HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: jtrue@acpub.duke.edu (jtrue)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: flunking causal kindergarten / jtrue
Date: 8 Jan 93 21:40:21 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: the gospel of zagnut

This piece is 3rd in a series, the first 2 of which are:
"A causal compass points the way." and "More causal
cartography."  I'll e-mail them to anybody who's interested.

(A)
A canonical hermit
(y'know, like the old coot with the lantern
in the Tarot deck
and on the back of Zeppelin albums)
is filling encyclopedias of intent,
distilled in that ruined mansion on the hill.

Actually, he operates two stills
up there in his dilapidated garage.
One provides water,
sterile as the day is long,
subjected to reverse osmosis,
hypotonic enough to rip out your stomach lining
if you drank it straight.
The other makes a beverage
for his own intoxication,
a secret recipe of course,
and only he can sip it and transmute its poisons,
as his bent yellow teeth surface
in a half-grin of satisfaction
with the perfect escape he has found.

(B)
The negatives bathe
in a basin of lukewarm fixative.
Every moment is one of these
flat, frozen operettas
with the camera seldom centered.
Their color reversals haunt the eye
like any glimpse of Truth
(with a capital T)
from the top of a philosphical ferris wheel,
like the discovery of Beauty
between two lines of source code
after all the programmers have left forever,
like the gravity of tears at knowing
there is no one
to whom the story can ever be told.

(C)
Immobile,
but with the urgency of staunch firefighters
charging up the library stairs,
his bloodshot gaze is locked
in a near cross-eyed glare;
he is a voyeur for the dance of the text.

-c/c/f welcome
jtrue@acpub.duke.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Back
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 06:28:43 GMT

I'm back, and with more words.
Marek, look, look.


Leichentrager zu Wache
----------------------



Voice overflows 
with the smoke
of a past on fire;

In a circle 
of nameless faces:

Gaping mouths
silently ask 
what next?

Needles stare 
through shut eyes. 
 
Fumbles through 
their ashes,
looking for his life.



Alex L. Karan
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (Candlestick O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: that damned o'toole selective seeing
Date: 4 Jan 1993 08:26:18 GMT
Organization: Singing Spider Telegrams
Distribution: world
Reply-To: zola@u.washington.edu
NNTP-Posting-Host: hardy.u.washington.edu
Keywords: stop in the name of love



Some week and a half ago, while I was away - in canyons snowy
and cold - Posthumous in his usual I-love-Lucy style of archiving
posted a reprint of a communication.  Ostensibly from me.  So I
have brought it to rap again to clarify.  The capitals are chucklehead's 
original words.  I have filled in what he neglected.  I am at wits 
end with him, insufferable bastard that he is.  It is not enough that
he wants to be a poet with a capital white-blousy-byron-shirt, the spheres
must also sing of his glory.   
 
He writes:

I'm just stopping by work for a moment, so I won't see any replies or
posts or such until Monday, but I thought I would share an interesting
telegram I received from a woman who was dressed conservatively, but
disturbed me with the sensuous bulbous shape of her nose's tip:

The telegram:   =======================================================
POSTHUMOUS STOP it A TOO SMALL TABLECLOTH is only funny if 
you are mocking me.  STOP I tell you, you can't buy my love.  
VULNERABILITY is to a souffle what permanence is TO THE WET 
BOTTOM OF A DRINKING GLASS.  STOP I tell you thrice.  You can do 
little, no, NOTHING TO PREVENT me from living this desolate life of 
isolation any more than you can keep A MAN FROM SEEING THE 
ANKLES OF A go-go dancer.  Or from seeing those of a LADY.  If I have 
told you once I have told you a thousand times - STOP.  You cannot just 
drop me into some misconstrued idea of LOVE.  You can't just write me a 
poem like anyone else.  You know better than to treat me like that.  And 
why the hell am I reduced to *telegrams*.

 CANDLESTICK

p.s. STOP already.

=======================================================================


As everyone knows I have a rather small nose.  This woman with the nose
was of course none other than Heather O'Toole who has conspired with me
and who, incidentally has promised to dance in fields of flowers with me
on the condition that I bring along Lily.  

Mind the fates, Posthumous.

I shant tell you again.

-Candlestick O'Toole Pensee En Survol Chapter who yet pines for days past.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Yellow jackets 2
From: jabolliger@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu
Date: 6 Jan 93 08:56:57 EST

			Angels

Yellow jackets have been in the house all summer.
I don't know how, they just appear
then spend all day bumping against windows to get out.

Early morning they huddle in groggy clumps
clinging to wooden beams with their forefeet.
This is the time to put them out.

Gingerly I pry the yellow jackets
from the beams with a rat tail comb.
Most fall into the empty mayonnaise jar 
with one exception, she jerks into a short flight.
I swallow with a dry mouth.

It was in North Carolina.
I was one of a bus load of adolescents.
We were hiking up a mountain.

I was starting to feel my backpack's weight
when I thought I heard screaming.
The screaming traveled the line in my direction.

Suddenly, all over, my body
was getting barbed with fire.
	Yellow jackets!
I ran, heading off trail as far and fast as I could.

Throwing pack to the ground I swiped off wasps.
As I gathered back my wits and backpack
I noticed a clump of Indian pipe.

Indian pipe is a plant without chlorophyll
and though I hadn't seen it before, recognizied it.
Since I was anxious to return to the trail
and the people I didn't stop.

My loss, I should've listened to my angels.



Jean Ann
September 1990
From: fmayhar@altair.mpd.tandem.com (Frank Mayhar)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: I dreamed of you last night.
Keywords: Life sucks.  So does love.  Live with it.
Date: 11 Jan 93 21:46:22 GMT
Reply-To: fmayhar@mpd.tandem.com
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: Tandem Computers (MPD) Austin, TX


		I dreamed of you last night



		I dreamed of you last night.
		You were young and tanned,
		Smiling and happy,
		And you loved me.

		Like most dreams, it's confused;
		A jump to my parents' house
		A jump to a museum
		And through it all your loving face.

		In my dream we walked together,
		Holding hands and chatting;
		You smiled at me, laughed at my joke;
		We were obvious young lovers.

		I remember plans we dreamed
		In fantasy a lifetime shared.
		I remember nights together
		Discovering each other.

		In my dream, you were perfection.
		Your skin, your smile, your laughing eyes,
		Your unjudging love for me.
		Once again I fell for you.

		Like any dream, there was no logic;
		I never questioned my good fortune,
		Or thought to ask for explanations,
		I just accepted it had happened.

		In my sleep, I wept for joy,
		That you had forgiven me,
		That you had returned to me.
		That we were together.




		I woke alone again this morning.
		I rose and showered, drank my coffee,
		Dressed,
		And went to work.



			On a gray, depressing Monday, after an
			even more depressing dream the night before, 1/11/93.


C&C welcome.  People with unkind comments cheerfully killed and eaten.
-- 
Frank Mayhar  fmayhar@mpd.tandem.com
              Tandem Computers, Inc.  Micro Products Division
              14231 Tandem Blvd., Austin, TX  78728    Phone:  (512) 244-8969
From: ingsa@dc.luth.se (Ingvar Strand)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The stanger  (C&C Welcome)
Date: 8 Jan 93 09:41:54 GMT
Organization: University of Lulea, Sweden



         The stranger...

    I saw you the other day, you seemed so cheerful,
    as though a long search finally had come to an end.
    I watched you advancing up along the street, with the
    wind in your hair, making all sorts of sudden little
    loops around the lamp-poles, admiring the lightness and
    grace with which you moved you feet.  You were very
    funny with your special look, still with what seemed
    like deep respect for the ground you touched, you had
    noticed me sitting here, following every step you took.
    I admit to my curiosity about whom you might be,
    and whether you were crazy, walking towards me.
    You crossed the street and I cheered up a little bit,
    and our eyes meet in that tiny moment when you walked up
    and turned around to sit.  The bench was just big enough
    to hold the two of us, so we were sitting fairly close to
    each other, almost like in a bus.  Many were the cars that
    drove by before you broke the silence, telling me, letting
    me through your eyes see all sorts of details I never before
    had noticed despite the many countless days I have been
    sitting here looking, thinking I knew it all.
    Then you told me about a place you had been to, where
    darkness was like syrup that grew thicker for every move
    you made,  and nightmares would always haunt you, as there
    would never be a day.  The more of it you mentioned,
    the more I recognized, for this was my presence,
    my fate of everyday.  I watched a empty can as it went
    tumbling down the street, while you told me about the
    hurting memories you had been trying to delete.
    Now they are but added to the pile of many, to be used and
    learnt from, so there won't be another same mistake.
    You showed me a picture, very pretty I must say,  of the
    person that once again made you try your wings and fly up
    from the ordinary gray.  Before I knew it the sun was
    shining from the other end of town and you had move along,
    you quickly said thanks for the company, wished me well in
    life and disappeared among the people cheerfully humming
    on a song. You left me with the gift of hope, that I might
    find my special someone and have a picture to carry around,
    then I might be the one walking up to you saying things,
    flying high above the darkness on new and strengthen wings.


Ingvar

...............................................................................
Ingvar Strand              ingsa@ext.luth.se        | 
Melderstein 4252           ingsa@hagbard.dc.luth.se |  Space for rent. 
S-955 92  Ranea            ingsa@loke.dc.luth.se    | 
Sweden                  or ingsa@goliat.dc.luth.se  | 
Phone: +46-(0)924-51010                             | 
...............................................................................
-- 

/Ingvar
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: alk4@ellis.uchicago.edu (Alex L. Karan)
Subject: Leichentrager zu Wache
Reply-To: alk4@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 1993 14:15:27 GMT



Leichentrager zu Wache
----------------------



Dragging worn
photographs
night to night.

Voice overflows 
with the smoke
of a past on fire.

In black and white 
stripes, a pale
pile of nameless:

Gaping mouths
silently ask 
what next?

Eyes shut
in black and white
he can't look at.

Fumbles through 
their ashes,
looking for his life.



Alex L. Karan

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: gj156879@alfred.carleton.ca ( gj student 156879)
Subject: Some general stuff (not a poem)
Organization: Carleton University
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 22:24:40 GMT

First, I'd like to thank everyone who sent me mail about the acolyte
poem.  The devil made me do it. 

Second, "Lonely Teardrops" (I'll hide your real name in case you don't
want it out in the world) I tried to send you mail, but the system
said ALIAS LOOP!  and then proceeded to scream for hours as it
disembowled itself.
 
                                                  Nik

Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:13501 rec.humor:37665
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.humor
Subject: Re: More Damned Roses Stuff
Keywords: Roses, red, violets, mauve, lumpy
Date: 9 Jan 93 01:16:19 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Outreach Services - Oregon State University
NNTP-Posting-Host: jacobs.cs.orst.edu

In article <1993Jan8.193516.12439@ctp.com> sbair@ctp.com (Scott Baird) writes:
>The one I heard a long (relatively speaking) time ago was:
>
>    Roses are red,
>    Violets are blue,
>    Sugar is sweet,
>    And so are you.
>
>    But when roses are wilting,
>    And violets are dead,
>    Sugar is lumpy,
>    And so is your head.
>
>I can't remember the source of this, but I still love it.
>
>Scott

The one I heard long ago (in my younger days) was:

	Roses are red, Violets are blue
	Sugar is sweet,
	But sex doesn't rot your teeth.

	Marg


-- 
*************************************************************************
"Insufficient facts always invites danger, Captain."- Spock in Space Seed
	Marg Petersen	petersm@jacobs.cs.orst.edu
*************************************************************************
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: why Instead is bad writing / Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Fri, 8 Jan 1993 19:21:28 GMT

In article <1iin6nINNipn@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu
(Zita Marie Evensen) writes:
>
>In a previous article, pagrawal@portal.hq.videocart.com (Pankaj Agrawal) says:
>
>>Marek writes:
>[much probably meaningful stuff deleted]
>>
>>I know I am butting in between two heavyweights on this group. If any of you
>>wants to flame me, thats fine as long as you don't expect a response.
>>
>
>I am new to r.a.p  and works get in the way of reading posts thoroughly.
>This is no intended to light a match .... just curious.
>What qualifies Zirilli and Lugoski as "heavyweights"?
                            ^-Lugowski (woo-GOV-ski, polish, loo-GOW-ski, eng)

Look, I think it is uncalled for and disgraceful for my weight to become an
issue on rec.arts.poems.  I demand that Pankaj retract the statement
concerning my body fat and I request that Zita kindly desist from inquiring
how much I do weigh.  What's next?  Penis size inquries?  Firmness of the
buttocks?  The beauty of the eye?  Are women on rec.arts.poems subjected to
descriptins of their body dimensions and qualities?!  So far we have kept
things to cultivated berries and I hope it goes no further...

overweightedly yours,
				-- Marek
Date: Tuesday, 5 Jan 1993 20:37:32 EST
From: jennifer <IO91784@MAINE.MAINE.EDU>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Harvard Square

outside of au bon pain
the cops trip up
they hold him to the wall,
and the tatoo artist
does not get read
his rights.

another crowd coagulates
and round the edges
back by the phone booths
on the granite steps
the posers
laugh.

there are pigeons; it is raining
but the music is for money
and the hustlers want your money
and the shops, they all are wired
not for sound,
but for theives.

the tatoo artist, he talks hardcore music,
and gives his number out.
if you can't pay cash,
he'll take gold chains.


   ------------------
      no more sigs
   ------------------
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:13449 rec.humor:37527
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.humor
Subject: Re: More Damned Roses Stuff
From: parnell_p@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz (Pi-Rat)
Date: 7 Jan 1993 11:36:57 GMT
Reply-To: parnell_p@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz
Organization: Wellington City Council (Public Access), Wgtn, Nz
NNTP-Posting-Host: kosmos.wcc.govt.nz

Roses are red, Violets are Blue
I'm Schizophrenic, And so am I

Paul
	Ciao, May The Dice Be With You
/-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\
|       We gaurantee fast service, No matter how long it takes...             |
|                                  EMail:PARNELL_P@kosmos.wcc.govt.nz         |
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------/
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Odes to Phillip, Candlestick
Date: 6 Jan 93 05:32:01 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054


I happen to know that Candlestick hates being grouped with others in any way,
so let me assure her now that my feelings for her are unique and entirely
different than my feelings for Phillip.  It's just that I've got two poems
to toss off (please excuse the expression, some will find it apropos, I'm
sure) and this is so very efficient:


Ode to Phillip


Tetrameter, with you I sing.
The trimeter is not my thing.
Your use is natural and meet.
What slouching beast walks on three feet?
(yet I have never seen a soul
to be completely whole)



Ode to Candlestick II


I wish that I might see you first
when venturing west to see your coast,
and then, though all else there be cursed,
of what fond memories I will boast!


by Posthumous O'Toole


p.s.  It was very neglectful of me to mention Phillip as a master of rhyme
and meter without also mentioning Father John.  Forgive me, Father, for I
have sinned.  I would also be interested in your input, including the
Pater Nosters, etc.

p.p.s.  I really do not like to use "Ode" so casually.  I just can't help
myself.  Attribute it to decadence and qv Wallace Stevens.

-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: yellow jackets 6
From: jabolliger@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu
Date: 11 Jan 93 13:25:11 EST

			Hibernation


	The yellow jackets aren't so many now.
	one may get in, die
	where I find her on the carpet.

	Outside in the rain
	worker's bodies lie on cold ground.
	Beneath queens sleep waiting for spring.

	This winter I go south.
	My refrigerators empty
	the packers come tomorrow.

	I tell myself wait out this winter
	the angels will be back next spring.



Jean Ann 
October 1990
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--The Great Depression
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 11 Jan 93 16:21:20 GMT


                         The Great Depression


Sad times in the country of plenty
when doing the best you can
escapes notice whatsoever
the sadness of children
unsuccessful in pleasing
unpleasable parents
for whom nothing is ever enough...




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: heavyweights + announcements / Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 05:15:21 GMT

In article <1ilaqmINN4og@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu
(Zita Marie Evensen) writes with perfect diction, stumbling only to
acknowledge a professor at the University of Chicago whose stupefying ideas
on education harm more than help (witness Zita's conception of hierarchies):

>
>
>
>go ahead, laugh ...
>as you conjure meanings and pictures
>never meant.
>i sit at base of the pyramid
>of bloom's taxonomy.
>
>webster never told me 
>about the word permutations
>messages boxed in a box
>in a box  in a box
>about the electron-clouds and
>heisenberg's uncertainties.
>
>
>roget never hinted that
>words pierce minds like bullets
>and one with a strange face
>speaking a strange new language
>must keep walking
>smiling a frozen
>painted-on smile
>while the heavyweights
>from the local gym
>hang out by the corner
>debating with
>perfect
>vocabulary.

Real nice, but I don't believe half of it.  Why are you such a martyr about
it, and why is this EFL (English as Fourth Language) experience so
traumatic?  You write, which is something that I might not be able to say
about every member of Michigan men's basketball team, and they are all
English as First Language kind of guys.  Please stop kvetching and write
under some pretense other than "but me no speak engrish crearly".  Of
course, there is always sincerity and confessional writing.  Or unicorns
and souls.  Or, if you want a real challnege -- tabouli...

	 -------=- -- --   -  --------=---====--=-=--------=---=-==--

The Coach Marek Show on Channel 22 notes:

I've yet to post a poem from 93 and I bargain for doing so Real Soon Now.

Also, by request (Stephanie's), I will blast a merciless barage of poems
from 1992 that I committed without accomplices (as opposed to co-authored
with Marie and others), so "suffer little children" (TM).

Last, I will shortly announce a Major RAP Festival celebrating the recent
revealation of (though surprisingly never before thought missing) gospel
according to St.  Don (in-larval-stage, i.e., acolyte), theme To Be
Announced.

Meanwhile, lay you down the iron grids of yer intricate meters, rhymes,
counterpoints and stresses.  Get you ready to pour the cement of lament!

Thank you, and have a good figure of speech.

				-- Marek
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Yellow Jackets 1
From: jabolliger@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu
Date: 4 Jan 93 19:58:02 EST

Here is number one in another series (I must do these things every so often)
of poems.  These are my "yellow jacket" poems.  Inspired (yes) by
a common yellow and black wasp we refer to, here in the midwest, as
yellow jackets.
	This one has me in a corner, probably destined for the trash
unless someone out there has a better idea. 

				ja


		The Ones Who are Un thinking

	A sone woman forgotten
	sits in shadows
	whispering to gods.
	
	Here is one
	her winged, insectile body
	rebounds against the glass.

	She is power, energy.
	She is god
	of eating eating eating.
	She is the god of fucking.
		She is one of many. 


Jean Ann Bolliger
4 June 1992
From: jtrue@acpub.duke.edu (jtrue)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: on adjacency / jtrue
Date: 4 Jan 93 22:33:11 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: the gospel of zagnut

(A)
A gift with the infant
year for me (alone perhaps):
my now-addled timesense.
The day is now more viscous
than it ever was in school (whichever one, you pick).
I may have prayed or begged (to whom?)
for this,
because my signal was drowning
in my own noise.
(So seductive just to lose myself,
but no, not yet.)
So these hours now lubricate
a more thundrous machine
with a larger shadow.

(B)
I roll awake
and my head finds a wormhole
back toward the half-gray
that calls itself day
here.
Through the eye that is not
teary in the new awake-ness
(if not from the loss of stories
I was dreaming against my will),
I can see credits rolling.
I must have missed another cue
and the final scene is done.
And I ask "What has ended?"
as I rush to the curtain call
and stumble to the bathroom,
to bow under the shower and its radon,
to wash the guilt away.

(C)
And the only defeat
for these jagged borders
is verticality,
which is only sick phallic-worship*.
But perhaps we are
already anaerobes,
in dormancy clinging
to meaninglessness
and these high rooves of aluminum,
longing for the soil of childhood,
bathed by microwaves conveying
the regrets of impossible others.
Life has gone its way,
leaving only algebraic autonomy.
It has departed toward ever new elaborations,
both the larger and the smaller,
in gardens where decay is sipped again
through straws striped like candy.

-jtrue1993

*
(phallickness->falling thickness? phallicity->felicity? 
phallousity->velocity "Speed is the key." - Sugarcubes)

c/c/f welcome  f=flame, not fuck, but what's the difference anyway?
jtrue@acpub.duke.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: warren@iastate.edu (corine hegland)
Subject: Namaste (C & C's welcome, please :)
Organization: Iowa State University, Ames, IA
	     
   		Namaste
  =============         ==================
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 04:55:51 GMT

	And there it was, 
	sudden,
	your familiar flesh falling apart
	in strips of light
	and the Goddess	
	standing sophron inside.

	All is as it was; this
	moss-grown knoll bathes
	itself in moonlight	
	and round temples hug 
	freshly turned fields,
	swelling with damp soil
	while demanding tithes 
	paid only to ourselves,
	whose bodies are shared.

	Like an icicle
	preserving life needles
	of the evergreen, time
	held your face in
	the realization of
	divine power.

	This word is become ours.


Corine L. Hegland























Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems