, mead@VXLIB.CERN.CH (I'm going slightly mad!) writes:

>love is a drug, a powerful potion,
>like any other it plays with emotion.
>drag you down to the depths, lift you high as a kite,
>and you never recover try as you might.

RICHH
--like I said, it's *okay* not to be a poet.  Few are chosen, but fewer
  still are ferrets.
From: klaw@ecst.csuchico.edu (Almighty Nodens the Master of the Elder Sign)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: let's be
Date: 15 Apr 92 22:50:59 GMT
Article-I.D.: ecst.1992Apr15.225059.15125
Organization: California State University, Chico

"Optimism should always be tempered with death." - Jason Livingston


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 klaw@ecst.cscihp.csuchico.edu is Jason Livingston
				  305 Ash #1				
			 	  Chico, Ca 95928                            
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                               	 .PEACE.
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From: crystal@glia.biostr.washington.edu (crystal)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Two Lonely Planets
Date: 13 Apr 92 22:38:44 GMT
Organization: University of Washington


 
Two Lonely Planets
 
The sun and the moon
Sing to each other
Across the horizon.
 
The sun smiles brightly
Descending the peaks
Into the ocean.
 
The moon glows warmly
Ascending the forest
Into the heavens.
 
The brief interlude
Of two lonely planets
Making love from afar.
 
In the stillness of night
I watch them cavort
And marvel at the miracle.
 
In the morning dawn
The sun returns
Warmly embracing the day.
 
The moon bids farewell
Until another time
And faintly fades away.
 
Again I watch and learn
And listen for sounds
Of their love song.
 
And nod knowingly
As the cycle repeats.
The distance staying the same.
 
 
11-28-91
Crystal
 
(A poem about LDR and time zones...;> )
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: crystal@glia.biostr.washington.edu (crystal)
Subject: Re: My first post (warning: I'm prolific!)
Keywords: fear
Organization: University of Washington
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 1992 03:50:12 GMT

In <_#CL9YD@ais.org> chungkuo@ais.org (Shawn FitzGerald) writes:

>In article <crystal.703204148@glia> crystal@glia.biostr.washington.edu (crystal) writes:
>> 
>>An ONLINE poem. I don't recall ever writing such a structurally perfect poem
>>on the spur of the moment.  This poem has undergone NO changes.  Each line is
>>3 words long, each word is a single syllable, and the title shows up as the 
>>first word of each line in each stanza...totally unplanned, it just came
>>pouring out that way.  This one impresses ME because of all that.
>> 

>That *is* pretty odd. Totaly unplanned? Hmmm...but then I never write with
>any stucture usualy, I just let it happen. I guess if something comes out
>whether through conscious. Writing in hypertext is even stranger, because in
>addition to orginizing words, you are positioning graphical 'spaces' on a
>field, and stucturing links and paths through your text. Gets confusing...oh
>hell, I'm rambling on the net....I'd better get outta here before I get
>flamed.



>-- 
>   Shawn FitzGerald           |   chungkuo@ais.org
>   (Rational Romantic         |   University of Michigan
>    Mystic Cynical Idealist)  |   Computing Club
*grin*
Yes...totally unplanned.  I didn't even SEE the title in it til I had saved
my post. 
It was written on a BBS while I was online. There is no editor on it, once you
hit return, that's it!  I simply wrote how I felt, which at that time in my
life was pretty stressed out because I was going on a trip to meet several
net friends and I was SCARED SILLY!  :>  I referred to the poem as simply
MWF (and was thinking Monday, Wednesday, Friday).  When I saw the My, What
Fear showing up, I got a little freaked out.  I've been looking a LOT at my
subconscious lately, and having that phrase show up without my "knowledge"
told me that I was more bugged by the trip than I thought.
 
Most of the poems that I write are spontaneous. I rarely change them because
I feel that they ARE my subconscious's way of talking to me. I might change
a single word, and an occasional line, but generally, what you see is my
"rough draft" and I'm usually quite pleased with them.  Others feel otherwise,
but that's their privilege. I write for me and I like to share me with others.
 
 ;>

>"I love you so I keep dreaming . . ." -Bananas, _The House of Blue Leaves_
From: jabolliger@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: insects
Date: 14 Apr 92 20:10:48 GMT
Article-I.D.: miavx3.1992Apr14.151048.583

EGADS!  all those sucking probosci

	all them buggy eyes

	and ecstatic oviporousi

	a paralell universe

	something like 

			this net.

ja
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems