HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: R3TLM@VM1.CC.UAKRON.EDU
Subject: poem--academics--critiques please
Organization: The University of Akron
Date: Mon, 4 Jan 1993 12:34:58 GMT

      any responses are more than welcome because everyone around here
I've asked has given me the I like and I don't like it. And when asked why,
they always seem to give me a lot of "I don't know"'s.
 
 
A teacher looked at me as I turned to leave and said,
"Child, where are you going to now?"
And I looked at him and replied with all solemness,
"Down life's hallway, left towards Despair 101."
Emotionless, he changed direction and abandoned me.
Maybe, just maybe, someday I think I'll return.
Ideas, belonging to other people who've come before me,
Creeping away, teasingly beyond reach of my outstretched fingers.
Sadly, seemingly grasping nothing, I weep.
 
---Timothy McCollum a.k.a. bonehead
 
all replies more than welcome, thanks. --Bonehead
From: t22@clark.edu (Karen M Reagan)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: internet is / Marek
Date: 10 Jan 93 02:49:57 GMT
Organization: Clark College, Vancouver, Wa. USA


In article <1993Jan10.020919.21224@news.acns.nwu.edu> marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:
>
>		internet is kind
>		-------------------------------------------------------------
>
>		internet suffereth long, and is kind;
>		internet envieth not; internet vaunteth not itself,
>		is not puffed up, doth not behave itself
>		unseemly, seeketh not her own,
>		is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
>		rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
>		beareth all things, believeth all things,
>		hopeth all things, endureth all things.
>		internet never faileth.
>
>	
>			Marek Lugowski
>			9 January 1993
>			Chicago, Illinois
>
>			with invaluable help from a friend in Seattle.
>
>
Very impressive marek, but shouldn't you start at the beginning of 
I internet 13 ?  If I remember right it says:
		"Though I speak in the tongues of sysops and wizards,
		but have not internet, I am naught but a rebounding
		mailer-daemon or a clanging macintosh.(2)  Though I have
		the gift of programming and can fathom all algorithms
		and have all knowledge, and if I have a faith that move
		molecular storage, but have not internet, I am nothing.
		(3)  If I submit all that I have to news.groups and
		surrender my body to the flames, but have not internet
		I gain nothing."                      -I intenet 1-3

It then leads into verse four where marek picks up.

Once again, I like what you've done here,

-karenmarie











-- 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: pagrawal@portal.hq.videocart.com (Pankaj Agrawal)
Subject: A quote from Eliot
Summary: Quote from Eliot's poem about writing
Organization: VideOcart Inc.
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL3
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 22:55:16 GMT


I was just reading Eliot and the following lines from "East Coker" touched a
chord. I just thought I will share them with you. Perhaps many of you would
relate to it.

"... So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years -
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deus guerres -
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate - but there is no competition
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business..."

                - Lines from near the end of "East Coker" by T.S. Eliot

P.S. After asking several people I found "l'entre deus guerres" means
	 "between the two wars".
From: sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (   Wilde Dame)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Act (Rewrite 1) / Sheryl
Date: 11 Jan 93 10:15:50 GMT
Article-I.D.: sumax.1it9kmINN4k5
Distribution: world
Organization: Seattle University
NNTP-Posting-Host: sumax.seattleu.edu

Argh.  I am hoping that perhaps this revision helps to clear up some
confusion about the subject of the poem itself.  If not, I will resort to
more drastic measures (e.g., writing another poem altogether and
forgetting about this one... ;) )

	Act.
	+++++++++++++++
	i. 
	This is the act of fear.
	Words would be obtrusive,
	would intrude.

	ii.
	This is the act of desperation.
	Fierce thrust of hope against hope
	slakes the thirst,
	full and throbbing and
	empty.  Aches.
	
	iii.
	This is the act of reconciliation.
	Pouring self into self,
	a hundred questions answered;
	slow, now, ride the crest of a wave into
	the inner rooms of the home.
	
	iv.
	This is the Act of giving,
	of drawing electricity from the air:
	grown whole,
	not fearing the edge,
	the fall,
	the green sleep, the words
	spoken there.
-- 
       Sheryl Stover  %  If you ask me what I have come to do in the world,
  & Hemingway & Clio  %  I who am an artist, I will reply: "I am here to
sstover@seattleu.edu  %  live aloud."                    -Emile Zola
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: pagrawal@portal.hq.videocart.com (Pankaj Agrawal)
Subject: Re: why Instead is bad writing / Marek
Organization: VideOcart Inc.
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL3
Date: Thu, 7 Jan 1993 21:39:30 GMT

Marek writes:
...
Language is the means and the end of writing.  Language is the canvas, 
the paint, the space, the building, the reason, the perceptions, and the 
accounts receivable.
...

And does this apply only to poetry written by others, or to your prose also?
Don's original poem is infinitely more meaningful than this gibberish. 

To my simple mind, language is simply the means by which we try to express the 
feelings inside. It is my no means an end (pun intended). And as long as
language is a major means of communicating ideas and feelings, it helps if we
achieve a certain clarity and efficiency in its use. But, it is still no more
than a form. It is not the substance. I don't care how many different meters
you have mastered, and how big your vocabulary, when you get too entangled
in just the structure and the form and the style, you risk destroying the 
substance. Maybe this is what happened with Don's poem. My simple response 
on first reading it was: "I don't quite understand it!". If a poem didn't 
invoke any feeling, what good is all the metaphor and conceit and meter and 
all the rest of the poetic theory. I will rather read a simple poem full of 
cliches that conveys a feeling. And whats so wrong with cliches? After all
they are so called because most people understand what they mean, and can
feel the feelings they invoke.

I know I am butting in between two heavyweights on this group. If any of you
wants to flame me, thats fine as long as you don't expect a response.

-Pankaj

--------------------------------------------------
pagrawal@code.hq.videocart.com
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: for kate bush, on your 34th birthday / Marek (1992)
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 09:02:19 GMT

 
                for kate bush, on your 34th birthday
                -------------------------------------------------------------
 
                today, on your birthday, without knowing it
                we feasted for you -- in the warm room.
 
                it was a way to say goodbye -- in the sensual world.
                every time it rains, you're here in my head.
 
                today, you are thirty four -- my lionheart
                and i have lost you so many times now
                like an arrow shot into the killer storm.
 
                out in the garden there's half of a heaven.
                not a soul on the ice.
 
                across the weather, across the elements,
                across the water
                all we ever look for -- a great big hug.
 
 
                        Marek Lugowski
                        30 July 1992
                        Cincinnati, Ohio

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: keving@ecs.comm.mot.com (Kevin Gay)
Subject: my father is slowly dying
Organization: trunking_terms
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 17:30:14 GMT



my father is slowly dying 
before my eyes
on holidays or onceinawhile
I see that he is less
than the man I knew

cigarettes harry the weight of age
pieces of lung for breakfast
a helping of cirrhosis before bed
as half the beer that used to
passes fabricated gums

the man I feared to walk near
now coos with his grandchildren
that dreaded belt, forever firmly fastened 
they will never know him
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: R3TLM@VM1.CC.UAKRON.EDU
Subject: the question
Organization: The University of Akron
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 1993 16:04:47 GMT

       THE QUESTION
 
days went by unnoticed
talking religious philosophy
with a strange old man
a man unknown to me
but for his many questions
and his infinte number of
possible solutions
and as nature called
stomach grumbling
i looked at him
and he returned my look
with a stare like medusa
and serious as death
he asked me a ponderance
the answer i yet search for
in raspy tone he spoke i quote
why in creation is it
the toilet seat is always cold
 
            ---Bonehead
 
P.S. Anybody know?
 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: carnation thursday / Marie Coffin
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Mon, 4 Jan 1993 19:29:53 GMT


	carnation thursday
	------------------------------------------------------------
	
	here without fanfare
	without pain
	was the faint
	brownish stain:
	i blinked and said
	"mother, i think
	it might be my period."
	
	then, sweet as carnations
	with gravity's ease,
	it came.  i knew
	what only women know --
	this
	is not filth for shame
	or perfume.
	this is clean
	and growing, curled
	like the beansprout's clean comma
	curled inside the bean,
	
	and warm.  all
	beginnings might be
	as warm and slip
	so easily across
	the threshold, as easily
	as trees grows rings.
	
	this is a scarlet flag
	not for sensuality
	but a celebration of 
	potentiality.  this is where
	all tomorrows proclaim
	yes.
	

Marie Coffin
January 4, 1992
From: NPR@drao.nrc.ca (Who Me? Work?)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: periferal past, present, future
Date: 5 Jan 93 22:06:57 GMT
Organization: Universite Laval
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.11


	
        periferal past, present, future
	---------------------------------------------------------------------

	i wonder if you will avoid me.

	who are you protecting?
	not me. my life goes on.
	see?  it is still many-hued,
	though not as richly textured
	without you.   

	your colour has redshifted.
	you are not outside 
	of my life's spectrum,
	but reside just on the edge
	of my daily vision.
	if i don't look straight at you
	i can almost make you out,
	almost feel your warmth.
	
	silence is a poor communicator.
	i would like to see you 
	full and real,  
	share thoughts and smiles and touches, 
	heal wounds left open
	by words too harsh and words unspoken.
	meaning will not be lost when 
	sound and body express 
	that which bare letters on a page cannot.

	if i came into view
	would your steelblue eyes
	turn cloud-grey cold and shut me out?

	would you fall off the wagon, with just one kiss?
	i'll catch you if you do,
	and we can tumble down the grassy slope
	together, laughing. 
	staining our knees. staining the sheets.  
	i'd fix that limp of yours if you wanted me to.  
	or simply entwine our fingers.

	life is just an anagram with many possibilities.  
	i wish i could decipher yours, 
	and get back in the game.
        i miss your silliness
	your edifying humor
	infused with vitality.
	i miss our kinship.

	though i view the past tinged with wistful sentiment,
	my glasses of today are clear, untinted, unmisted.
	my knees do not wobble at the thought of you.
	i am stronger than the bars on your heart
	and softer than the caress 
	of my hair across your chest.
	
	what you are now, what you want now, i do not know.

	my options limited by your obscurity, 
	i will look straight ahead, 
	play the song one note at a time,  
	wet my lips, 
        and wait.

		---NPR, Dec 23, 1992	
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: watson@hg.uleth.ca (The terror that flaps in the night)
Subject: Re: Mad Dog Bites Self in Head
Reply-To: watson@hg.uleth.ca
Organization: University of Lethbridge
Date: Wed, 6 Jan 1993 04:25:20 GMT

In article <gj156879.726260166@cunews>, gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879) writes:
>Mad Dog Bites Self in Head
>--------------------------
[...]
>
>The headline is a poem in itself.
>Found art.
>"TOT CRUSHED BY TRUCK".
>It rolls off the tonuge
>like something off a
>fancy french menu.
>
>"Yes waiter, bring me
>some fresh 
>'TOT CRUSHED BY TRUCK' and
>a glass of Perrier with lime."
>
>It tastes like chicken,
>doesn't it?
>

nope...
tastes like
baby back ribs...

ick... I can't believe I just said that....

Someone scratch this damn itch,
Carol
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tims@bcarh680.bnr.ca (Tim Spurway)
Subject: a Poem
Organization: Bell-Northern Research, Ottawa, Canada
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 19:24:26 GMT

	The Fled
	========

	We are the fled.

	We have cast off our prayers
	And erected our minds.

	Our new nakedness
	Reminds us of I,
	That ancient vestige.

	I unfurl myself,
	As blue smoke coils
	'Round myself,
	Then heavenward.

	I and you
	Conjure ourselves. 
	A pact of fleeting warmth.

	We cough our old charms
	Into cold new rocks,
	And flee again in the pace
	Of tomorrow.


-----------
Tim Spurway
tims@bnr.ca

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Genetic
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 93 16:07:25 GMT


                                Genetic


A genetic predisposition to turn inside out
empty onto any avaailable surface all that was inside
a poor painter
he couldn't afford brushes or canvas
so drew in the sand between tides
indelibly
immortal works treasured by sand crabs.



-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jeeves@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jeevani Karunatillake)
Subject: Sequal to "Written in the Tub" ... The First Date
Organization: DSG, Stanford University, CA 94305, USA
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 93 04:19:06 GMT

Tension...
In the air between us
That half way out of my mouth
The words conglomerate,
Heavy ones get swallowed,
Light ones slip off my tongue
Like ice cubes off chopsticks.
I put away what I cannot handle
And pick up a fork
Fork after fork 
Of empty conversation.
This food is all spoilt!
Wonder what's in that cage of ribs
So carefully shut.

Mention...
The heat to the waiter.
Better not take off the sweater
Lest you hear
These wild horses loose inside my heart.
The restaurant is filled now
With voices demanding to be served;
Outside the glass plane
The world about its business is loud
Under two faint stars
Close together in the evening sky
With light years of silence...
Between them.

Jeevani.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: cara@something.somewhere.edu (Lorelei)
Subject: "there is a place"
Organization: Dis
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 21:43:29 GMT


There is a place deep in the wood
Where she still walks in black-green shade,
But most who seek the forest's heart
Find only a sunlight-dappled glade.

Few speak of the room in an ivory palace
With banners of silk and a golden floor
Where angels stand with flaming swords
And gently, firmly, bar the last door.

This far--and no more.
From: wjames@cse.ucsc.edu (John Amenta)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A Child's Crib
Date: 6 Jan 1993 05:40:05 GMT
Organization: University of California, Santa Cruz (CE/CIS Boards)
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: pal.ucsc.edu



     I reflect upon a child's crib alone,
     A rectangular and caved bed of stone;
     Silently a sun swelters heat outside,
     While cars on monument go hustling by.

     At top lie flowers with green plastic stalks,
     And aligned inside a white sheet of rocks;
     Gleaming a granite pillow, mirror like,
     Rises within the cradle to my sight.

     I stand.  My sweat drips down on broken ground,
     Holy crosses and sheep lie all around;
     I reread the stone in aged letter,
     "Karen Ann Byrd, Our Infant Daughter."
     


-wj
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: palark@dgp.toronto.edu (Michael Ianni-Palarchid)
Subject: test
Originator: root@explorer.dgp.toronto.edu
Date: 7 Jan 93 20:01:01 GMT

Just wantd to see oif this would work
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: doltish desire? / Marek (1992)
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 08:45:42 GMT

                doltish desire?
                -------------------------------------------------------------
 
                outside, the day oozes
                but inside we're cool, except
 
                in the other room
                zachary, my sister ania's young son
                cries and drools
 
                zach zach zach, what lack, or
                what excesses make you now a crier?
                you ordinarily are such a poised young man
                what desire -- is it coltish or doltish --
                sets your voice on fire?
 
 
                        Marek Lugowski
                        11 July 1992
                        Cincinnati, Ohio
From: rininger@gn.ecn.purdue.edu (Christopher A Rininger)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Life and Death (four-line poem)
Date: 4 Jan 93 21:39:10 GMT
Organization: Purdue University Engineering Computer Network


Hello.  These few lines seemed true.



		          Life and Death

		We live to hold the sky from Green,
		Until it seems a waste of time.
		And the moment we release our dreams,
		We bide to lay below (the dead don't lie).




C/C to rininger@gn.ecn.purdue.edu  (thanks)
				             --chris	
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Instead
Date: 5 Jan 93 16:14:13 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054


		Instead of Growing Old With You
		----------------------------------------------


		I wish my lips to touch your eye
		Where flowers I placed in your hair
		Who bargain for shadows that lie
		On your face would not their darkness dare.


		Posthumous O'Toole
		1-5-93


-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
From: gt7244c@prism.gatech.EDU (John G'alt)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Dereferencer... / G'alt
Keywords: not a physical act
Date: 10 Jan 93 15:58:19 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: Georgia Tech


      Dereferencer of Individuality
     -------------------------------

     My soul is no virgin, but chaste
   
     It's true, i've given my body to others

     I bear, they take (or try), but i keep

     I am a nonviolent unobjecting victim of reap

     My spirit is no trash heap, but waste

     'Tis false, that mis-meaning that smothers

     Please take, steal my only seed in this grape

     I dare you to make me victim of societal rape


                     1/9/93

g'alt
-- 
John Greenawalt, gt7244c@prism.gatech.edu (whooptydoo yes I'm a number)
     "...let's drink to the fields elysian,
         let's drink to the champs elysee..."   
                                           - Figures On A Beach
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Happy
Date: 6 Jan 93 12:31:07 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Outreach Services - Oregon State University
NNTP-Posting-Host: jacobs.cs.orst.edu

Well, it's a new Year and some new poems for your perusal.  I didn't 
make my goal of 100 peoms in 1992 but I did write 92 of them, so I guess
I should try for 93 this year.  :-)  

	    Happy

	a new day begins
	and I am here
	yet one more day
	I who am nothing
	embrace it
	I who deserve nothing
	receive much

	I am happy
	yet feel I have no right
	to happiness 
	while others starve
	or fight to stay alive
	against overwhelming forces

	my societal consciousness
	engenders a sense of guilt
	at my being happy 
	I should not feel this way
	it is not rational
	yet it persists
	and I do not wish
	to kill it

	It will surely disappear in time.

	January 3, 1993
	Kathleen O'Toole,
	Bringer of Light

-- 
*************************************************************************
"Insufficient facts always invites danger, Captain."- Spock in Space Seed
	Marg Petersen	petersm@jacobs.cs.orst.edu
*************************************************************************
From: sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (   Wilde Dame)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A quote from J.D. Salinger
Date: 6 Jan 1993 13:07:27 -0800
Organization: Seattle University
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: sumax.seattleu.edu

Footnote from "Seymour: An Introduction"  (p. 139-140) in its entirety:
^^^^^^^^ (yes, just a footnote. No 10-point type included.)

"Just for the sake of making a point I could be embarrassing my students
unnecessarily here.  Schoolteachers have done it before.  Or maybe I've
just picked out the wrong poem.  If it's true, as I've wickedly posed,
that 'Ozymandias' has left my students vividly unimpressed, perhaps a good
deal of the blame for this can be laid to 'Ozymandias' itself.  Perhaps
Mad Shelley wasn't quite mad enough.  Assuredly, in any case, his madness
wasn't a madness of the heart.  My girls undoubtedly know that Robert
Burns drank and romped to excess, and are probably delighted about it, but
I'm equally sure they also know all about the magnificent mouse his plow
turned up.  (Is it just possible, I wonder, that those 'two vast and
trunkless legs of stone' standing in the desert are Percy's own? Is it
conceivable that his life is outliving much of his best poetry?  And if
so, is it because--Well, I'll desist.  But young poets beware.  If you do
want us to remember your best poems at least as fondly as we do your Racy,
Colorful Lives, it might be as well to give us one good field mouse,
flushed by the heart, in every stanza.)"



-- 
       Sheryl Stover  %  If you ask me what I have come to do in the world,
  & Hemingway & Clio  %  I who am an artist, I will reply: "I am here to
sstover@seattleu.edu  %  live aloud."                    -Emile Zola
Organization: City University of New York/ University Computer Center
Date: Friday, 8 Jan 1993 11:46:26 EST
From: <E03SI@CUNYVM.BITNET>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Whenever I'm alone ...


From:Whenever I'm Alone, Pouget, D. (1993)

              Every  everyday  fact
              Of Science or of Common Sense
              Is a Window
              Into the Unknown Source
              Of all Things
                                  Danny Pouget
                                          1993
From: hjanules@hamp.hampshire.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Preface: please critique!
Date: 12 Jan 93 00:23:31 GMT
Organization: Hampshire College
NNTP-Posting-Host: hamp.hampshire.edu

Preface

Like a timebomb marching backwards, 
the numbers of the alarm clock ascend
to detonate my dreams...

each morning
a man's voice narrates today's disasters
that I roll over as I discover, 
like columbus,
a rich continent of warmth...

breathing
your skin is pale canvas breathing
as you swim to the surface of the room, 
through the murky river of sleep,
losing to the drought of disaster man...

talking
we begin our ritual of talking,
of goodmornings and hellos
and the newscasting of nightmares,
	live from the subconscious, 
	what I dreamed of...

today
and everyday, your eyes like blue marbles
spotlight my morning face
smiling,
as you write the preface to each of my days
that fal into chapters and volumes
of a love story
I can't put down.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems