HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: perching look Re: Creation of Urdu newsgroup
Date: 16 Oct 92 14:52:15 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <7710581@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM> daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom) writes:
>> )Have a care O'Toole 
>> )or this just might lead
>> )to a duel.
>> )
>> I fear not thy miscreant hands.
>
>My hands are under their own direction, and they flutter and
>flick off and about on tasks of their own at every moment of
>daily movement.  It is not the hands you need fear, mock-defender.

Mock-Defender.  cf.  Mock Turtle

Douglas always surprises me.  Here he reveals knowledge of something so
secret that the winds dare not whisper it:

I am the Turtle.


And Douglas, of course, is the last Unicorn.  And, Douglas, the Turtle does
not kill the Unicorn, nor does he dance on the Unicorn's grave (perhaps a
slow waltz).  The Turtle will mourn the Unicorn.  Look not to me for the
Danger that will destroy you.
>
>It is my eyes and stomach you must take care to avoid.
>My eyes can devour you, and my stomach feels your every
>pernicious inclination.

Your stomach, i.e. your instinct/intuition, has served you well, but it can
do little more than say "Look out!  Piano!" just as the wood taps your
head.
>
>No, my hands will gladly yield me over to your sacrificial plans.
>My hands do not care to associate with me, and they will help
>you as they can in my destruction.  But my eyes will scorch
>you even from the depths of my pyre.  I promise you O'Toole,
>my eyes will burn last, and until that final moment when they
>too will join the smoke that seeks kinship with clouds,
>those eyes will see you.  They will see you in ways you have
>never been seen before and in ways you will never be seen again
>until I return to you with a gift and a graft.

Already I see those eyes in my dreams.  Hazel, I think.  Maybe green.
>
>So defend your realm, Posthumous.  I write my will and await 
>my fate.

Defend it I shall, rebel!!


Yours,
Posthumous


-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
Organization: Penn State University
Date: Mon, 12 Oct 1992 02:40:30 EDT
From: Dan the Man <DED110@psuvm.psu.edu>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Looking for e e cummings poems.

     Does anyone know of an anon-ftp site that has e e cummings poems
archived?  Archie has nothing much to say on the subject.  Alternately,
donations could be sent to me directly. :)  *beg* *grovel*


Dan D'Ambrosio, President J.R.C.      Avaliable only at
Box 722 Behrend College          DED110@PSUVM  or
Erie, PA  16563                  DED110@psuvm.psu.edu and fine stores....
Home: (814) 898-6721
J.R.C. Office: (814) 898-6297  (Call collect, Penn State's paying!)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: espen.aarseth@hf.uib.no (Espen Aarseth)
Subject: one (im)perfect pastiche
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: University of Bergen
Date: Wed, 7 Oct 92 09:45:57 GMT



     One Perfect Pastiche

     A single postcard she has sent me, since she left
     My sanity and wits and sleep she marred
     And took them with her; in return for theft:
     One perfect card

     I knew the language of the postage stamp;
    "From far away," it said, "I have been brought
    "To soothe your aching feelings and to damp
    "Your useless thought"

     Why is it no one ever cares to write
     One perfect letter (shouldn't be too hard?)
     Ah no, they always send me (so polite)
     One perfect card


--
espen --so the original *is* better. so sue me.

And, hey -- don't try this at home. It doesn't work.
From: ENGC9241548F@LUST.LATROBE.EDU.AU (WALSH,Michael J.)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: God & Airport
Date: 12 Oct 92 17:56:01 GMT
Organization: La Trobe University
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.24

A while back I quickly read a poem here about God and an airport, now 
that I come to download it- it's gone. I can't remember the title or 
the author. I do remember liking it alot. Could the author (if your
 reading this) or someone with a copy E-mail it to me please? 

			Thanks in advance- Michael
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: deb@wiliki.eng.hawaii.edu (David Barrett)
Subject: A Heart In Mind
Organization: University of Engineering, College of Engineering
Date: Fri, 9 Oct 1992 17:24:02 GMT




Our lives full be

  so the heart pretends

When time is slave

  where the minds intends


Yet fuller more

  if the mind let's stray

For Love and Peace only

  your heart can say



		dB
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Laughter in the Night
Date: 11 Oct 92 18:46:53 GMT
Article-I.D.: tau-ceti.2725
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA



                        Laughter in the Night



                  I dreamed of three pet tortoises
                  living in my neighbor's yard
                  behind a nice white picket fence
                  in a perfect little garden with
                  flowers and no weeds
                  well behaved and friendly
                  they wore bows around their necks
                  and were popular with the children 
                  in our perfect little neighborhood
             
                  I tried to make a picket fence in my yard
                  but someone tore it down
                  and I heard laughter in the night
                  I tried to grow a perfect little garden
                  with flowers and vegetables
                  but the weeds grew wildly out of control
                  and I heard laughter in the night
                  I had a small pet turtle in my yard
                  but a neighbor's dog carried it away
                  and I heard laughter in the night
                  The neighbors threw a block party
                  invited almost everyone in the neighborhood
                  and I could hear their laughter in the night.





                                 Cecil Williams
                                    10/11/92
                                 **************
From: jtrue@acpub.duke.edu (john)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: ugly instead / jtrue
Date: 14 Oct 92 02:17:38 GMT

Of course,
the pixels are the seeds
of a growth cone
expanding in reverse.
It's distant point probes the world
as a laser sight would,
labelling thoughts for imminent oblivion.

With rhythms
timed in megahertz,
the world cannot do other
than grow as crystals
slowly falling out of solution
as the supernatant is given away to space.

In each dawn I am rewritten
in new alphanumerics
and forced through
once-molten copper and glass
and sprayed into the shape
of something human.
Even the drool
dripping off my chin
is a lie.

Out of love, 
I search for the perfect-colored 
antifreeze and summer coolant,
whose puddles will polka-dot 
parking lots across the land,
the pigment for some huge
Rand-McNally travel guide.

And in this cold-morning-diarama
of hollow promises,
I stand in a cloud of my own exhalation,
wearing no socks.

-jtrue1992

c/c/f welcome
"Caroline, sometimes I wonder..." - Concrete Blonde
jtrue@acpub.duke.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: aaiken@bronze.ucs.indiana.edu (Andrew C. Aiken)
Subject: Jell-o, ace, is the copper moon 
Organization: Indiana University
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 14:29:28 GMT


Jell-o, ace, is the copper moon
In this tiny life
past a star or two you will move
through empty spaces
through all this Jell-o you will swim

beyond this verdant copse you climb
atop a yellow tongue of fire
Below!  Glimpse this spangled plain
is there no smaller place bedizened
no place more lit by shadowy magic?
But onward, bravely, upward, into the Jell-o

In the Jell-o I see a watery image of my mother
In Jell-o are horrors, and forgotten music 
Among the Jell-o there is no hour for marvels
there is this dull spot, and riotous noise
the food is bad and the handshakes cold as dirt
there is Jell-o only, Jell-o of our own making,
Jell-o is the city, there is always Jell-o,
acid Jell-o burning Jell-o through your dreams


 Andrew Aiken
From: gilligan6855@iscsvax.uni.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: photorealist/unrealities
Date: 14 Oct 92 22:21:55 -0500
Organization: University of Northern Iowa

when i came to find you
you said i looked like a photographer misplaced,
just arrived from some important shoot
or ready to embark upon one.
which shows how much you know.
if i were to take photographs i would have
worn my glasses
for i am nearsighted, and the focus of the camera
does nothing for my less-than-perfect eyes.
i usually dispense with wearing them
for i enjoy the world blurred by lack of perfection--
too much reality at once in its harsh crispness
is startling and makes me feel exposed.
if i were to take photographs,
i would have worn more sensible shoes
with thicker soles and more laces
for going boldly where signs say i cannot.
these eurochic fashion accessories do nothing 
for my creativity.
if i were to take photographs
i would have my camera in my hands
and i would take them of you.


-- 
********************************************************************************
*   carolee    *      *            *   "listen,for(out of all    *     *
 gilligan6855@iscsvax.uni.edu   *  *  * things)dream is noone's fool"      *
 *                 *               *           *      __e.e. cummings *
*******************************************************************************          
*written only a few moments ago:  therefore unpolished.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: Re: Criticism
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Mon, 12 Oct 1992 02:00:39 GMT

jennifer,

good point.

sls
--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: ashes
From: conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstantin Kallikanza)
Date: Fri, 09 Oct 92 22:08:29 PDT
Organization: Paradox Alley F&SF BBS 805-492-8789

	Ashes in the Abbey

	Father speaks with ashen face
        to brother monks with shaven pates
	extolling virtue's path to grace
        cursing still the fickle fates

	fathers faith completely shaken        
	lust unbidden burns the night
 	down that path his vows forsaken
	she the temptress in his sight

	sweaty bodies, burning passion
        briefly father's flesh unbound
	lost to hades in some fashion
        heaving breasts without a sound

	one day the Inqisition came 
	with morbid torture, flesh destroyed
	discovered father's secret shame
	cleansing fire would be employed

	now ashes swirl round abbey gate
        the smear removed from abbey's name
        the abbott crys for father's fate
        knowing his could be the same.

conrad

Comments?
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: um...
Date: 8 Oct 92 13:20:12 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

What do you do when the words insist upon
falling into a nice regular pattern, but
you'd rather kind of symbolised something...  ?
-maybe a nice circle with an A in it...


		--------

	     power by mandate
	   mandate by majority
	  majority by conformity
	conformity by submission
	submission by persuasion
	persuasion by television
	     what idiot god
	     put television
	     and democracy
	      in the same
	         world?

		---------


Oh, fuckit, I dunno...

-/\/\/\/-
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: Re: Wanted: Native American poetry
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1992 19:50:19 GMT

mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin) writes:

>In article <1992Oct8.135824.23798@nntp.uoregon.edu>, seth@cie.uoregon.edu (Seth
>Scott) writes:
>> Does anyone out there have any Native American      poetry (modern-- written
>by someone living today)to recommend?  Please email replies to
>seth@cie.uoregon.edu ...  Thanks!

>I am e-mailing a reply to the sender, but I thought others might be interested
>also.  I would highly recommend Louise Erdrich, who has published two volumes
>of poetry:  Jacklight and Baptism of Desire.  They're excellent.  

>I also own a small book called Then Badger Said This by Elizabeth Cook-Lynn, 
>which I think is pretty good.


i will also add to
marie's list- Being on the Moon, by Annharte (polestar press, 1990),
there is some very good stuff in this little book.

sls

>Marie Coffin
--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: thomasfh@edb.tih.no (Thomas Fjaestad Hagelien,o92b)
Subject: Re: Willing Deception (comments welcome)
Posting-Front-End: Winix Conference v 92.05.15  1.20 (running under MS-Windows)
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 11:17:22 GMT


>The autumn leaves are falling like rain.
>Although my neighbors are all barbarians,
>And you, you are a thousand miles away,
>There are always two cups at my table.		 - A T'ang Dynasty poem

Hey, that's me. Yes I know I have been writing two real
depressing poems. ...Yeah like someone really read them.
But my girlfriend is so many miles from me right now, and
the cold claws of the winter is sneaking closer.
It's not strange that a young guy like me freaks out sometimes.
My mind gets real fu..ed up with weird ideas and thoughts.
So I write poems.
Now.. I have a big bunch of poems I've written on sad days.
If anybody out there like to read them, I'll be glad to
show 'em too to.

It's cold and dark.
Doesn't that make you
feel restless too?
__
/homas Hagelien
From: bob@netxcom.netx.com (Robert Thralls)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: PICK PICK PICK... Is that all you want?
Date: 12 Oct 92 19:20:42 GMT
Organization: NetExpress Inc., Vienna, VA, USA


If one wishes to be picked upon, he should give a good reason. Reasoning in 
the truest of form usually comes from planning a provoked response. If one
wishes to make a point, a good way is to say something off color and vague.
This will bring the pickers upon you. Then, one is allowed to drive the point 
home with all the attention the subject matter deserves (or so one thinks).
It also establishes a known target audience... through conflict a compromise
may be reached, through planning, an ideal may be installed.

A really good example would be to say "Arithmetic is evil" or "THIS SUCKS."
The use of the word "SUCK" gets a whole lot of attention these days, but
seems over used. One should be creative when making vague statements in order
to captivate attention. (A poem would help, too)

Poetry is an easy tool for the amateur stimulator. Poetry is by far remembered
more than a simple sentence or two. By its nature, it is also allowed to 
be vauge and direct at the same time. One finds a stanza quite calculated
to formulate the appropriate response to the stimulus. Of course, it helps
to have your entire message, at least burried within, somewhere. One can
target those that would never understand by invoking outrage in their 
direction, choosing words that are sure to ellude to direct response and
challenge. Make them feel their own feelings, get in touch with them, 
question them over and over. Make them say what they feel out loud. Make
them hear what they feel- with gentle prose. Even if the comments are
to themselves, the conflict self contained within the reader. Those are
the most important ones, even if no one ever says a thing to you directly.

no signature necessary.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Godstruck
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 1992 03:00:52 GMT

	Godstruck

He was a great teacher, everyone agreed,
But somehow when she went to his talks,
She couldn't hear his words, for she was too busy watching him.
Watching the play of muscles under his white shirt,
His olive-gold hands gesturing as he spoke...
Perhaps her fascination with his supple body
	explained her inability to understand the purpose behind his words.

One evening as he sat near her at dinner (thighs barely touching)
	expounding on some obscure point,
She decided she had had enough.
She was hardly a lovestruck child to be tongue-tied,
	and had had her share of men in the past (quite a few, actually).
Enough of trying to hide her love, simply because it made him uncomfortable,
	it didn't fit in with his plans.
So, just as he opened his mouth yet again to pontificate,
She leaned forward and kissed him.
He pulled back momentarily, then, with a tiny sigh,
	as one who has resisted his desires for far too long,
He gave in to the kiss.
One thig led to another, and well...you know the rest.

But nothing changed.
She had caught him, yet he wasn't truly hers.
He kept on with his lecturing,
And now that they shared a bed,
She also witnessed his troubled sleep,
And tortured dreams.

He'd toss and turn in the sweat-soaked sheets;
A occasional word might escape
The beloved brown lips...
"Why...no...release me...must I..."
She would gather him closely to her.
Fearing she would lose him to that place
She could not reach; to that one
Who inspired the visions behind his eyes.

And he would wake, terror in those eyes,
Her name on his lips, "Oh, Mary...."
And she would beg him to come away, someplace far,
Ad he would refuse, night after weary night.
Pleading the importance of his teaching
And the power of his dreams.

As the nights went on, his terror mounted
And hers in tandem, until she resolved upon a desperate course.
She let herself become pregnant,
Opening herself up to the risk of rejection.

He married her, of course.
Ad to protect the child from their troubled country, they fled to Egypt,
Following in a long tradition.
They settled down, and lived happily ever after,
And he was no longer troubled by the dreams.

So he missed his meeting with his students in a Garden,
And the authorities lost track of him that night...
Judas went on to become a great political leader,
And Peter a disillusioned drunkard.

And so the world changed.

*****

February 12, 1992

-- 
The autumn leaves are falling like rain.
Although my neighbors are all barbarians,
And you, you are a thousand miles away,
There are always two cups at my table.		 - A T'ang Dynasty poem
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: thomasfh@edb.tih.no (Thomas Fjaestad Hagelien,o92b)
Subject: End of life. -- The sudden experience --
Reply-To: thomasfh@edb.tih.no
Posting-Front-End: Winix Conference v 92.05.15  1.20 (running under MS-Windows)
Date: Sat, 10 Oct 1992 16:50:35 GMT

      END OF LIFE
-- The sudden experience --


Three persons.
Not knowing of each others existence
All locked inside themselves.
Not seeing anything
but their own lost
hopes, beliefs and pains
Not seeing anyone
but the sad persons observing them
through a mirror
The unforgiveness of 
lifes unfair and unpredictable
reality

CAUGHT IN A TIMETRAP
Their egoes goes through a change
A methaphor of three souls
Now as one
A dying dove thrown
into space
Emptyness, like a
clean piece of paper
They rip it apart

With the experience
of each others lives
They don't see any reason
why to continue...
____
/homas Hagelien
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: just another jello weekend / Marie Coffin
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 02:49:51 GMT


	just another jello weekend
	------------------------------------------------------------
	
	you can call it comfort food
	all day long
	but you don't fool me:
	comfort doesn't come
	in those unearthly colors
	and neither does food.
	
	mother made it every sunday.
	those alien hues must be
	the color of salvation
	the color of bad
	stained glass.
	
	that damned green
	the color of not-limes
	the color of effort
	she snuck
	a hundred things into it
	(carrots one week, cold
	peas the next)
	she disguised it in every foreign shape
	the two-faced stuff would take
	and still we wouldn't eat.
	
	comfort comes in things she did
	effortlessly every day
	like potatoes mashed with gravy
	cornbread (gravy too)
	cream of mushroom soup.
	they flowed down eaily
	and there was always enough.
	
	you could never figure out
	where jello was.
	
	on the fourth of july
	jesse was in jail
	and the heat nailed us all to our seats
	and the cherry jello melted
	on the picnic table
	"like blood" my brother said
	distastefully
	i wondered if he knew
	i had started to bleed.
	so my mother cried
	helplessly
	she only had two states
	the other was indifference
	which we purchased
	by being very very good.
	
	comfort that summer
	was at the public library
	which was private
	cool books
	full of other people's problems
	women bemoaning the indifference
	of men.
	i couldn't imagine
	why they complained
	but it all came out happily
	in the end
	and i kept reading
	
	and reading
	in my refuge
	(in some other room
	there must have been
	headlines saying my name
	but i was on a diet
	i hadn't eaten
	a current event in months
	i was unaware)
	
	so i kept eating the witch's apples
	and after twenty-nine years,
	after seven months
	after a weekend 
	the poison took effect.
	i am bleeding again
	and you are indifferent.
	
	back home the towels are bigger
	the baths hotter
	and i drink cocoa sweet
	comfort food too.
	like everyone who lives alone
	i am my own mother
	and there is room in here
	for the witch. 


Marie Coffin
October 12, 1992

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lam@athena.mit.edu (Cheung-Wei Lam)
Subject: Awakened
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Distribution: usa
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 18:05:55 GMT

	AWAKENED

I awoke somewhere in time and space,
To the reality of the degeneration of humanity,
With weakened awareness and decaying morality,
Toward the unavoidable eternity.

Oh, humanity, humanity,
Where art thou heading toward?
Generations come and generations go
But history repeats with moving forward.

This fallen world saturated with individuals,
Who have found a life of meaningless,
Do despair in its apparent bliss,
Though in truth mourns in hopelessness.

Oh humanity, humanity,
Have thou forgotten HE WHO IS?
Creator of the being that thou art,
With glory, power, and praise that is HIS.

					LENNY SHEET
					Sept. 6, 1990
--

Cheung Wei Lam
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Job Well Done (comments welcome)
Date: 15 Oct 92 15:03:25 GMT
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations

A Job Well Done is a Thing of Beauty
	(motto on an office wall)

On this dreary damp Chicago morning,
the wind as you wait for the commuter express
lodges a chill, creaking deep in your bones.

Close your eyes and lean against the signpost.
Wrap your arms around you and remember how it
felt:  a child age thirteen and school is done!

Glorious golden summer rich with scent of
pine.  And you build a treehouse on the forest floor
with walls of plywood, roof of woven string.

Interlaid maple leaves crisscross your sky.
So the shafts of sunlight fall in broken patterns,
onto pine needle and leaf mold carpet.

Spray-paint sky and clouds inside your fortress,
and mottled camouflage, wards against intruders,
Then rest, with popsicle, your labours done.

Mightier edifice was not constructed
since Cheop whipped his slaves to build the pyramids,
or king in India built his queen her tomb.

Squeal of tires brings youback from reverie,
and you clamber on, wondering if anything
you create, will have such enduring grace.

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
-- 
The autumn leaves are falling like rain.
Although my neighbors are all barbarians,
And you, you are a thousand miles away,
There are always two cups at my table.		 - A T'ang Dynasty poem
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems