HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Libby Doe
Date: 11 Nov 92 15:44:23 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

I post this for the marvelous and alluring Carol Watson, aka Libby Doe, aka
Thumper O'Toole (What's in yer pockets, Thumper?).  She is currently
having technical difficulties beyond her control...


----------------- Please Cut Here -------------------------

That dead guy writes:

>Cafe Conversation
>
>Talking to you is like coaxing ink
>from a ballpoint pen.
>We circle for a while and scribble;
>finally I see something,
>
>but I'm coughing--idea pollution
>ruining a well-lit morning
>when God had cleaned the overhead
>and replaced the noisy bulb fluorescent.
>
>I ask the waitress for a drink
>but water is eighty five cents
>and Martinis unmentionable,
>so I consign myself to choke on you--
>
>not such a bad thing, really,
>rather akin to smothering in strawberries
>or impaling oneself on sugar cane.
>Just some coffee, thanks.  No lumps.
>
>Posthumous O'Toole
>11-6-92


The very day that the Postie Man wrote this, I was in Cambridge having a
similar experience... scarey, I know...  :)  It brought back these thoughts:


The Middle East Cafe

Talking to him was like attempting to derail
a freight train with a toothpick.
We chugged ahead with steamy intensity
using kisses as punctuation.

But I'm drifting -- like thick maple syrup
as my eyes run slowly down his face
and count grey hairs in his beard
wishing I could taste each one.

He orders Kibbee for he, Kabba for me
and round of giggles
since the food in front of me looked like
Dick of Lamb on a Bed of Rice.

But, just as meeting him felt good,
a plate fell from the waitress's hands
and we scattered away from our weekend fantasy
like the shards of shattered porcelin.


I knew I should have left Libby Doe at home... she gets me in the most
interesting trouble.  :)
-------------- 

This was also the weekend that I paid close attention to the lyrics of "Kiss
That Frog" from Peter Gabriel's latest album and realized that it was a silly
tune about a blow job...   duh...  can't believe that one got by me
initially...  :)  :)

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

- Carol, the proud new owner of a bodhran (Irish goat-skin drum) and soon to be
referred to as Thumper O'Toole...  :)


-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: ingramje@NeXTwork.Rose-Hulman.Edu (The Poet)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - The Tree
Date: 10 Nov 1992 23:08:11 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

As always, C&C is more than welcome.

The Tree

Tall and majestic
Powerful
It stood

At its best
Shading
The ground

At its worst
Standing
Looking bleak

Always it stood
Though
Always survived

Until someone came
Bearing
An axe

A few pathetic
Swings
It fell

Its beauty was
Lost
Forever gone.

		--Jerry Ingram Jr. (The Poet)
__________________________________________________________________________
"Life is not a journey for the inexperienced.  Unfortunately, we all start  
it without experience." - The Poet
Copright November 10, 1992 by Jerry Ingram Jr.
From: klaus.gerken@synapse.org (Klaus Gerken) 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: New Poems 3
Date: 11 Nov 92 20:09:00 GMT
Distribution: world
Organization: SYNAPSE BBS - GATINEAU, QUEBEC - 819-561-4321
Reply-To: klaus.gerken@synapse.org (Klaus Gerken) 

Lady I have seen you first at church and in a veil
You addressed my cause and spoke to me and said "I will",
But not in words as any mortal could explain but perfect thought
That only lights my heart beyond its weakness I have fought
To transform to a duty thing, but yet it has become so weak
That it is useless in my hands. And thus I beg your intercession,
Which you have given freely as a nature thing, and something
     passion
Cannot hold away. For you have given new life to a dying heart.
A heart for so long I had given up for lost, upon the part
A stranded sailor feels alone, surrounded by a fathom sea,
You cannot know, my Lady, how your granting has appealed to me
In this, that I could scarce believe you had a moments notice for
     a man
That stands so distant from you, both in station and in word.
A simple poet, yes, but one enamoured in a beauty so supreme
The gods in heaven fail to find the words to be so free to speak,
So what can this poor mortal do, but bow, and kiss the ground
     beneath you feet?

                         11/11/92

Copyright (c) 1992 Klaus J. Gerkem

---
 . OLX 2.2 . I'm in shape ... round's a shape isn't it?
                                                                                                                      
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Subject: Names Re: My pain has a name
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1992 14:08:25 GMT

In article <1992Nov10.070116.9294@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com> block@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com (Rolling Thunder) writes:
>My pain has a name
>
>She said it was over, that our love was through
>It hurt me so deeply, she left me for you
>For years we had bonded, I thought love was true
>Now she was leaving, for somebody new
>Men have been broken by women like her
>They kill and are fatal, go mentally ill
>As strong as a man seems, deep down in his heart
>He does have a weak side that can tear him apart
>
>
>       B. B


You did not ask for comments or critique, so this may be rude of me, but
I not always polite.


What you say is too easy and you have not given consideration to the 
word "name." You should not be so lazy and you should think about it.

Name is very important. Not just Name, but Name.
See? I've typed it twice and it is already looking like a Greek god to me,
similar to circle that everyone talks about when they spell a word so
much and it doesn't make since, I've said it before, circle, once, and so on.
Name - she's a Greek goddess or semi-god maybe a river god. Nike is her friend.

Be more careful than this. I havn't even talked about your poem, just
the title. I think you should take more care.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@gator.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: kent
Keywords: act 2
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 06:38:58 GMT


 
	and he was there in the hall just like he'd been waiting
	ten years or maybe more (whatever for?)
	just an old friend and a new friend
	are things OK, dear old Kent? much the same?
	I'm so pleased you remembered my name
 
        listen to me, dont let this be you
        my old friend be my new friend
        my not quite blue friend
 
        he worked in the lab and was the best
        just like you
        i liked him a lot with his messy hair and thin nose
        and he thought i was a bit too unmanageable
        and he told me once he liked journey and i said
        thats not rock and roll and he married a dietician
        who could have been a cartographer or a mapmaker
        and he walks in the halls all stooped and waiting
        just like he'd been waiting there ten years or
        maybe more (whatever for)
        and he saw me and i turned and he turned and
        he said 'Sarah'?
        after all this time he remembered my name
        and finally got it right.

Sara Gordon & Tom Wachtel, South Bend, where Kent works
 
-- 
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Talk to me about computer viruses.        sara@gator.rn.com  
                                          SGordon@Dockmaster.ncsc.mil
From: dbeacham@willamette.edu (Daniel Beacham)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Repost, one spring ago.   daniel
Summary: Bone strings and hinges like violins in my ears
Date: 6 Nov 92 00:06:53 GMT
Article-I.D.: willamet.Bx9pnI.EGK
Followup-To: Life
Organization: Willamette University, Salem OR


	Hi there.  Enclosed please find a rather extensive revision of a
	poem rewritten for publication.  If you've seen it, its quite the
	same.  If not, you'll find it very different, sort of, if you get
	through it.  Steph, I'm still mulling over the last post; your
	suggestions will apply here as well to some degree, although this
	poem depends upon a rambling mutter for its feel.  Indeed it could
	be cleaner, but again, try murmuring it under your breath as you go,
	and let the fluidity and occasional terse verbage creep deep.

				Thanks much.  (I liked your last one, Marek)


			A Scratch, one Bite

	Time is not a thing to be kept; I do not sleep.   The sun
does not shine here, the ice
does not melt here, and in moth blind caves I can feel 
    their dust flutter wings a thousand fold
across my dry lips and fused eyelids, I can feel
  their pulsating silences like prayer bells ringing in my ears like
shotgun blasts like drops of dream-falling snow
	(long past winter bedtime)
patched down pinned up 
   softness in coats and coats of wing dust, eye film.

 Every elsewhere, some lunatic's television faced God
glares at me with fluorescent eyebulbs, humms
   whispers, and leaves empty dial tones on my telephone answering machine.
-It's all too much like a nightmare; even the sex feels real.
	(But it's Love, they seethe to me, All Love)    ..Look twice, 
look twice-
		I do not sleep.

 When I feel the wire nails, the bite
     your vicious suckle, 
I like to bleed, I 
can and must know somehow
	that these slivers in my veins are real, that these wooden
hatches and hinges, eyesocket teethsprings and hair 
   are the fruit of some deeper seed.     ..Are you OK?
	(So lifelike)
Are you there?
	(The pain sobers me, the pain separates me from dead things)
Bite one, bite two
	and I have given her all that is me; a shard of flesh,
  a string of teeth, a clod of clayed soil for this one bite,
it snaps to our seeded core, red as apple
Pure as envy.  I have also given her another secret that 
    her beautiful mouth
will never disclose.  She knows my name, and I
do not sleep.

  She will have a son
in some house
on some street
in some city, and the so many thousands of eyeless, my
	oh, so many thousands
strung out, strung up
   dug deep into the recesses of froth mad streets 
and furnace buildings, will be the desperate
 all staring blankly skyward, mine
will be the faithful, all
  waiting the second waiting.

	Inside some house it is dark.  They are drawn in number 
to a candle's dying flicker, as
   the attic hushes, the closets weave a bedtime, and the moths,
the blind and mute lovers of light
   one by one 
throw themselves into the flame at my bedside.



			daniel
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: messer@utkvx2.utk.edu (The Jagged of your Dreams!)
Subject: I haven't been on in a while... (big loss)
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    
Organization: University of Tennessee Computing Center
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 14:12:00 GMT

But if any of you sorry kids were paying attn., you would know that.
I've been working and writing, and selling the plasma from out my O+ blood.
Don't tell anyone, but it's really plasmotic hydrogen!   :)


Anyway, a poem follows soon.  Please try to tear it apart.  I REALLY in the
mood for a good argument!

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
  "The rain increases with the light and the     ~Damian K Messer            
weight increases with the rain.  In all that     ~Internet:messer@utkvx.utk.edu
long column in brand-new overseas boots weeping  ~Bitnet:messer@utkvk         
blisters stick to the hard wool grey of          ~5809 Haynes-Sterchi Rd.    
government socks."                               ~Knoxville, TN 37912         
               --David Jones, _In Parenthesis_   ~(615)689-5722                
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
From: jcg2@ns1.cc.lehigh.edu (JASON GIRARD)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: I Hate This World
Date: 8 Nov 92 04:11:42 GMT
Organization: Lehigh University


                    <I Hate This World>

    I feel as if
    I'm a piece of malignant flesh
    Put on this earth
    To be criticized ant tormented from birth

    And as I grow up
    Nothing seems to change
    Society and its ways
    Are complex and deranged

    Stereotyped to no end
    My broken soul
    Will it ever mend?

    Yet I don't strike back
    I don't want revenge
    Just want people to see me
    For who I really am

    Everybody's special, or so it's said
    But sometimes I think I'd be better off dead

    All that I ask is
    When judgement day comes
    May my talents be revealed
    In Heaven above

    -J.G.  3/91
    jcg2@lehigh.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Melting (c&c welcome)
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 1992 15:54:10 GMT

Melting

It's snowing in Chicago.
		Like it was on that day
		almost exactly a year ago.
		We'd been walking for hours;
		my hands had frozen in snow
		and you warmed them in yours.
It's snowing in Chicago.
		And occasional sun would shine,
		piercing the veil of snow
		to light up winter-blue eyes.
		I hugged you, so you could know
		the sudden joy of being mine.
It's snowing in Chicago.
		The snowflakes had melted in your hair
		leaving you crowned in glittering water-diamonds,
		as you looked down at me gravely,
		not returning the hug,
		and told me you were leaving.
It's snowing in Chicago,
coating this dismal grey city
in a deceptive layer of
perfectly beautiful
white across the rooftops.
		I wish it would rain.

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
-- 
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
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: casteley@phil.ruu.nl (Eric Casteleyn)
Subject: awful love & poetry
Organization: Department of Philosophy, University of Utrecht, The Netherlands
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 15:20:08 GMT



 wrote

I ripped through
my envelopes
in my hurry
to tell you
my stanzas
burnt with genious
the stationery to ashes
FUCK!




(the following is my contribution to the ongoing discussion on love, lust, sex
 romantic feelings and what have you, as initiated by the m&m's. The following
is not a poem per se, but I'll just start writing & see what comes.)


     I lurve you

'Thou shalt not just want
 to hold her in your arms'
 I heard a higher voice command
 I looked within
 Do I want to fuck her?
 The thought is new, 
 I don't really know.
 I admit I'm not looking
 for eternal LOVE
 and I know I don't want to
 share the bulk of my thoughts
 with anyone
 Maybe all I do feel is lust
 subconsciously,
 but I don't dream of her
 or fantasize

 I don't want her to be mine
 and certainly I will never
 belong (to anyone)
 
 Maybe I don't feel a thing
 for her, but if so
 I'm pretty well fucked up
 over NOTHING

 There is, however this:
 I do want to hold her
 in my arms, I'm sorry

 (Well if it is a poem, it's certainly not a good one, but it was just meant
  to explore my thoughts on the aforementioned subject.)

       EJC   (I know I can do better)




Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gardabr@unix1 (Gard Eggesbo Abrahamsen)
Subject: Never Mind My Mind
Organization: University of Trondheim, Norway
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL6]
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 92 15:06:19 GMT

Never Mind My Mind
==================

Do not worry
The pain is real
Fake had to go
blue
in the shade
of darkness
yearning for light
but in vain
and vein
melts away

        Gard 11.11.1992

C&C welcome.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: Thanksgiving dinner...
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 23:56:34 GMT

petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen) writes:
>...
>Perhaps you are not aware of the most recent theory concerning dinosaurs.
>The suggestion is that dinosaurs did not completely disappear from the
>earth, they merely devolved into the various types of bird life we now
>have.  The bone structure is similar and the latest theory is that
>dinosaurs were not cold-blooded lizards but were instead warm-blooded.
>
>Kathleen O'Toole,
>Bringer of Light

Oh.  This would explain Joe Green (Josef O'Toole) on rap, earlier this year.

				-- Marek
From: hwajin@iphasew.com (Hwa-Jin Bae)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: strictly block party
Date: 12 Nov 92 04:46:49 GMT
Organization: Interphase West, Santa Clara, CA



	strictly block party
	--------------------

	down in the glascock beautiful people
	share each other in front of rice-cake
	eaters & peasants from the third world
	the music being played lacks any origin
	to speak of just something that evolved
	out of so called molten pot -- more like
	laceration of meaningful individuality

	as dave and i attend the object which
	resembles what might have been a car we
	are puzzled by the latest development
	outside our modest shop -- who gave these
	crazed bunch permission to obstruct our
	peace & tranquility -- do they not know
	we're in the middle of a conversation

	down in the glascock talking heads discuss
	ian frazier whose great plains are filled
	with indians hunting down buffalos
	sometimes raping them -- 
	dave tired of listening to all
	the talk devoid of originality starts to
	hose the heads down -- the scene here
	now kinda resembles do the right thing
	except we're using water instead of fire

	this is all kinda fun & righteous but
	dave you think we're getting bitter prehaps
	lately -- i ask knowing the answer already --
	of course not my friend we need to protect
	our vicinity from random fascist incision --
	you see none of this is random

	we work so hard for no reason sometimes
	it almost hurts we think work is a dog
	from hell -- getting worse every day --
	really all work & no dallahs
	perhaps we're doomed like our
	fathers tho dave keeps telling me
	we're doing better

	down in the glascock vicious vicissitude
	of b.b burns like incense -- the street
	rolls up into a big smoke & you can't
	tell if the ice cream vendor is still
	attending business in this turmoil --

	we light up our killer cigarettes
	our visions blur
	uh dave i think you're in denial --
	damn it man i'm not



					~hwajin
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@gator.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: truck
Keywords: act 2
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 06:39:31 GMT


 
	the guy in the named blue truck
	when we went there and back again
	waved back when we waved
	like he could almost tell
	like he knew the name like we knew the name
	on his empty faded long blue truck in the rain
 
 
Sara Gordon & Tom Wachtel, South Bend, in the rain
 
 

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

Talk to me about computer viruses.        sara@gator.rn.com  
                                          SGordon@Dockmaster.ncsc.mil
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Thanksgiving dinner...
From: conrad@kryton.UUCP (Konstatin Kalikanzaros)
Date: Sun, 08 Nov 92 16:25:22 PST
Organization: Paradox Alley F&SF BBS 805-492-8789

moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne) writes:

> In article <1992Nov5.225634.21285@rdg.dec.com> jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Cl
> >
> >
> >	'Saurian flesh 'tween greasy lips,
> >	Tasty meat both dark and light,
> 
> >	...Belly full of turkey sleep...
> 
> Saurian flesh???!!!
> You're eating dinosaurs?  Lizards?
> I mean, it's a pretty line, but I'm pretty damn sure that turkeys are
> *not* saurians.
> 
> >				msj
> 
>  - Mary Anne
> -- 
> 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
  
    Actualy they in fact are so close to suarian as to not make any
difference.  Strict lineal descent can be traced from the dinosaurs to
all birds living today.  Don't quote me on this I'm remembering a show
on PBS hosted by Walter Cronkite about the dinosaurs.
conrad


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

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tourf00@DMI.USherb.CA (Francis Tourillon <Tourfman>)
Subject: Re: Should we Hang all the Critics?
Organization: U de Sherbrooke -- LIIT adicts - ANS - Ascot Boyz - 
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 1992 03:29:14 GMT

>And Francis replies:
>
>>I'd suggest Philip to not suggest.  Please let this guy write what he thinks.
>>Poetry like every other form of art does not deserve to be suggested by others.
>
>Now, I'm confused.  How is Philip preventing anybody from writing
>anything?  He's critiquing - his privilege.  If you publish anything
>anywhere you should be prepared for people to comment on it.  If you
>honestly don't want to hear suggestions, you can say so, but people
>are under no obligation to listen.

I'm not saying that critiquing is bad.  I agree that comments will improve
writings. It's just this one from Philip:

>>I'd suggest that you flush your thoughts, and stick to ideas.

The rest of his post was very good.

I think that my poetry needs some critics but I don't actually write poems in
English so,... if you don't understand French...  Maybe one day I'll write in
the Shakespeare language but I'm not so good in English right now.

I hope that I can make me understood in my poor English.

Tourfman
========

p.s. Mary-Anne: Don't be afraid of criticise my thoughts!
-- 
	Que reste-t-il de lui, dans la tempete breve?
	Qu'est devenu mon coeur, navire deserte?	
	Helas! Il a sombre dans l'abime du reve.
							-Emile Nelligan
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: fallas@athena.mit.edu (Black Orchid)
Subject: <an untitled poem>
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Sat, 7 Nov 1992 02:10:34 GMT


sitting on the docks just as dusk is falling into
a savannah sunset.  crimson at the horizon blends
into dusky peach, then lemon and deep emeralds
melting softly into aquamarine and indigo, then
violet like glints of firelight on ebony.

an enormous rainbow reflected in the shifting waters,
the sun's deathly glory glitters on the murky brown waves,
and the marsh grass, blonde and olive, white and brown,
ripples, whispering before a gentle breath of air.

overhead all around rustle the grandfather oaks,
their black leaf canopy entangled with spanish moss,
curly masses of mint-green velvet tendrils.
clusters of wisteria with deep purple blossoms like
grapes, luscious and piercingly sweet with night dew,
cling to the knotted bark all the way up the twisted
length into the gnarled, imploring branches.

darkness falls upon the sky in tender victory
and my wooden swing creaks in sleepy rhythm,
the chains a little rusty from this morning's rain.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ali@simdiv1.mentorg.com (Ali Haveliwala)
Subject: Urdu Ignorance (part II)
Originator: ali@simdiv1
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1992 19:08:07 GMT
Organization: Mentor Graphics Corporation; Beaverton, Oregon
Keywords: 
Followup-To: 

Urdu Ignorance (part II)

	Those vain speakers of the Queen's toungue
	Delight in the cuisine of dung
	Eschewing spice
	They season with lice
	And perhaps a bit of bat's bung


Thanks to Karen Tellefsen for helping me out against the few ignorant wizards.


Ali

-- 
___________________________________________________________________________
Ali Haveliwala					  ali_haveliwala@mentorg.com
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Sometimes its good to know words
Date: 5 Nov 92 18:30:02 GMT
Article-I.D.: midway.1992Nov5.183002.4801
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations


Obscure
--------



is throwing light
into mouth open words

is licking
paper thunder dry

is driven with reings relaxed
on ticklish skin 




Alex L. Karan

(look up the derivation of "imagination" if you want to)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems