HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Kaput!
Date: 5 Sep 92 18:03:35 GMT

This one isn't quite there yet but I've played with it long enough.  I hope
everyone is surviving the first couple of weeks of the semester better than I
am!  I'm still trying to catch up, and apologize profusely to those who (whom?)
I haven't maintained a correspondence with.


		Kaput!

	You know how billiard games are counted
	(The cue moves beads from first to last);
	And how some animals' heads are mounted
	On badge-like plaques that pulp the past;
	And witches in stocks in Salem's yards,
	And Yankees beaming from baseball cards,
	And billboards on the boulevards --
	You learn how busts are cast.

	You see dads buried in the beaches,
	Ostrich negatives;
	And spot the nodding at the speeches
	John the Baptist gives.
	So watch the anchormen dredge the news,
	And note the methods that they use,
	As each one offers empty views,
	With minds as closed as sieves.

	You stare as victims (unsuspecting)
	Widen eyes in sudden shock
	And see the burnished blade reflecting
	Blood upon a backward clock.
	And charms and lockets can't protect
	When sharpened edges intersect
	With spines, and cleanly disconnect
	The heads there on the block.

----------
Kev @ UNC
9/5/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  You Yankees are so silly 
||-| Kev @ UNC        |  About matters of the heart;
||-| Master Poetaster |  Don't you know that women are the only works of art?
|| +------------------+        -- Don Henley, "Drivin' With Your Eyes Closed"
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: firing is all the rage, a new fad
Date: 5 Sep 92 07:17:13 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

In article clb93f@yumyum.meta.com, melynda@titipu.meta.com (Melynda Reid) writes:
>i too am experiencing the o'toole ritual trial by firing. my husband, the
>wage earner was fired today. hurray we are free to plumb the depths, to drink
>the dregs of outrageous fortune although i prefer the modesty of generic chablis.
>cocktails?
>                     monica o'toole

so, it's an o'toole ritual, is it? i too was recently subjected to firing
when someone tried to burn my house down. has anyone seen smokey o'toole
lurking about of late with a jerry can and a box of matches?

-/\/\/\/-


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins)
Subject: Re: Love/anonymous
Keywords: "...and statistics"
Organization: Netlabs, Inc.
Date: Tue, 8 Sep 1992 22:34:56 GMT

In article <231@uiunix.ui.org> donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:
>In article <15054@borg.cs.unc.edu> denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo) writes:
>>Another of my  favorites.  The author is "anonymous", who is, I think,
>>distantly related to Posthumous...
>>
>For those who are interested (if any are), Anonymous O'Toole and I are
>third cousins once removed.  However, we're not on speaking terms due to
>some petty disputes over authorship of cerrain verses.
>
>
>-Posthumous O'Toole

It's a gross calumny!  Furthermore, it isn't true!

--Sharon "who said that?" Hopkins
  sharon@netlabs.com
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--This openness
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 11 Sep 92 10:05:16 GMT


                        This openness

This openness of yours
did you know
before the first sentence
of your vulnerability
know that at any moment
the next line
this next one
could proclaim you
could have told you
anything
could have said
"You are insufficient"
"You are a failure"
"You are worthless"
"You are mortal and will perish"
it is good
yes
that someone
better a friend
point out for you
that to be conscious
is to open oneself
to the next sentence
life pronounces
I say
"I love you"
because you
are
among
friends...

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: Re: Skinning the Metaphor
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1992 23:45:48 GMT

In article <234@uiunix.ui.org>, donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:
> Disclaimer:  Since, Marie did not see the final draft of this werke, any
> liability therefrom is solely mine.
> 
                         [...excresence of poem deleted...]
> 
> Marie Coffin/Don Zirilli
> 9-9-92
> -- 
> nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
>  /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
> /     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
>    / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 

Listen, you post-humorous fool, I said you could play with my poem (after all,
children whine less if you give them toys to play with), but I didn't say you 
could post the resulting horror, and I *certainly* didn't say you could attach
my name to it!

Seriously, Don:  it seems to me that common courtesy would have dictated that 
you send me a copy of the poem AND obtain my permission before posting
something
under my name.  Do all the dead have such rotting manners?  

You are, besides unmannerly, misleading.  By putting both our names on this
mess,
you give the appearance that we collaborated on the poem.  Perhaps you think we
did.  I don't think so:  my idea of collaboration is somewhat different.  When
I
have collaborated with others, the poem would be mailed back and forth, with
changes, corrections and *discussion*.  Even argument.  This would continue
until
*all* the collaborators agreed that the poem was finished.  This is not what
you
did.  I can assure you that if you *had* done this, the resulting poem would
have been quite different.  I can only hope that you inflicted this on the
dead as well as the living.  No, that's not true.  I can also hope they haunt
you for it.  

Never yours,

		Marie Coffin
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Tue, 8 Sep 1992 15:26:25 GMT
Subject: Re: firing is all the rage, a new fad
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, melynda@titipu.meta.com (Melynda Reid) writes:

> i too am experiencing the o'toole ritual trial by firing. my husband, the
> wage earner was fired today. hurray we are free to plumb the depths, to drink
> the dregs of outrageous fortune although i prefer the modesty of generic chablis.
> cocktails?
>                      monica o'toole      
> 
> melynda reid   who wears hats but does not type caps
>   eel:   melynda@titipu.meta.com  or  nosc.mil!titipu.meta.com!melynda
>   snail: p o box 378 greensboro, florida 32330

Condolences to another member of the family.

How long until we are all making this post?

doug
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: zhu@athena.mit.edu (Erin Zhu)
Subject: Promises
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1992 18:43:13 GMT


promises
are they just words
spoken one minute
retained fleetingly
forgotten the next?
or could i hold them
lightly by their
figurative napes
feel the wind
hollow and unforgiving
through them
tap them lightly
and see if they ring true
wipe them softly
care for them attentively
hold them dear
insisting brightly
all the while
that they alone
have no price

	--Erin


   /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
      Erin Zhu    (617) 661-8151  /   Out of the ashes
      872 Mass. Ave, #707         /   I rise with my red hair
      Cambridge, MA 02139         /   And I eat men like air.
      zhu@gevalt.mit.edu          /                     --Sylvia Plath
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Skinning the Metaphor
Date: 9 Sep 92 16:52:05 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

Disclaimer:  Since, Marie did not see the final draft of this werke, any
liability therefrom is solely mine.



skinning the metaphors


My itching is not a metaphor
for any kind of psychic sore,
nor did it proceed from sin--
it's just an allergy on my skin.

All day long my body's itching,
as I scratch it in the kitchen
with Brillo pads and lousy aim
until I'm burning like a flame.

My itching makes the doctor shrug
as he looks over his list of drugs
and then at my skin, bright red.
My scratching makes him shake his head.

If I broke my arm, then he would know
how to set the bone just so,
but itching's not cured easily
and thus he puts the blame on me:

He blames my lifestyle and my clothes,
the aggressive way I blow my nose--
but his compassion still runs deep,
so he gives me pills to make me sleep.

But I really don't see why I can't
just have a total skin transplant--
so if you have some extra cash,
send it to the babe with the awesome rash!


Marie Coffin/Don Zirilli
9-9-92
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Skinning the Metaphor
Date: 15 Sep 92 15:09:34 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ


In article <1992Sep14.184548@IASTATE.EDU) mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin) writes:
)In article <234@uiunix.ui.org>, donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:
)> Disclaimer:  Since, Marie did not see the final draft of this werke, any
)> liability therefrom is solely mine.
)> 
)                         [...excresence of poem deleted...]
)> 
)> Marie Coffin/Don Zirilli
)> 9-9-92
)> -- 
)> nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
)>  /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
)> /     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
)>    / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
)
)Seriously, Don:  it seems to me that common courtesy would have dictated that 
)you send me a copy of the poem AND obtain my permission before posting
)something
)under my name.  Do all the dead have such rotting manners?  

Obviously, the Dead must have different notions of courtesy.  I do
apologize and must say that no offense was intended.  Nor will Posthumous
ever revise and/or repost your poetry ever again.
)
)Never yours,
)
)		Marie Coffin

Ah, well.  Two ships passing in the night were coming closer and closer,
the irony being that the closer they get, the more the danger.  It seems
these boats bumped too harshly and now perhaps are careening apart.  This
is not my wish, but I am not one to fight kismet.

Ever yours,

               Posthumous


-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: jpg@bnr.co.uk (Jonathan P. Gibbons)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Un One
Date: 8 Sep 92 13:22:04 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: BNR Europe Ltd, London Rd, Harlow, Essex, CM19 9NA, U.K.


In thunderous clouds,
the shimmering hearts stir,
and the Ether churns,
with thoughts desire.

The Glibberous mouths,
that mournfully kiss,
the soul of man who barely exists,
and disolves slowely.

Yet ne'er be sad
for tis the state of God 


Jonathan
--
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
  With fearsome eyes and fiery breath the dragon burnt the girl to death
                    -- from "Too Late Saint George"
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Love/anonymous
Keywords: "...and statistics"
Date: 9 Sep 92 12:41:56 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <1992Sep8.223456.26052@cheshire.oxy.edu) sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins) writes:
)In article <231@uiunix.ui.org> donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:
)>In article <15054@borg.cs.unc.edu> denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo) writes:
)>>Another of my  favorites.  The author is "anonymous", who is, I think,
)>>distantly related to Posthumous...
)>>
)>For those who are interested (if any are), Anonymous O'Toole and I are
)>third cousins once removed.  However, we're not on speaking terms due to
)>some petty disputes over authorship of cerrain verses.
)>
)>
)>-Posthumous O'Toole
)
)It's a gross calumny!  Furthermore, it isn't true!
)
)--Sharon "who said that?" Hopkins
)  sharon@netlabs.com


True True True...what is this obsession with Truth anyway?

And I DON'T like being called gross!  Makes me feel like five-day-old bread
with fuzz on it.

-Posthumous
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: c71@ix.urz.uni-heidelberg.de (Nordfors)
Subject: Machine-gun man
Reply-To: c71@ix.urz.uni-heidelberg.de
Organization: University of Heidelberg, Germany
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 92 10:13:19 GMT

(Translation from Swedish)

	There I sat in the watchtower, counting the dead.
	If I'd dared my way to the corpses
	    I'd have collected their tags
	    traced their addresses
	    and written nice post cards to their loved ones.
	A sort of gift from the repentant.
	To let them Hope a bit longer.
	 "All is well. No dangerous missions for a while now. How is our child?
	  The memory of him makes me want to live, even in the dampest trenches.
	  I love you and dream about being close to you."
	
	I must have written a hundred post cards in my mind
	    as I dreamt myself away from the counterattack
	    from those who sought vengeance for our retaliation.
	We had taken a bad beating and felt threatened.
	The hard ammunition had been exchanged for softer bullets
	    that through their splintering power were better at killing
	    and gave death a broader grin
	    which smiled at us from the wet soil.

	I scratched dried mud off my pants
	    with fingers on hands that were blushing
	    from the throbbing grip of the machine-gun.
	I did not want to die filthy
	    and so remain, for who would care?
	I did not want to loose my face
	    and prayed that my bullet would hit the chest
	    so that my beloved would bear to see me.

	There I sat waiting
	    together with the dead
	    maybe for joining their ranks
	    in outer mutilation and inner peace
	    if now peace is no more than an empty void
	    God help the human soul if this were the case.
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Ruminations od Death: DENIAL
Keywords: Recorded on my Grandfather's last lucid day
Date: 14 Sep 92 03:19:28 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana

RUMINATIONS ON DEATH: DENIAL


I play hide-and-seek with myself in the forests
  I make in my mind.
My will is a wonderful playground - I flex my brain,
  my playmate appears;
	my imaginary friend who isn't make-believe
	but real on the other side of the world
	in a land I've never seen
	in a dream I've never dreamt;
	whose skin I've never touched,
	whose hair I've never smelled...
	whose eyes into which I haven't leapt.
I love you...I think...as I love myself because you are
  a part of me.
I look forward to my fantasies, to you, my friend,
  my very dear friend;
	but are you black or are you white,
	night or day, goat or sheep,
	safe and soothing lullaby
	or fearful howling winds -
	you frighten me when I'm awake
	and hush my tearful sleeping hours
	but do you shield me from the light?
Everything is black and shadowed, a model backdrop
  for my own projections.
I cast myself into the future and I pray that you
  will be there for me;
	I flex my mind, and there you are -
	you're in a pool, you're in a bed,
	you're posing on a mountaintop,
	you're playing with a baby,
	you grin and I see your teeth
	your eyes crinkle, you laugh
	your laughter makes me smile.
You're wearing gold-rimmed glasses and that's funny,
  because you don't wear glasses.
Your hair is crisp and curling and resists straightening -
  it springs back into place;
	I don't know you at all, though I know your name -
	and I don't know your white teeth
	and I don't know your black eyes
	and I don't know those glasses
	but I've touched your hair in dreams
	and I can't get the feel of it
	to leave my fingertips.
It's so hard, so hard to be who and what I am
  I need help to be me.
I need your arms to aid me through this writing -
  please, guide my pen;
	help me transcribe the forms behind my eyes,
	the nebulae that poke and prod
	that won't leave me alone at night,
	ask recompense for all I've served;
	they pierce my eyes, blind my Ego
	let my blood flow onto paper
	make ink-blot images to Psyche.
I weep, I beg forgiveness for all I've done
  for everything I've left undone.
I'm crying now, I damn myself for thoughts my
  playground doesn't banish;
	I need you in my tragic hour, dry my tears
	tears for myself, not for him
	my selfishness overwhelming,
	foreign anguish rends my soul
	my self is distant, watching;
	I'm losing myself, in oart,
	and all I've ever been.


My words were spoken then for future incarnation
  as a wordy, wretched poem.
Now I pen it, past the flowers, shredded inside
  but life goes on.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: Re: Poem--Sudden
Organization: The Land of Earthquakes (Southern Cal)
Date: Sat, 12 Sep 92 05:13:49 GMT

In article <2609@tau-ceti.isc-br.com> cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams) writes:
>
> (Ralph Cherubini) writes:
>>
>>                                 Sudden
>>
>> It would be
>> sudden
>> if this were all there was to this poem.
>
>It would be 
>sudden
>if someone pulled the plug on the gravity generator
>and we all fell off the earth.


It would be
sudden --


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tolman%asylum.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman)
Subject: Liturgy for the self
Date: 5 Sep 92 21:43:12 MDT
Organization: University of Utah, CompSci Dept


my screams echo out loudly into
scribblings on a page
for I am too shy to scream aloud

the thunder mimics me and mocks
loudly proclaiming its power

here I lie trapped in the rules
of a culture gone sour 
sickened and diseased it still controls
From: sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (Maven o'Mirth)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: h. - for september/Sheryl
Date: 16 Sep 92 00:47:10 GMT
Organization: Seattle University, Seattle WA

Haiku for September

Aspen leaves like gold-
fish scales tremble in descent
blessing weathered streets
Date: Monday, 14 Sep 1992 13:46:21 EST
From: <RVESTERM@vma.cc.nd.edu>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: mcnett-o-matic

  man? machine? more! mcnett!
  ones and zeroes flash from eye to eye.
  mcnett, my son, i have one bit of advice:
  tor is much more zen than i.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jcbarnes@vela.acs.oakland.edu (Terson - Sod Lord)
Subject: Re: Am I in the Right PLace
Organization: FryTools International
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1992 18:44:18 GMT

In article <1992Sep9.152430.17995@ultb.isc.rit.edu> whc2993@ritvax.isc.rit.edu writes:

***************************************************************************
"The blues is a low down achein' chill"  Robert Johnson
***************************************************************************

  Are you in the right place... I don't think so, it seems you forgot to
post a poem, or at least comment on something... or really cop out and
post someone else's poem :)  Hmmm... So I think that the only way you
can right yourself and the world (in desparate need of writing) you
should post a poem... and *poof* magically you will appear where you
need to be!  Be that in the country, a meeting, a million dollars or
just someone's arms... you'll be there!  Of course sometimes I promise
just a little too much :)

  Hmmm... Okay... Bye :)  I'll post a poem eventually :)

--
Terson -- Sod Lord

  ========================================================================
  || In the message you have just read: all characters, events, views,  ||
  || and beliefs are a figment of my imagination... any likeness to     ||
  || reality is purely coincidental.                                    ||
  ==================================email: jcbarnes@vela.acs.oakland.edu==



Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jill@gopher.ccbr.umn.edu (Jill Hollifield)
Subject: Woman-Power
Organization: University of Minnesota, Minneapolis
Date: Fri, 11 Sep 1992 15:57:40 GMT

Woman-Power

Power is gained by living a risk -
Hanging over the edge far enough
For the universe to bestow upon you a crown.
This crown makes you
Tall strong centered whole one,
Whatever you want to be.
Power is knowing you can survive anything
That looms ahead.
Power is knowing you can survive anything
That falls behind.
I have woman-power gained by man-pain.
I wrap him in the rich robes of my power
Hoping to nurture him to his own strength,
But I remain separate, resolute,
Tall strong centered whole one.
He cannot take away the power that
His hurting heaviness has granted me.
He killed me.
I heal him.
I move on.
That is woman-power.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rat@ravel.udel.edu (Paula Marie Briggs)
Subject: kaleidoscope
Organization: University of Delaware
Distribution: na
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 17:49:53 GMT

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: if god went to the airport / Marie Coffin
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1992 19:30:23 GMT


	if god went to the airport
	-------------------------------------------------------------------
	
	where would he hang out?
	
	not in the chapel, surely.
	the god of dentists' offices is there.
	where are the acolytes
	of dental floss?
	
	not at the ticket counter,
	where the money-changers have erected
	their own temple
	that the meek may worship the god
	of waiting in line.
	
	if god is the god of the overbooked,
	the god of the standby,
	the god of lost luggage,
	he's keeping it quiet.
	he appears as some overworked businessman
	with graying hair too long
	brushed back from his forehead
	wishing he could fly first-class,
	wondering if his new office
	will have a window.
	
	the god of parents travelling with small children
	is very quiet.
	his presence is unknown
	in tangible ways.
	he has learned to sleep sitting up.
	he is discreet
	because not even a plague of locust can compete
	with your average thursday in your average international airport.
	
	at the airport, god finds
	that two or three are gathered in his name
	(god, i hope my luggage is here),
	that the faithful confess their sins
	to every passing stranger.
	
	if god goes to the airport, he finds out
	that for trials he has been outdone
	by endless delays and final boarding calls,
	and, unlike job, we don't even ask
	how they dare.
	the answer would be the same.
	
	if god goes to the airport, as he must,
	for god is everywhere,
	maybe he appears
	as a young blond woman
	red lipstick matched to
	red nails
	flying to paris to see her husband.
	he's in the army.
	her gum snaps impatiently as she
	describes delays
	(she was supposed to leave yesterday)
	but she gives up her place in line
	to help an old man down the escalator
	and show him where to go.
	
	or maybe not.
	

Marie Coffin
September 15, 1992

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Together
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 92 11:24:16 GMT


                        Together
                        (for She)

When I was
in prison
she called every day
to say she loved me
now that I'm home
I call her
every day
to thank her
when we're at home
together
we don't need
to say
anything...

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems