HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: holy sisters
Summary: holy sisters
Keywords: holy sisters
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1992 17:48:43 GMT



holy sisters



good.  ordain them.  good god
set Her in order
prepare She
enact Her please
give Her power
(She already has strength)
ordain Her
She is only spirit
walking politica
action

ordain them
each sinner
virgin
madonna
slut
hearts red
as apples
bleeding under
the skin
ordain them
so they may paint
pink labia
on some angel
shadowed by His
halo
His skin the color
of semen

Her mouth the color
of birth
She already carries
each child
like a bit
of nailed cross
all of them are holy
stigmatized
ethereal

or She stares blankly
at the blood on Her under
pants
rotates Her wedding band
with a calloused thumb

or She mops up His urine (He has missed
the toilet again) and works figures
in Her head
no mathematician
She only *feels*
numbers
are proven
false

ordain them
even though She never
prays or
does so without thinking
even though She is damned
eternal
smells
and sweats
and is not completely
silent

ordain Her
because Her heart
is as wild
and black
as these november
crows sutured
into the blank
of this blue
heaven
and You
should be afraid


sls.
--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ekankaan@kaira.hut.fi (Eero Kankaanp{{)
Subject: Re: rapu love (was Re: Urdu Irance (part II))
Organization: Never Never Land Waves To You
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1992 02:32:45 GMT


 (Marek Lugowski) writes:
>> P.s.  A question to oversea rappers -- how are books indexed outside of US?
>
>by the colour of the binding, of course. how else?
>-- 
>Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)

 Hmm..Outside Of US ? Do you mean in Urdu or in Latin ?
 By the way, Tom is joking ofcourse..we don't have any colour in or on
 our books, they are all black'n'white. Exept..
 the one with rice cake crumbs between the pages.

  now some horrorshow razrez for our alphaville friends and fans
 faithful narrator -my -full name with null fame because of this
 fall menu and enamel flu which has its full am end and amen i
 believe being a pope. per se. off my hor se.
  the rapist
.
From: sean_v1@verifone.com
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: POEM - Mad I am Not..
Date: 9 Nov 92 00:50:22 -1000
Organization: Confused Souls, Ltd.

This poem has an interesting story behind it..  Recently I posted another poem
from a netless friend of mine, using the name Huh..  In that poem she told how
she lost a good freind of hers..  Well this poem is written by that "Lost
Friend", and is his response to her poem..  (This is getting too Soap Operish.. 
heheh)  Well, I hope ya'll like like!


-- 

Mad I am not
    by Osa
                                                                               
Mad I am not
I cannot be to you
I understand your side
I see your point of view
  The times have just been changing
  As I'm sure that you can see
  I know you've found something new
  So don't hold on to me
I'm doing this for you
Although it may seem mean
It's sad to see this happen
But if you knew what I have seen
  I can't dictate your life
  I can't tell you what to do
  But now I think and wonder
  Do I know the real you

We've grown apart these months
I feel it's all my fault
But I'm sad to think our love
May be coming to a halt
  Maybe the word acquaintance
  The one we'd joke about
  May come to be true after all
  Although, that, I sure do doubt
Our bond cannot be broken
Our friendship will remain
But maybe we need a time out
To temporarily abstain
  Within this time to think
  About what may be lost
  We may later come to find
  That we cannot pay the cost
                                                                               
You know that I am stubborn
I don't give in just like that
Yet, I've made your life so hard
I feel like such a rat
  You consider yourself insignificant
  You mean much more to me
  But that's just one thing about you
  That you will not see
You say you're just a weed
What am I to think
When I see and hear things like that
It makes my heart just sink
  You've found better things I know
  And I see you start to explore
  So I stand here and watch
  As you walk beyond that door
                                                                               
I'll be here if you decide
That you shall again return
But forever I shall always have
My care and my concern
  Just remember I'm not mad one bit
  Because you'll always have my love
  For to think of you will bring peace
    of mind
  Like a sweet, white, gentle dove

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Se'an Michael Ventura            |  Love is like a shooting star, brilliant
Verifone, Inc.                   |  and beautiful while it lasts...
100 Kahelu Ave.                  |  Friendships are like the stars on high,
Mililani, HI  96789              |  forever burning bright...
Sean_V1@Verifone.com             |
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: zen@death.Corp.Sun.COM (d)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: if i were a nigger
Date: 11 Nov 1992 18:49:37 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc., Mountain View, CA
NNTP-Posting-Host: death.corp.sun.com
Comments: welcome

if i was a nigger i'd

get myself some whites
put em in disguise
make em look like black folk
then put out their eyes
tear off all their clothes
shove coke up their noses
throw em in the gutters
and watch them as they grow
into killers whores and worse
id be laughing as they nurse
the wounds of culture
and our so special social curse
then as their mournful cries
reach that demon in the sky
id throw em in hell to burn
but hey -- im a vengeful guy

that is i would, if i was a nigger
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Well-Met in Manhattan, part 1
Date: 11 Nov 92 17:51:54 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:

[...]
> 	I was ashamed at my own oversight.  We were sailing directly into
> the realm of Cardinal Taranto, the Mortal Enemy of all O'Tooles!  But just
> then we saw something swimming towards us.
> 	"Pull me up, would you?" it asked in kindly fashion.
> 	"Who are you, first?" I asked suspiciously.
> 	"Tom Wachtel [pronounced Voktill or somesuch]."
> 	Needless to say (after a few minutes' heated discussion) we dropped
> down a rope ladder...
> 
> 
> The Adventure will continue...
> 
> (by the way, Tom, feel free to portray the next portion of the journey
> yourself!  You know how treacherous my memory is...)


	After a few minutes' heated discussion, they dropped down a
	rope ladder, which surprised me. Why were they abandoning
	ship?  As they dropped, I asked each the time of day. Sheila
	was the only one who knew what I was talking about. She said it
	was sharp. Actually, being a keen sort of person, she said it
	was sharp as a knife. Sharp as a knife is sharp.

	Not being one to create a missed opportunity, I climbed the
	rope ladder to the deck above. The deck was made of cards.
	Greeting cards. Hello.

	The swimmers returned, for which I was grateful.  I guess it is
	some sort of ritual. You know how these things are.  Still, it
	was interesting to watch and they did not ask for money. We had
	pancakes and took imaginary pictures of ourselves.

	Believe me, we really did have pancakes.



-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: HELP NEEDED (Is poetry luxury?)
From: conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstatin Kalikanzaros)
Date: Sun, 08 Nov 92 18:23:54 PST
Organization: Paradox Alley F&SF BBS 805-492-8789

wprovinc@zeus.calpoly.edu (William E. Province) writes:

> casteley@phil.ruu.nl (Eric Casteleyn) writes:
> 
> > 
> > 
> >      hello once more,
> > 
> > 
> >   I recently overheard someone say that poetry is a luxury item. In-
> > tuitively I disagreed, but I've had some trouble putting together a 
> > definitive article to prove him wrong. Maybe he was right. Maybe I'm
> > stupid. I sincerely hope the latter.
> >
> 
>    Luxury?  You must define this word.  Is it a luxury to be
> able to hope?  Is it a luxury to be able to view just a bit
> of beauty every once in a while?  Is it a luxury to be able
> to express oneself in a manner befitting the thought to be
> expressed?
> 
>    I can not speak for every one else, but for me, poetry is
> a necessity.  I write poetry for the same reason that I learned
> how to speak, and _only_ if you could consider speaking a 
> luxury can you consider poetry a luxury.
> 
>   -- bill

Perhaps some clarifaction is the writing of poetry considered a luxury
or the buying of poetry collections or perhaps just the time to read
poetry?  


____________________________________________________________________________
Reality is for people that can't handle Science fiction.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Miester aLster)
Subject: naked trees are beautiful!
Reply-To: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 19:24:02 GMT


	-< spirit >- 
  
	...cold
	winds blow 
	golden leaves to tread on
	this carpet of life
	truly warm
	in a sky overcast
	a shade of ominous gray
	but life goes stronger
	for the thin bald tree 
	very strong 
	very deep 
	in spirit
	weathered and beaten
	looking upward
	it's threading branches
	reaching out to the sky 
	fighting
	waiting 
	patiently 
	looking 
	upward
	to bring a new life
	after the snow has long gone....

			- aL
			  11/11/92
	
	/* 
	   this girl was saying that naked trees give her the creeps... 
           tch....tch...tch....

	*/
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: music dying
Date: 9 Nov 92 23:22:49
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu


music is dying in my heart

she once asked me if I understood
the meaning of the melody,
and I answered yes,
and knew yes, and felt yes,
even when the song had faded to nothing.

Music is dying in my soul.

She once asked me if I understood
the meaning of the words,
and I answered yes,
even though I couldn't read them,
and sometimes still cannot.

Music is dying in my soul.

She once asked me if I knew the 
names of God, and I wondered,
did she mean all the names of God,
or just the name I call him when I sing...

Music is dying in my soul.

She once asked me if I was sung
or song, and I didn't know...

Music is dying in my soul.

She once asked me if I believed in the 
power of my own voice,
of the high notes and the low notes, and
the small notes, and the long notes,
and whether being a doctor of music
would make me heal myself, and I,
I answered, no,
and I was right, for
it isn't music dying, not that,
but my soul dying in music, for music,
for the words gone past, and the songs
uncalled, un-invoked
unsung.

Music is dying

in my soul.

--Nancy Howells 
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu)
From: ccsdgdc@sunlab1.bath.ac.uk (Douglas Clark)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: poems
Date: 13 Nov 92 09:51:06 GMT
Organization: Bath University Computing Services, UK





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 Cawder'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 clear
In summer gay and winter drear
I'm bound to thee in fairy spell
Sweet Dyesholm I love thee well.
Each warbling bird, each humming bee,
each flower, each shrub, each spreading tree
swell out the chorus loud and long
I love thee well sweet Dyesholm.



Jane Pettigrew
Malcolmwood
1865



Genealogy

Out of the ruin of my life
I see my great-great-great-grandfather
William Pettigrew, aged 33,
emerge from the door of his cottage
Dyesholm
on a morning in January 1800
after his marriage to Jane Pollock,
aged 17.

Jane's uncle William Pollock, the blacksmith,
emigrated to Virginia;
his grandson James Knox Polk
was President.
He came from Mecklenberg, North Carolina,
and died in Nashville, Tennessee.
William Pollock was born in Blantyre.

Alex was William Pettigrew's eldest son
but Robert Pettigrew,
who died a pauper in the Calton,
produced William, the heir, born in Yoker.
Robert married Susanna McDougall.

William Pettigrew and his family
moved up the hill from Dysholm
to the family farm at Malcolmwood
around 1860.
Dysholm is a corruption of Davisholm.
Malcolmwood is a corruption of Milcolmwood.
He married Betsie Imrie on the day
before Christmas, 1858
at Auchterarder, Perthshire,
where she was born out of wedlock
to her father James Connell, the shoemaker.
Her mother Phemie came with her to Blantyre.

Then we have the start of
the Malcolmwood Pettigrews.
There were seven sons and five daughters.
Only my grandfather John was a stay-at-home.
The sons were wanderers.
Son William was off to America.
Robert and Andrew headed for Australia.
The eldest son Alec, Jimmy and Dick
were for New Zealand.
The daughters married.

Ah'm a Pettigrew from Malcolmwood.
My mother was one of nineteen.
Of whom thirteen lived.
I have thirtyfive first cousins.
My grandmother was the Irishwoman
from Green Hall Farm
with the laugh in her eyes,
Margaret McWilliams.
She was of Irish weaver stock.
The Pettigrews came from France.
They were master carters
before they were farmers.

My grandfather Clark
was from Antrim.
He was related to President McKinley.
His wife was a Perthshire Duncan.
He was Glasgow Irish.
My grandmother was related
to the old Admiral.

Mary Queen of Scots
drank from the well at Dysholm
on the eve of the battle of Langside.
It is still called Queen Mary's Well.

My mother was Kate
and my father William.
I have two brothers
Mick and Ron.
Our sister Dorothy never lived.
We are a great family.
From: ingramje@NeXTwork.Rose-Hulman.Edu (The Poet)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Human Nature
Date: 12 Nov 1992 01:24:17 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Department at Rose-Hulman
Reply-To: ingramje@NeXTwork.Rose-Hulman.Edu (Jr Jerry Ingram)
NNTP-Posting-Host: o231-06.nextwork.rose-hulman.edu

This is a brand new, unreworked poem.  That means it is going to need a  
lot of work.  Therefore, C&C is greatly needed.

Human Nature

A comment on human nature,
That's what the sign said.
A comment on human failure,
That's what it could have read.

All around: surrounding, burying
Was the filth of a city gone mad.
Above and below, inside and out
An exhibit on all that is bad.

Evil and hate in abundance,
A world nearing its end
Unsavable it would seem
The fabric of Earth about to rend.

Yet all it would take
Is effort from you and me,
To change the world and save
The future that may never be.
				--The Poet (Jerry Ingram Jr.)
__________________________________________________________________________
"Failure is not an event so much as a state of mind." - The Poet

Copyright November 11, 1992 by Jerry Ingram Jr. 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Cosmo chat
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 92 01:18:52 GMT


                                Cosmo chat

                It was when I was an astronomer
                looking outward for signs of life
                oblivious in the other direction
                that the radiotelescope brought the
                first message
                of the second coming
                late one night
                simply
                "Hi there. What would you like to talk about?"
                from a star system merely five hundred light years hence
                it made me realize that I had to learn more about
                myself
                here I am...




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: Another Poem for Marek & Marie to crucify
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 01:01:38 GMT

In article <1992Nov11.002813.1630@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu> jjimenez@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Joel A Jimenez) writes:
>
>   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


I pass.  Happy clicheing, to you... until we meet again. :)

Incidentally, it is possible to make an art form of cliches, as Laurie
Anderson does in her performance art.  You just have to be a bit more aware
than this.  Your poem, recited during Lucinda Child's dance might be
riveting, no thanks to you, though.  

				-- Marek
From: ingramje@NeXTwork.Rose-Hulman.Edu (The Poet)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Love Unfound
Date: 10 Nov 1992 23:14:59 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Department at Rose-Hulman
Reply-To: ingramje@NeXTwork.Rose-Hulman.Edu (Jr Jerry Ingram)
NNTP-Posting-Host: o231-24.nextwork.rose-hulman.edu

Though the subject of this poem has long since been taken care of for me,  
I still believe that this is one of my best poems.  C&C welcome and  
wanted.

Love Unfound

A terrible loneliness within my soul,
Until I find someone, I can't be whole.
The world is filled with people in love,
Where's my angel sent from above?
What should I do?  I ponder and ponder,
Who's meant for me, I truly wonder.
There must be someone, I know it's true.
Is that someone really you, or who?

			--Jerry Ingram Jr. (The Poet)
__________________________________________________________________________
"C'mon, give the politicians a little credit.  They can too be as stupid  
as they look." - The Poet

Copyright November 10, 1992 by Jerry Ingram Jr.
From: ch526@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Les Jensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: War
Date: 6 Nov 1992 05:20:53 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio (USA)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu


Crusades of Armies
Crying Blood and Laughing threw eyes of Glory
Know not their Shame,
Stop and admirer all the Construction
They have destroyed.

Banners melt into the sky of Smoke and Odor
Doomed by the gasping lungs of Humanity.

Mercy cries everywhere
But the Deafness can only hear the Orders to Advance

And The End is here in one beautiful
Dawn Like Flash.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: news@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu
Subject: Re: Question (not a poem!)
Organization: The Ohio State University
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 1992 19:20:15 GMT

This article was probably generated by a buggy news reader.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Christian Dylan Losinger)
Subject: Elisah Whipsnitch
Reply-To: cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 20:31:26 GMT



	My friend sent me to a clinic
	in a snippy gastric minute
	and in this clinic i found a mystic
	chanter named Elisah Whipsnitch

	Elisah Whipsnitch 
	caught himself a thin man
	who was creeping up behind him 
	dancing like a blind man
	
	and from this thin man,
	a howdy doody green man
	Elisah Whipsnitch made a leather 
	belt shoes and handbag

	a whippet sauntered by
	pissing on the fences
	barking "i pledge my feces
	to these streets, and to my long-dead mom"

	Elisah Whipsnitch countered 
	with this oft-white epigram :
	"I think I'm gonna suck an egg."
	and he sucked it clean and dry

	and with a hand waving yoo hoo 
	he pulled out his quirky twitchy pee tube 
	and squirted sharply on the dog
	who barked and yelped and ran

	Thin Elisah Eggsucker Whippet-Whipper Whipsnitch
	never ever met a dog 
	who's fur he didn't pee in 	

	one mean schnauser dog
	thought Elisah rude to piss 
	upon his furry back so he 
	bit Elisah's calf

	the calf was still milky
	and the lambs nearby were guilty
	of lewd and lascivious behaivior
	so were chained to Mrs. Neighbor
	
	the schnauser's mean old mother
	was humping Elisah's brother's
	second-cousin's sister's 
	daughter-in-law's cat

	Elisah raised his hand and said
	"from the earth, I call the dead"
	and from the earth the corn and beans
	grew and produced many seeds

	Mystic Elisah Whipsnitch 
	turned his gaze beyond this
	and asked the sprits to help him
	be drunk in time for bed

	for his babysitter was learning
	to sense Elisah's yearnings
	and sometimes she even burned him
	when he waved his wand at her 

	Elisah snapped his fingers
	and twenty collies strolled by
	twenty tails wagging
	twenty coats still dry

	Elisah whipped his thing out
	and gave them all a good bath
	twenty tails a wagging
	and Elisah still the king

	what a fine chicken dish
	thank you for the lovely night 
	i think i am your best friend
	and when it's convenient for me, you're mine
	
	it's not too often i luck to find
	a man with Elisah's peace of mind
	and honest passion for pissing 
	on any dog caught walking by 
        --------------------------------------------------------------
        	c  h  r  i  s   l  o  s  i  n  g  e  r   r  i  t
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: For the Prophet Re: For The Douglas, The Prophet speaks...
Date: 5 Nov 92 20:58:08 GMT
Article-I.D.: wam.1992Nov5.205808.18996
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park

article <1992Nov5.192039.26241@u.washington.edu> zola@u.washington.edu writes:
>and this voice comes from my ouija board...
>
>    "So, is Doug taking my stuff?  If so, it's perfectly alright
>     with me.  All of it is out there for anyone who wants it.
>
>  [...]
>
>    "So, whatever is happening Doug has my blessing.
>
>
>				Joe"
>amen.
>-Candlestick O'Toole




Please ask Joe if I may steal his work about pajamas and old communist
dictators.

alternatively, I will accept every occurance of blue and blue only.

but if it makes him happy I will take yellow too. Now that I think
about it, give Joe some yellow flowers and damp tricycle pedals
say nevermind about the poetry, and wish him breath thoughtabout over
and over at just the right temperature. Tell him that sometimes if he stands
close to someone and moves his arms near, he can feel heat that makes
the tips of his arms rejoice. Hallelujah.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Instead of Rain Dance
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1992 18:36:50 GMT

This works best on a page, I suppose....





Instead of Rain Dance
----------------------



Drenched by talk of rain
I crawl into my mouth
to wait it out

tired of that dark
I leap 
from the tip of my tongue 
into my hand

a pen 
that writes:




Alex L. Karan

(by the way, does anyone get any meaning from my nonsense?)
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: if I had seen
Date: 9 Nov 92 17:13:33 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

=

	if I had seen you skating
	in your yellow dress on ice
	that one day in your one yellow dress
	on that brightsome splendid day
	all in your winning smile and hawkeye steel wings
	rented for the day...hour...moment
	though you made them all your own
	all you owned, on your own
	in spite of all those things
	if I had seen you skating
	in that yellow dress on ice
	I would have looked not once
	but twice


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)