HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: sebring@daehall7.Eng.Sun.COM (Nancy Howes)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: poem-The Day The Drought Ended
Date: 12 Nov 1992 18:57:55 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems, Inc.  Mt. View, Ca.
Distribution: usa
Reply-To: sebring@daehall7.Eng.Sun.COM (Nancy Howes)
NNTP-Posting-Host: daehall7


			The Day The Drought Ended

		The day the drought ended we planted a tree.
	   It rained all day as we walked though the nursery.
  To hedge our bets we chose the most beautiful of the drought resistant variety
There were so many false starts with a few inches in October, a mist in Nov.
		We thought we were out of it this year.
But a brown Christmas and warmer than usual New Years, our hope began to lag.
Just when we decided to ration what we had, March drenched us and we thought,
			this is the year
	only to have it drag through the summer, uncertain of the Fall.
	But now it is October and the rain has soaked us in the morning and
		we've planted the tree and now we kiss
		         long and deep and wet.



author-Michael Sebring
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Re: Messing with Minds
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 15:04:00 GMT

In article <721474484.2@ttlg.ttlg.UUCP> Neal.Sanche@ttlg.UUCP (Neal Sanche) writes:

[a neat poem with the lines]

>  Children are always told by their parents,
>  That things that they dream of can never be.
>  Could it be that those who do the most,
>  Were never told that they couldn't?

[which reminded me of a quote]

"What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?"

 - Dr. Robert Schuller

[stop and think about it for a minute....sorta inspiring...I'm
gonna learn how to hang-glide]

 - Mary Anne, rambling on a Wednesday morning
-- 
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
From: kalkin@ccs.northeastern.edu (Daniel J Sullivan)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: A yellow rose
Date: 12 Nov 92 17:12:10 GMT
Followup-To: djsullivan@cooper.bbn.com
Organization: College of CS, Northeastern U


  I like the start of this other poem you started to write, much better then
  then first one.

                                           
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Subject: To the edge and back again... and back again...
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation
Date: Thu, 12 Nov 1992 17:59:09 GMT



	[old]

	To the edge and back again... and back again...


	I am dead, long since passed from this naked world.
	Shadow-man roaming in daylight's afterglow,
	People walk, they don't see, they pass straight through me.
	I cry out, they don't hear, they just walk away,

	And the winds sweep me off my feet.

	Reaper grim, I can't smile, I have lost the touch.
	I walk on, wary of how I used to be,
	Forever trapped in this place without any time.
	Slowly fade into air I just drift away.

	And I simply never shall live.

	Sometimes I feel like I never belong in this place.
	Sometimes I stare in the mirror and touch my own face.
	Sometimes at night I can't see my own hand and I cry.
	Sometimes at night when I am all alone I ask why.

	Sweet moonlight shine on my soul-naked form and I'll try.
	Sweet moonlight bathe my whole life in your faint silver dye.
	Flashes of 'sight in my old tickled mind tell me so,
	We haven't tried and my simple heart cannot know.

	We haven't tried and my simple heart cannot know.

	Release my hand!  I can't get up!
	Doom doesn't know it, we cannot show it,
	For doom is what doom always is.
	So let me be the way I truly am.

	What a simple simple thing this silly episode,
	Of transient existence within a space-time globe.

	Every single point, of matter or we make,
	Touches every other, casting ripples in its wake.

	And I never want in life, for life to me is naught
	But a way to make a living in my self-reflecting thought.

	Now I'm back, I am here, I have lost my wings.
	I have flesh, I can touch, I can melt your soul.
	Hear me laugh, see me play, let me lift you up!
	I love life, I love you, I love everyone...

	Let my love focus on you...

	Variance is the spice of our lofty ways.
	Emotions hence are all part of a single theme.
	I can focus if I want, but I must beware,
	For my gaze overwhelms if you aren't prepared.

	But I'll always be here for a time.

	Don't run away!  Don't fear my wyrd!
	I cannot be blamed for a simple tear.
	Stand with me!  Don't step away...
	I'll stand by you and live your fear.

	...Blank... ...blank...  ...blank...
	Pistol shot!  Words can sting.
	So I'll give my advice to you,
	Never never fly on a broken wing.

	...And I think I'll go out for a walk.


					Msj
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: "Marek W Lugowski" <marek@moose.cs.indiana.edu>
Subject: the lone dino... / Marek
Organization: Indiana University, Bloomington
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 1992 04:15:09 -0500


		the lone dino
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		you used to
		stalk the high plains
		of deconstruction
		in feathers (and tar)
		leaving huge imprints
		and mangled readers
		the rex, poetry tsar.
		
		O where have you gone
		joe (dimaggio)
		the o'toole nation 
		is crying its hamster eyes out
		for you.
		
		with red rubies, or pomegranate seeds
		or plastic beads
		they look longingly to your
		devolved nonpresence
		like abandoned sandbox playthings look
		to a fondly missed bully.
		
		the lone dino...
		
		
			Marek Lugowski
			6 November 1992
			Chicago, Illinois
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: you never brought me flowers
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 92 10:21:20 GMT

		you never brought me flowers
		--------------------------------------------------

		every weekend on the 
		transgalactic highway tottering
		across the great divide between
		civilization and your corner
		of Orange, i carefully escorted 
		bright choruses of color

		the tiny blinding blues of
		sweet william, the engorged
		reds of thorny roses, the 
		frilly pink collars of carnations,
		the dignified yellow and orange
		stalks of gladiolas

		and you'd thank me and hack
		their bottoms off and
		stick them in some gritty jar
		and drink a glass of wine and 
		i wouldn't see them again 
		until the next week when you
		tossed their dessicated corpses
		to make way for the new

		we shared a bed or a floor
		or whatever was convenient
		but you never gave me any more
		trust than your auto mechanic
		you told my friend you'd make
		me the man i ought to be 
		but you never grasped who
		i was at all
		you accepted romance's spoils
		with adequate grace, but
		you never brought ME flowers

				Michael Lichter
				November 11, 1992
From: ccsdgdc@sunlab1.bath.ac.uk (Douglas Clark)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A historical item
Date: 6 Nov 92 09:49:15 GMT
Organization: Bath University Computing Services, UK

A historical item.
This poem was written by my great-great-great-aunt about the cottage
she grew up in soon after the family took over a neighbouring farm.
The farm is at High Blantyre, just southeast of Glasgow.




Dyesholm

Sweet Dyesholm, sweet Dyesholm,
thy flowery haunts I love to roam,
thy woods, thy glens, thy mossy dell
Sweet Dyesholm I love thee well.
The brawling Calder's rapid tide
around thy fertile holms doth glide
and murmurs there in gentle tone
I love thee well, sweet Dyesholm.
Decked like a bride thy hawthorn fair
with grateful fragrance fills the air
wild flowers whose colours far outvie
the costliest gems of deepest dye.
Thy charms to me grow still more dear
I'm bound to thee by fairy spell
Sweet Dyesholm I love thee well,
each flower, each shrub, each spreading tree
swell out the chorus loud and long
I love thee well sweet Dyesholm.



Jane Pettigrew
Malcolmwood
1865



                               1
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ac@cheshire.oxy.edu (Aileen Cho)
Subject: Rose to the Occasion
Organization: Occidental College, Los Angeles, CA 90041 USA.
Date: Sat, 7 Nov 1992 22:22:21 GMT


  Memory of a Dried Flower 

Now that I look back
on it,
I wonder if you knew the
symbols of colors of roses.
Was it deliberate,
the yellowness
of the flower wrapped in aluminum?
Was I supposed to understnad
what it meant--
no more, no less?
What about the red
streaks within its heart?
Don't you know
that I overanalyze everything?
But then again,
you don't analyze anything
enough to know that.
Oh well, it was a nice flower,
it surely lasted         
longer than we did.
But how appropriate that
I came home one day to find
my mother had thrown it out.
"It was falling apart at the stem,"
she explained,
"and crumbling into powder."
Seriously, that's what she really said.
Now, even your wide-meshed brain
can surely see the symbolism in that.
"That's okay," I mumbled,
"It's time I acknowledged the condition
of the damn thing."
It's time I threw your memory out anyway.
It wasn't red,
it wasn't yellow for that matter,
Just crumbled.

--ac

All types of C's welcome, of course,
with tact and honesty.
Cheers.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jjimenez@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Joel A Jimenez)
Subject: Another Poem for Marek & Marie to crucify
Organization: The Ohio State University
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 00:28:13 GMT


   As our paths now part, my only Love,
   I truly tell you this:
   Every night when the sun sinks down,
   My heart will be in bliss.

   Wherever you are or come to be,
   (I tell you this is true),
   Whenever the stars cast down soft light,
   My heart lies there with you.

                 - Joel A. Jimenez

                        6/8/92
                       10/8/92
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: "i erected for myself..." / Halina Poswiatowska / trans: Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 05:22:53 GMT


Halina Poswiatowska in translation, #46.

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:

		untitled ("i erected for myself a huge black cross")
		[Marek #46, p. 303 of _Wiersze Wybrane_ (Selected Poems)]
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		i erected for myself a huge black cross
		and i burned up in love's fire
		 
		in vain did Byzantium
		wring its frail fingers
		 
		martyrs' aureoles rolled in the sky
		 
		the flame lit up the earth
		people looked hard
		towards the star Venus
		 
		they thought they understood
		
		
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s
			translated by

			Marek Lugowski
			10 November 1992
			Chicago, Illinois

		[Translator's note:  In Polish, the last line
		 uses the present tense of "to understand",
		 which, in my estimation, renders a slightly
		 different meaning from the idiomatic English
		 used above.  In Polish, the use of the present
		 tense appears to denote the action of "to understand"
		 as not only applicable in the past tense, at
		 the time of "they thought", but also in an
		 ongoing *present* sense.  It is as if you said
		 "I dreamed I was tall" and meant, in addition
		 to dreaming *then* that you *were* tall, that your had
	 	 also dreamed about being tall *now* in an ongoing
		 sense.  Hope this a) is correct and b) makes sense.

		 Any ideas?  Perhaps I should have chosen:
		 "they think they understand"]


		"postawilam sobie wielki czarny krzyz"
			(p. 303, _Wiersze Wybrane_)
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		postawilam sobie wielki czarny krzyz
		i splonelam w ogniu milosci

		na prozno Bizancjum
		zalamywalo wiotkie palce

		aureole meczennikow toczyly sie po niebie

		ziemie oswietlil plomien
		ludzie badawczo
		patrzyli w strone gwiazdy Wenus

		zdawalo im sie ze rozumieja				
		

			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960's.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kt1@hera.cc.bellcore.com (tellefsen,karen a)
Subject: Paternity
Organization: Bellcore, Livingston, NJ
Date: Thu, 12 Nov 92 17:19:22 GMT


Paternity

"Your sister's dark, your bother's red,
And you are blond and fair."
The proper matron asked the child,
"Now why such varied hair."

Sweet goldilocks did scratch her head 
To ponder on her kin.
"The iceman," lisped miss smarty pants
And gave a saucy grin.
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (Zolette- Reine de la Netherlands)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: blue Re: CopyRights
Date: 5 Nov 92 16:27:00 GMT
Article-I.D.: u.1992Nov5.162700.14330
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle


 daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom) writes:
>In rec.arts.poems, nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev) writes:
>> 
>> This translucent, talent-free poem is itself a plagiarism of 
>> something posted here by Joe Green several months ago. 
>> Philip Nikolayev
>> nikolay@husc.harvard.edu
>
>Dearest Donald, Posthumous, Defender of the Realm, could you
>send my poem to Josef (if you have some way to contact him) 
>and get him to type a bit of a comment on his feelings about whether I 
>have plagiarized him?  Ask him to comment on restitution if he feels
>that I have.  If he feels that I have not, ask him to please savage
>this lovely fellow in the way only Joe Green can for making
>this charege against my integrity.
>
[...]

doug, 
much as I hate to say this, I do remember josef writing something like this. 
since posthumous is lacking in his archivist duties I will search for the
damned file myself.  not of course because I want to attack you, just to set
the record straight.  besides posthumous is just upset that i would not give
him josef's new e-mail address.

-sometimes Candlestick
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Subject: Seasonal Vampire...
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1992 13:29:35 GMT



	Seasonal Vampire...

	Cool winter through a crack
	Pours in my stale room,
	Flowing 'round my flattened form,
	Breathing Summer's doom.

	Time has stolen many days,
	And with each day some light,
	And with the light, some heat has gone
	Into the Winter night.


			msj
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Advice:  A Love Sonnet
Date: 11 Nov 92 15:18:02 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

Take Heed, RAP!!!!

I have seen on this group many a sonnet that left me shuddering.  To my
eyes they seemed as infants malformed and I wept with blistering sorrow and
disgust.  But this...finally, we have a master at work!

My fellows, this sonnet scans!!!  Iambic pentameter!  For those of you who
don't know what iambic pentameter is, STOP WRITING SONNETS IMMEDIATELY.

And not just some wimpy Shakespearean Sonnet, either.  A Petrarchan!
O Frabjous Day!  Calloo Callay! [check spelling]

Sir Woolley, my sincerest admiration for you!

p.s. Are you familiar with "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" (or
something similar) by Yeats?  There is a striking similarity to this poem
in your sestet, and I do hope it is purposeful, because it adds so much!)


In article <1992Nov11.015020.119902@evolving.com> jww@evolving.com (John W. Woolley) writes:
>
>                        Advice
>                    A Love Sonnet
>
>
>      You gotta stop this shit.  What kind of fool
>      are you, anyway?  Sure she's cute, but use
>      some brains, OK?  You'd really better choose
>      someone else.  Remember the Golden Rule:
>      Don't love a girl who doesn't love you -- you'll
>      get burned for sure.  So love's a bitch -- big news!
>      Get back on the track, Jack.  You're gonna lose
>      a few from time to time.  Stay loose, be cool.
>
>      You've missed, all points.  Love's aim's a mile above
>      my comfort or desire.  No longed-for bliss,
>      no thrill of pleasure, poetry, or pain
>      brought me to love her, no, nor any gain
>      I hope to have of her, but only this --
>      that she is who she is, and love is love.
>
>-- 
>Fr. John Woolley (jww@evolving.com); vastly enthusiastic about Augustine,
>Austen, babies, Bach, backgammon, baseball, beer, the Bible, Botticelli, Burke,
>Chesterton, Dante, Dixieland, hardboiled, Hitchcock, Dr Johnson, Latin, Mozart,
>Shakespeare/de Vere, St Teresa, Tolkien, Trollope, Fats Waller, and Washington


-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: ch526@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Les Jensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Truth (Poem)
Date: 8 Nov 1992 04:46:23 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio (USA)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu


TRUTH

With unwilling prestige,
Armor cannot hide the shadow of clear,
Unsightly propaganda.

Honesty laughs
As totems crawl threw the mud,
Trying to miss floating atoms.

Sin had conquest in this battle,
But the heat blotted with the cold.
And the story changed into angels and lords,
that murdered the good,
and tried to reform the bad.
-------------------------------------------------
All opinions, comments and advise will be gratefully accepted...
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: knoth@bronze.ucs.indiana.edu ( nik )
Subject: Re: Regrets
Organization: Cognitive Science
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1992 11:47:30 GMT

In article <1992Nov6.145001.453@lrc.edu> benge_kl@lrc.edu writes:
>
>
>Regrets
>=======
>
>I remember once,
>A long time ago,
>I used to love my feelings.
>I used to play with them
>And bathe with them
...




Dont dig 'em up alone


They were cute lil' fuzzy buggers 
when you put 'em there,
buried 'em deeper 
with every passin' year or three.
Lil' critters to hug and love

But -- Now?
After all them years
growin' wild and ugly.
Alone.

They'll rip yer head off

Yer lil' porcupine?
More like a bear, huge.
Bathe with that one?
(blood bath)

And yer "terribly deep pit"
Don't look too close 
'cause it aint that deep.
They're sittin' just below the surface
waitin
to get ya as soon as yer weak.

But they're fukin' beautiful
worth more 'n all the 
religion? in the world
or the poetry
or whatever, yer into

If ya survive that reintroduction...

Jus' don't try't alone.  It'll kill ya.
Find someone who loves you 
and will sit on ya 
when ya wanna run, screamin.
Someone to hold ya 
hold onta
y'll need 'em, bad.

Then dig those buggers up 
and turn 'em loose.
it's worth it.

...
   good luck, my friend...



-nik <knoth@hermes.psych.indiana.edu>
From: gt7244c@prism.gatech.EDU (John G'alt)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: SEX!!!
Date: 9 Nov 92 03:20:28 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: Georgia Tech


   Yes, that's a cheap attention-grabber, but hey,
 you didn't hit the "n" key.

   Okay, we have here a poem from a friend of mine.
   If you're a female from Vanderbilt, I'll say who he is.
   If not... not your loss.

   TEDDY JOINED A CLIQUE
"Prove it! Prove it!
 We're not a unit!"
Teddy says it so well.
"We're not a clique!
 We're just friends."
Aw, Teddy, you know I can tell.
"Oh, WE disowned her.
 She really wronged US!"
Teddy, I thought you were a man.
"They don't own me!
 I can leave anytime."
Yes, Ted, of course you can. 

   So there it has been.  In all truth C&C is welcome to him,
but only from females.  Should I say otherwise?
   Thanks for the ear, and maybe next time I'll get something
more interesting under that subject. :)

-- 
John Greenawalt, un sabetodo q' comprende nada...
Tourist lost somewhere at Georgia Tech            
Internet: gt7244c@prism.gatech.edu
y tambien un pelirrojo q' prefiere las morenas...
From: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM (George O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: My favorite poem by Anna Akhmatova
Date: 5 Nov 1992 18:01:52 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems
Distribution: world
Reply-To: simran@inkstone.Eng.Sun.COM
NNTP-Posting-Host: inkstone

Oh, I do hope I am not being too forward by sharing this poem with y'all.
(Thank you Mr. Lichter for bringing us such lovely gems, I have been
looking for some of Carolyn Lau's work ever since missing her reading
at New College in SF & searching in vain for _Wo de Shuo Fa_ in the
bookstores).

This one is one of my favorite poems these days. The ending spooks me so.
I hear it and can never get it out of my head, and end up wanting to live my
whole life (for a few minutes at least) by its words.

Sincerely,
George.

So, here, from _News of the Universe_: 

		"A land not mine"


	A land not mine, still
	forever memorable,
	the waters of its ocean
	chill and fresh.
	
	Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk,
	and the air drunk, like wine,
	late sun lays bare
	the rost limbs of the pinetrees.
	
	Sunset in the ethereal waves:
	I cannot tell if the day
	is ending, or the world, or if
	the secret of secrets is inside me again.

--Anna Akhmatova
translated by Jane Kenyon

(from _News of the Universe_ by Robert Bly, 
 1980. Sierra Club Books, San Francisco)


Back cover notes from _Poems of Akhmatova_
1973, Atlantic Monthly Press, Boston, Toronto

"Anna Akhmatova died in 1966, acclaimed as Russia's greatest
woman poet. Her brilliant, intense work, ..., can be read in equence
as a powerful chronicle of her country in the twentieth century.
Before 1918 she wrote an avant-garde form of verse, was star of the
St. Petersburg literary circle and a friend of Boris Pasternak, Osip
Mandelstam, and Alexander Blok. She lived through the Revolutino and
the two World Wars, and during Stalin's great purge of the thirties
suffered official contempt and censorship and the loss by death or
exile of her loved ones. The stark, searing poems from the time of the
Terror onward express all the despair, rage, and anguish of the
Russian intellectuals of that era. They are epitomized by her famous
_Requiem 1935-1940. ..."


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@gator.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: road
Keywords: act 2
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 06:37:53 GMT



 
	just like this, if it wasn't, was, was not
	is this the right lane? i can't see...
	it's dark in this rain and there's steam in my brain
	press my foot down on the gas if the road is clear ahead
	you say: stop where it says stop, then go
	you know just the thing to say...
	stop...wait...fast then slow
	what's the thing you'd like to know?
	as we go beep beep down route clickety-clicks
	just like this, play no tricks
 
 
Sara Gordon & Tom Wachtel, South Bend, in the car
 
	

-- 
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Talk to me about computer viruses.        sara@gator.rn.com  
                                          SGordon@Dockmaster.ncsc.mil