HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: fallas@athena.mit.edu (Black Orchid)
Subject: "when stars"
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1992 20:41:57 GMT


when stars light up the sky
and i start to question why
if you move to leave the room
i whisper, "must you?"

	(they said the scars would face away
	 and so they did, or so you say
	 and because you are my mirror
	 i will trust you)

when stars set our eyes afire
and bleak despair becomes desire
fumblingly i see your face
with my fingers

	(they say freedom bears a price
	 i was a willing sacrifice
	 with you to help me through this night
	 which ever lingers)

--
written for the blind
         by
        @}`-
    Black Orchid
From: pirillo2044@iscsvax.uni.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Street Lights (TLG)
Date: 15 Oct 92 18:43:32 -0500
Organization: University of Northern Iowa


                           Street Lights


    The street lights outside the window
        Are glowing orange.
    I could not tell you why,
        But I know I can see the sidewalk now.
    It disappears into the distance.
        I cannot see the end quite yet, 
    But maybe I'm not looking hard enough.
        I affix my gaze on the towering lamps.
    I feel insecure;
        I seem a tad bit unsure;
    I realize that I could never be
        Bioluminescent.
    I'm always gonna need someone to love me.
        (as much as I love them)
    That'll give me enough light
        To make it through life
    Without faltering every step of the way.
        
        For now, I'll have to rely on the street lights
    To give me all my strength,
        'Cos there is nobody special in my life.
    Where are you, my dove?

                                        -- Chris

        "Well, this is another one of those miserable, depressing poems.  But
    actually, I feel that it kinda sums things up for me.  I don't have a
    girlfriend, so I have to depend on other activities to keep me busy.  There
    is nothing I can do now... but wait patiently.  Ah, well, my time shall
    come.  That question still remains: when will come that time?
        "Feel free to e-mail me... tell me a little bit about yourself.  Hell,
    you could even tell me a little bit about myself (cause I make it a point
    to learn a new thing every day).  Did you guys (and gals) know that the
    Mona Lisa doesn't have any eyebrows?  I heard that on the radio this
    afternoon.  Kinda interesting, eh?
        "Well poets, this gnome had better move on to other things.  Have a
    great day, and never forget that there is always someone ou who is
    going to know more than you know.  And whether you like it or not, I think
    that all right thinking people in this country are SICK AND TIRED of being
    told that ordinary decent people are FED UP in this country with being
    SICK AND TIRED.  I'm certainly not... and I'm SICK AND TIRED of being told
    that I am (thank you Monty Python)."

                                        Never the same,

                                        Christopher J. Pirillo
                                        THE LOCKER GNOME
From:  (PEACE)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: search for you
Date: 15 Oct 92 23:29:23 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems

In article <1992Oct13.121720.1989@gacvx2.gac.edu>, sad girl wrote:
> 
> If only the wind could bring YOU back to me,
>   I would spend my life flying kites,
>   And sailing with the wind's strength beside me.
> But the wind only blows and whispers
> Sweet Memories of you to me.
> 
> If only the rain could bring YOU back to me,
>   I would fill every cup and bowl and drink all I could,
>   And dance and sing in the rest.
> But, nonetheless, the rain can only drown my pain
> In its steady downpour.
> 
> If only I could find YOU in the earth's rich soil,
>   I would become a farmer and depend on the soil to fulfill my life,
>   And make millions of mud pies and keep them all to myself.
> But, of course, the soil can only support me
> As I walk this earth alone.
> 
> So, I will search for you until my death, 
> Though I know I will never find YOU.  
> I will spend my life 
> Cherishing the Wind, Rain, and Soil so much more.
> 
> 																										- a. elizabeth wagner

SAD GIRL, i am deeply touched by this poem.  is it written about anyone in
particular?  tell me about your high school.
"JESUS MADE ME SO, JESUS SAVE ME FROM, PITY, SYMPATHY, AND PEOPLE
DISCUSSING ME."
From: megazone@obsidian.WPI.EDU (MegaZone23)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem - Quiet
Date: 9 Oct 92 19:14:28 GMT
Organization: WPI USAF -- United Society of Animation Fans
NNTP-Posting-Host: obsidian.wpi.edu

In article <2812@bsu-cs.bsu.edu> bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh) writes:
>QUIET
>He seems to stir when he hears his name, his eyes
>  grow wide and his mouth twitches, opens;
>and he retreats from his shell to the world outside.

Ouch. You really hit me hard with that one. My grandfather died of Alzheimers
a few years back. It took years for him to degenerate into death. All I could
think about is watching him lose his memories, and all we are is a collection
of our memories, I watched him lose who he was.

The above is a perfect description of how he was near the end. It was like
some small part was trapped inside, trying to get out. A lot of painful
memories came back as I read it. It's been too long, I miss my grandfather.

Thank you for writing this.

###############################################################################
# I have one prejudice, and that is against stupidity.  Use your mind, think! #
#Email megazone@wpi.wpi.edu  Moderator, WPI anime FTP site 130.215.24.1 /anime#
###############################################################################
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@gator.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: blue
Keywords: hamburg, labs
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Date: Fri, 9 Oct 1992 08:21:54 GMT


test of programming: memory function
 
the sweetest words she'll never hear
as memory curls
its technicolour fading
black and white
nothing in between.
 
carly sings
spanish dance diary
you don't deny but place me along side
cards
 
play your cards, baby
lay them out on the table
the banquet is before you
don't go away hungry
don't go away
 
pink by the mariners blue
it stands for dimmed eyes
 
the break in the whisper, the promises after
is it hot in the orange italian sun?
 
flamenco flame
clickclick
don't worry
its only castanets
 
i dance before you
in the public square.
 
 

-- 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
talk to me about computer viruses.  sara@gator.rn.com  
                                    SGordon@Dockmaster.ncsc.mil
                                    vfr@netcom.com
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: haiku
From: emiddlec@mora.gac.edu (Eric Middlecamp)
Date: 11 Oct 92 22:08:57 -0600




		star-filled sky
	        cold hard ground
		I exist!
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: thomasfh@edb.tih.no (Thomas Fjaestad Hagelien,o92b)
Subject: Devils eyes
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 16:41:10 GMT


THE DEVILS EYES

Have you ever seen the
eyes of the devil.
The pure evil crying
to get into your head

Have you ever wanted
to join this deadly force.
Kiss his grean tongue
And lick the soul of the
deads.

See me
I'm dissapearing into
the darkness.
The devils eyes has
got me
And there is no turning back

Have you ever seen the
eyes of the devil.
Come on you fool
Join me in hell.
__
/homas Hagelien
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca (Tim Connors )
Subject: Freedom
Organization: Memorial University of Newfoundland
Date: Sun, 11 Oct 1992 12:50:34 GMT

          "Are We really Free?"

     We can run, jump and eat chocolate.
     We can dance, sing and scream profanities.
     But are we free?
     We can take anothers life, or have ours taken,
     We can fly, swim and dig.
     But are we free?
     I don't think so.
     We are trapped on earth, with nothing but death waiting for us.
     Freedom is a blind word for alive.
     We are prisoners in the hell of another world.


    tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca
         Tim Connors
      Poetic Wheelbarrow
      Raisins are merely thirsty grapes.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: akao@.com (Adam Kao)
Subject: .
Organization: Oracle Corporation, Redwood Shores, CA
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 17:29:51 GMT
X-Disclaimer: This message was written by an unauthenticated user
              at Oracle Corporation.  The opinions expressed are those
              of the user and not necessarily those of Oracle.



sitting in the suicide prevention center
staring at the phone


there's a broken heart out there
a life is on the line
there's a broken heart out there
a wound i have to bind

there's a soul lost in despair
and all it needs is love
there's a soul lost in despair
but can i give enough?

there's a mind alone in fear
slipping silently away
there's a mind alone in fear
dying slowly day by day

there's a broken heart out there
a life is on the line
there's a broken heart out there
and it feels the same as mine



adam
From: zaman@ee.uts.edu.au (Selim Zaman)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: To My Godess...
Date: 8 Oct 92 06:07:36 GMT
Organization: University of Technology, Sydney
NNTP-Posting-Host: mozart.ee.uts.edu.au


You are the ordained godess of my eternal dreams
You appear in the vacant moment of midnight
There is nothing I worship that is not yours
You are the sunshine, you are the moonlight
You are my inspiration throughout day and night

But still I know you can never be mine
I can never show you what it means to be
In this beautiful world -- with me.

What shall I do in this crazy agony?
Where shall I rest these flaming desires?
How shall I carry on?

Today my name is that of a stranger to you
I am leaving forever without a memento
I shall never cross your path again??n
From: schau@ctp.com (Salman Chaudhary)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Creation of Urdu newsgroup
Date: 14 Oct 92 21:31:21 GMT
Organization: Cambridge Technology Partners

Does the newsgroup rec.arts.poems.urdu exist, or is still just a proposition.
Does anyone know what the situation is? I am not sure if the group cannot be 
accessed by me or if it hasn't yet been formed. 

Thanks

-Salman Chaudhary

-- 
********************************************************************************
Imagination was given to man to			Salman R. Chaudhary 
compensate him for what he was                  Cambridge Technology Partners
not, and a sense of humor was  			schau@ctp.com
provided to console him for what               	(617) 374-8387 
he is.  -Robert Walpole
********************************************************************************
From: dz22+@andrew.cmu.edu (Daniel L. Zabell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Dream
Date: 13 Oct 92 23:30:38 GMT
Organization: Freshman, H&SS general, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA


                                   Dream
                                   -----

Falling asleep, I waken to the world afloat beneath me, spinning.
Covered by amazing energy I swoop down to ground below.
Soaring over globe tucked tight in night, I slow my flying to see what
rests                    
                        beneath me.

Drifting down, continents spread before me; about me.
A sky's worth of stars glows across my field of view.
I suddenly realize that what I see
are the dreaming minds of humanity,
each mind illuminating the night about them like the dawning of the first day.

Each mind alone blazes in strange patterns almost shapeless
directionless and without form to those who dream the dreams.

Yet I can see from where I soar that every pearl of light
is but a joint and connection upon a vast network--
puzzle pieces of a giant canvas.
Each and every dream a part of one great giant dream:
the song of a sleeping humanity.

Who am I then, drifting so far away from this gleaming city of dreamers?
Is there a home for the poet, in this vast swirling sphere of dreams?

I am the satellite that floats high above the earth
I am a modern Mercury - messenger to dreamers
I give shape to that which is without form, form to all without shape
singing together with words the majestic tapestry of sleepers
singing together the one great dream, singing of the dream to a waking
humanity.

                                                        

                                                        Dan Zabell

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


        this is my rocket 
        my personal rocket
        I send up my message beyond
        someone to hear me there
        

        Allen Ginsberg,  POEM: ROCKET
                         

        or, at least i sent it to the poetry Bboard.
        feedback is much desired.
From: tammy@cs.umd.edu (Tammy Hayden)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: USA???
Date: 9 Oct 92 15:22:27 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: Computer Science Department, University of Maryland, College Park



>tammy,

>freedom can be a very alienating thing sometimes, no?
>we here a lot about our freedoms "to," i am, however,
>much more concerned with our freedoms "from," as you
>seem to be in this piece....what price freedom now?
>(with apologies to gbs)
>sls

>=======================================================================
>			   Stephanie Steele
>			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu

Stephanie,

Thanks for your comment!!  Not many people pick up that the meaning
of free in the poem meant freedoms "from" not "to".

Tammy
tammy@cs.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca (Tim Connors )
Subject: Re: another jello poem
Organization: Memorial University of Newfoundland
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 1992 04:52:03 GMT

In article <alberti.719090123@staff.tc.umn.edu> alberti@ux.acs.umn.edu (Theresa J Alberti) writes:
   (Fabulous Jello poem deleted) >
>--Theresa Jarosz Alberti

Theresa,
     Great poem. I liked the ending especially. I know that I can relate
to it for one. My grandma used to serve large onion slices in butter
sauce, no one would eat it. She was crushed. Then she realized that her
chocolate doughnuts were a hit and all was well. Great poem.
       tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca
           Tim Connors
         Poetic Wheelbarrow: Borrow? I thought you said archeologists in
                            higheals and not much else?
From: zen@death.Corp.Sun.COM (d)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: "there isnt a single fucking day/that i dont sit here at work/and cry my goddamned heart out" are the title and the first three lines
Date: 9 Oct 92 22:41:32 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc., Mountain View, CA
NNTP-Posting-Host: death.corp.sun.com


depression is a tricky thing
it sneaks up on you slow
but before you know it
the lid is closed
the vacuum seals
the hiss of death the engines squeal
the pumping of the air
sucks the life out of your soul
glassy eyes vacant stare

im beating on the glass right now
two bloody fists keep trying to pound
and oh i know you dont hear a sound
but if you put your ear against
your terminal youd hear
my fucking tears splashing
on the phosphor screen
and between these letters youd see
tiny flat drops of my frozen screams

depression is a hatred
of yourself and your maker
my depression how i hate it
i keep typing trying to shake it

and there isnt a single fucking day
i dont sit and work and pray
when will it end
wish i could burn out my depression gun
and blow it all away
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jondarr@macadam.mpce.mq.edu.au (jondarr c g h 2 gibb)
Subject: Diva
Organization: Macquarie University, Australia.
Date: Wed, 7 Oct 1992 22:41:12 GMT


        Diva

Two faces in one day -
this is what she shows to those
  who know her and still play the game;
Other friends have turned away -
still she keeps an eye on you and I
  in case the face she wears is fame.
Only on Saturday,
when the world is cooling down
  she will be fooling 'round with flame;
Only a step away,
she plays the light as if she might
  be still a star, but no-one knows her name.

Then the smile turns to grey,
The audience has gone away,
Fluorescent where the moths all play,
She'll wear a darker face today.

Bowing to an empty hall,
listen to the rows where no-one shows
  delight in coarse applause;
Still smiling 'til the curtains fall,
and knowing there's no encore
  no-one asks for more, evermore.
Standing high but feeling small,
crawl away to face the grey
  cold comfort of four empty walls;
Maybe that's the final call -
no-one to come back to you,
  you'll never care to wear that face again.

			2nd October, 1992



                    
              Anyway the wind blows ...
                                                //\         /\\
                             /                 || * \ . . / * ||
               .  _   _   _/  _   _  _          \\____\X/____//
              / /_/ / / /_/ /-/ /  /             / *  /O\  * \
          ._/                                    \__/  "  \__/

jondarr@macadam.mpce.mq.edu.au  (137.111.216.12)
jondarr@mpce.mq.edu.au
jondarr@macgraw.mpce.mq.edu.au
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Beloved
Date: 11 Oct 92 19:01:12 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


BELOVED

You like me in emerald, flesh tones,
gold locks draped in moonlight and fingertips pale?
Drink in my softness, my essence engulfs
and my velvet, cool tongue bathes figurative wounds.

So pink are my treasures, I lap you in coral,
delight in your wonder, embrace you with warmth.
I tangle your curls, love, twine firm to your rapture,
surround you with honey, command you to drink.

Yes, drown in my breasts, sweet and hold me fast to you...
Beloved, I need you.

-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: search for you
From: sad girl
Date: 13 Oct 92 12:17:18 -0600
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Distribution: world

If only the wind could bring YOU back to me,
  I would spend my life flying kites,
  And sailing with the wind's strength beside me.
But the wind only blows and whispers
Sweet Memories of you to me.

If only the rain could bring YOU back to me,
  I would fill every cup and bowl and drink all I could,
  And dance and sing in the rest.
But, nonetheless, the rain can only drown my pain
In its steady downpour.

If only I could find YOU in the earth's rich soil,
  I would become a farmer and depend on the soil to fulfill my life,
  And make millions of mud pies and keep them all to myself.
But, of course, the soil can only support me
As I walk this earth alone.

So, I will search for you until my death, 
Though I know I will never find YOU.  
I will spend my life 
Cherishing the Wind, Rain, and Soil so much more.

																										- a. elizabeth wagner
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Shades of Green
Date: 8 Oct 92 17:44:28 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA


 (Sheila Herndon) writes:
> ...assorted ascii symbols deleted...
>I'm jealous because everyone picks on you now and never me. I just
>try and try to get all the attention but darmit, you keep out-witting
>me. :p 
>
>laugh laugh laugh.
>I'm going to stick my hand in your mouth until someone picks on me.
> 
>stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu


OK Sheila, I'll pick on you just a little bit...

Did you know you managed to work your way into one of my poems a few 
months back? I bet you didn't even notice it! Was posted right here 
in view of the whole world, and nobody, not even the rain, 
noticed it.

I'll award 10 bonus points to the first person who remembers the poem...


(-:
Cecil
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tconnors@morgan.ucs.mun.ca (Tim Connors )
Subject: Colonial Mildew
Organization: Memorial University of Newfoundland
Date: Fri, 9 Oct 1992 21:22:05 GMT

                  "The Validity of Wallpaper"

            There he stood. Long, grey eyes reached out for something.
            When the door bell rang. "CLONG!"
            He knew it was them. They were going to get him.
            To them, what he had done was wrong.
            They would execute him, or try.
            He wouldn't let them.
            Fryingpan mischief prevails.
           

                   "Screams of an old man"
 
            What now?
            Bacon? *More* bacon?
            You've had your share, shutup.
            What of your knees?
            Ice-cream? On a Tuesday? Forget it.
            Weeping. Wondering hopefully-
            Will someone let him out of this well?
            Green mittens.
           
                "On his secretions"

            Over the hills we cry
            "EGGPLANT VESTIGE!"


      tconnors@morgan.ucss.mun.ca
            Tim Connors

       Poetic Wheelbarrow- The drapes, the drapes.Large orange physics
                           prof. We call him Gordon.
.
From: jjwright@gandalf.rutgers.edu (     Jay)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A Stupendous Idea
Date: 7 Oct 92 17:22:57 GMT
Organization: Rutgers Univ., New Brunswick, N.J.



I had a thought
a really great idea
i thought i should
write it down right here

i ran for some paper
and searched for a pen
i cleared off my desk
got seated and then--

--it went away
as quick as it came
i felt so dejected
and horribly lame

i got up and moped
i walked through the door
when all of a sudden
it hit me once more

---

jay (oct 7 1992)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Subject: more bare writing, this at least, only a rough draft.
Summary: sterile, ackward
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 14:32:32 GMT


This bike is left, in the rain
it's frame is round
you fit your fingers round it they come away smelling like metal.

this bike signifies death and life
one day it could be a chore to ride
or too small and falling apart
it could be obsolete
it could not be fun to ride circles arould the drive way.

It's frame is the shadow of a preying mantis very large
from a future with science fiction huge-metal bones.
this bike is a metal horse.

this bike is so sad

this bike represents sadness if you are a parent who has a child to ride it.

(trying to - i don't know. is is is. this is abstract. I don't know. it's
a rough draft. It is a challenge to write this is this. It is a challenge
to write this thing is life and this thing is death without inanity. I'm
practicing. and it is silly.)
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,alt.prose.d
From: rudoff@mdd.comm.mot.com (Doug Rudoff)
Subject: Re: Reading
Organization: Motorola, Mobile Data Division - Seattle, WA
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 1992 17:19:24 GMT

In article <1bjn3jINNjji@bigboote.WPI.EDU> megazone@joseph.WPI.EDU (MegaZone23) writes:
>I did my first reading the other night. It was at Nichols college, I think in
>mass, maybe just over the southern border.

About a month ago I did a reading at a local tavern. I violated a
cardinal rule of pulbic readings - DO NOT FORGET YOUR LAST PAGE. 

(I didn't know it was missing until I was reading the second to
last page and realized there was nothing behind it.)
-- 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Doug Rudoff          Motorola, Seattle    INTERNET:rudoff@mdd.comm.mot.com
                                            USENET:uunet!mdisea!rudoff   
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-