HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--A girl inside her room
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 13 Sep 92 00:05:49 GMT


                        A girl inside her room
                             (for She)

A girl
inside her room
waiting
for someone to open
the door
to her heart
which will allow her
to know
she is lovely
in my arms
is the welcome
which will
always be
open to
you
when you can risk
coming out.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--In the room
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 11 Sep 92 10:01:41 GMT


                        In the room

In the room
naked where you led me
innocent of self
taught me only
through your tracings
laid me down
now explored my being
my flat and round
my textured manifestation
taught me
as if of some blackboard
I was the surface
upon which the lesson was learned
the student impressed with knowledge
made into something else
your embraces and sounds
markers of discoveries
of which I had known nothing
you leave me
a land now found
a new world
different for
future explorers.
From: jeffb@terapin.com (Jeffrey Bean)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Raven's Flight
Date: 10 Sep 92 21:09:18 PST
Organization: BBS

The Raven Says Goodbye

(Not related to Poe)

   The trees flutter and a
   Big black bird takes to the sky
   As a girl lays down with an older boy
   In her room while mom is away
   Like a hole in space cut out in the cloth
   The black speck spirals through clouds above her house
   She's a woman now, she thinks through
   A naked mist of pleasure and pain
   She smiles and wraps her arm around him
   To bring him even closer
   Through an open window she sees the long-winged
   Silohuette soaring through the blue
   And she gasps in wonder
   But he draws the curtains closed
   And demands her attention
   The room is dark - She's scared
   But the power of innocence
   Shall never fly from her.

                 --J. Bean
                   (C) 1992.
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Tease
Date: 11 Sep 92 23:36:41 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


TEASE


How mild blooms your tonsure in the fire,
  bringing with it glimpses
  of forbidden times
	and darkest lore,
pound quiet in the shimmer light
  and bring the past here,
  love, and leave the pages
	of your study.

Rings of soft and spirit guide you,
  gentle in your quest,
  and force unbidden whispers
	by your lips;
I never knew such tender touch, imago,
  and that at hardened hands
  and bitten flesh beside
	your worship.

Reverential, puckered head bestows a kiss
  upon my tongue in homage,
  due exasperation peers
	beneath your brow;
and then with agile grace our thighs meet,
  shed deliberation as a hairshirt,
  penitent, and punishment
	in solemn giggles.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
From: dani@netcom.com (Dani Zweig)
Subject: Re: I give up...
Date: Sat, 05 Sep 92 02:38:25 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 

jzimm@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (Joann Zimmerman):
>>The quote you have posted is from "Dover Beach," by Matthew Arnold. 
>
>And shouldn't this be an FAQ? I'm quite sure this has been asked at
>least twice this calendar year.

Oh, no!  Can you imagine what the FAQ would start looking like with
that approach?  The most awful collection of poetry I have is titled
"Best Loved Poems of the American People", and it was compiled in
just that way:  It's an anthology of the poems that people most often
wrote in to a newspaper column to inquire about.  It has some gems,
but most of its poems are from the "I fondly remember my grandmother's
old rocking chair" school of poetry which seems to have been popular
(with readers?) around the turn of the century.  I have to admit that
"Dover Beach" is a better start, but...

-----
Dani Zweig
dani@netcom.com

"One of my favorite games when I was a kid was 'murder/suicide.'
 Dad would show us a photo and ask us, "Is it a murder or a suicide?"
	  --  Colleen Doran
From: jeffb@terapin.com (Jeffrey Bean)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Something For Love and Susan
Date: 15 Sep 92 10:02:09 PST
Organization: BBS

   I don't know, about that mid-20's teen angst thing... I don't know if I
should be flattered or pissed cuz she twisted my words around so much...
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lugowski@ils.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: f. / Marek (1990)
Organization: The Institute for the Learning Sciences
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1992 07:08:40 GMT


(c) 1990 by Marek Lugowski.  All Rights Reserved, except personal use copies.


		f.
		-------------------------------------------------------------
		
		f. at fourteen
		point nine
		renders juliet a shiksa
		-- spoken with a polish jewboy zest
		for the blonde above the rest.
		
		lest you misapprehend
		f. ain't no mae west
		-- she is blessed with the
		maidengaunt of a twiggy.
		
		f. is a bony breed
		-- the usual teenage need,
		the need of a sandwich
		early and often
		applied lovingly and as necessary
		take two, then sleep in the morning.
		
		f. harbors curiosity, nay, greed
		for new ideas and the mead
		of far-flung custom and ritual;
		it is lacing her fresh
		face like maori face war carvings
		(the carvings made in living flesh...)
		
		to unflesh f.
		is to find a bloomin' dogwood of a woman
		sort of, like, a sprung spring mushroom
		wet and icky to the touch
		glistening with freshness
		with a bit of stuck rif-raf and such
		(i is certainly stuck on you, f.)
		(caution! fresh paint
		please don't faint with admiration
		ventilate the fumes of aptitude phenomenal)
		
		a multitude of aspects
		distinguishes f.
		from other u.s. teenage bonies.
		
		for example, she is a genius at harp.
		for another, she harps all the time
		on animal rights, recycling, mother earth
		though not on uncle tom
		-- f. would rather read tom verlaine
		holding schoolfare in crisp disdain.
		
		f. is a girl one might wish to wed even on a mon or tue night
		given her unlikely consent, oh, and a tardis booth flight
		an 8-year spin on a 14.9 will fetch a fetching anachronism
		still, f. is a girl for girls to see and be.
		so what that you are bony-kneed?
		and lankey, and nerdy, and lonesome?
		and have that geeky i.q. of past one hundred forty?
		-- f., i love you, you blonde wise stork!
		now go deliver your homework!
		
		adroitly, adroitly as always.
		
		
			Marek W. Lugowski
			21 April 1990
			Lake Monroe, Indiana
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Prostitutes in Asia
Date: 5 Sep 92 17:53:19 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                             Prostitutes in Asia

In the theater
they were showing a movie
about prostitutes in Asia
made by a filmmaker
who had gone there
with the
express intent
of falling in love
with
a prostitute in Asia
and then making a film
about prostitutes in Asia
using
prostitutes in Asia
as characters in his film
about prostitutes in Asia
now you know what the film was about
I didn't bother to see it
either.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Subject: Re: **POEMS WANTED**
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 22:14:07 GMT

In article <1992Sep3.161044.10565@waikato.ac.nz>, amc@waikato.ac.nz writes:
>I am the Arts Editor for our University Newspaper have been reading some of
>these poems and are very impressed. If you have a poem that you would like 
>New Zealand to read.... go ahead and send it to me.
>
>Thanx  
>Anna
>

It might be helpful for you to put a mail address for us to send them.



|       |    __      _      _    _ _ _    __ 
| \    /|  /    \  /   \  |   \         |    \
|   \ / | |      | |__ /  | _ /    |    |     |
|       | |      | |  \   |   \    |    |     |    MIKE
|       |  \ __ /  |   \  | _ /  _ _ _  | __ /

Death is boring;  slaughter is fun.
Thank you for not smoking!!
From: wincerw@feserve.cc.purdue.edu (Bill Wincer)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Cold Within
Date: 8 Sep 92 20:56:33 GMT
Organization: Purdue University


Six humans trapped by happenstance
   In black and bitter cold
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
   Or so the story's told.

Their dying fire in need of logs,
   The first man held his back
For on the faces around the fire
   He noticed one was black.

The next man looking cross the way
   Saw one not of his church,
And couldn't bring himself to give
   The fire stick of his birth.

The third one sat in tattered clothes
   He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
   To warm the idle rich?

The rich man just sat back and thought
   Of all the wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned
   From the lazy, shiftless poor.

The black man's face bespoke revenge
   As the fire passed from his sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood
   Was a chance to spite the white.

And the last man of this forlorn group
   Did not expect to gain.
Giving only to those who gave
   Was how he played the game.

The logs held tight in death's still hands
   Was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without,
   They died from the cold within.
                      
                        --James Patrick Kinney 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: eah1@gauguin.wustl.edu (Edward Anthony Hutchins)
Subject: Insomnia
Organization: Washington University, School of Engineering, St. Louis MO
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 04:40:01 GMT


    Insomnia

 city lights confusing night
  selling soft sweet lies
   man's importance a white shadow
    against black starry skies
     even blind I can smell
 city fumes revealing truth
  memory comes flooding back
   youthful rural air
    a bright path in the heavens
     simpler stories to tell
      drowned out in dreams
 city sounds disturbing sleep

_____________________________________________________________________________
:-)  ('')  (-:  (,,)  :-)  ('')  (-:  (,,)  :-) | see lidflip instructions on
Edward Hutchins, eah1@cec1.wustl.edu            | other side of card
From: v110ju95@ubvmsb.cc.buffalo.edu (Aron S Klein)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: poems about children
Date: 10 Sep 92 06:32:00 GMT
Organization: University at Buffalo
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41

Hello all,

I have been away for awhile, and have just gotten into this group again.
I was wondering if any one has any poems about school aged children. Since
I plan on going into teaching (around the second grade, hopefully), I was
hopeing that someone had some really good poems.  Please either post them 
here or send them by E-mail to me.

Thanxs in advance,
Merikele
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rizzo@cbnewsf.cb.att.com (anthony.r.rizzo)
Subject: late summer haiku
Organization: AT&T
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1992 20:14:16 GMT


                Night-clouds bring the dark.
                The last day-cloud spills its light
                On a distant hill.

(C) Anthony R. Rizzo, 1992.
From: beh@geech.gnu.ai.mit.edu (Bruce Howells)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: of autumn
Date: 14 Sep 92 21:23:10 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


Of autumn
of rustling leaves
on wild old maple trees
so am I born
of autum.

The nights, growing of themselves
each longer, and longer
overtaking the light
and the leaves, brightening
daily into many-coloured joseph coats
are all
of autumn.

The sound of music drifted up
to the nights
with bright white lights
down the road
as the warriors cheered and the
virgins were sacrificed
every Friday night.

My hands, thrust deep
into the coolish damp ground
to pick the harvest of the summer labor
pulling pink-rimmed fingernails
for a summer-ended autumn evening
and the scents
of autumn.

The burning leaves,
the scents of the great lakes
rising up in storms
and the cooled and frosted
mornings
of autumn.

Of autumn, I have grown
ill
with the illness
of home.

--Nancy Howells
beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu through the good graces of my husband
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8671 rec.arts.books:15673
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Date: 5 Sep 92 19:15:32 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

In article <Bu0Jt0.4xI@dcs.glasgow.ac.uk> jack@dcs.glasgow.ac.uk (Jack Campin) writes:
>If you don't want to try something quite that different, e.e. cummings's
>poem on the death of his father, "my father moved through dooms of love"
>might work, too.  It's in his Collected Poems and in the small Penguin
>edition.

I was waiting for someone to suggest cummings but that wasn't the poem I had in
mind.  I was hoping for this one...  :->

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

		"next to of course god america i

	"next to of course god america i
	love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
	say can you see by the dawn's early my
	country 'tis of centuries come and go
	and are no more what of it we should worry
	in every language even deafanddumb
	thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
	by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
	why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
	iful than those heroic happy dead
	who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
	they did not stop to think they died instead
	then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

	He spoke.  And drank rapidly a glass of water

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

See if anyone gets it.

Kevin
-- 
|| +------------------+  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: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Into the woods of our desire
Date: 5 Sep 92 04:01:42 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                        Into the woods of our desire

Carry me away from worry
she said
I did
we went far out
into the woods of our desire
into the wildness
where the blood streams free
we rode in canoes of felled passion
deep into the netherworld
far beyond speaking
visited only by visions
of beings living on the banks
the natives of this place
who speak in obscure tongues
we couldn't hear them anyway
because of the now-roaring river
as she lay beneath me
and we sang duets
all unrehearsed
as we rowed each other
dark
into ecstasy.
From: blosser_cy@lrc.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: TO RALPH@WIXER.CACTUS...
Date: 13 Sep 92 23:09:41 GMT
Organization: Lenoir-Rhyne College, Hickory, NC


		



		his poetry makes my stomach churn
		disgustingly sentimental...pining
		away after a female that has left
		him like some discarded ice cream
		cone to melt away on the sidewalk
		of life...i often wonder what the
		hell drives him so?...to publicly
		embarrass himself on a newsgroup;
		does he crave attention? or is he
		just frustrated by his inability?
		romantic poem after romantic poem
		spews forth from his lips like so
		much liquid waste--god, man, like
		get a life!
From: root@bing.UUCP (Administrator)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: e e cummings poems
Date: 11 Sep 92 06:05:08 GMT
Organization: Bing's Rubber Chicken Factory -- "Our clucks are boneless."

Anybody know of any book of a collection of his poems still available for
purchase?

--
Bing H Bang                                  +---------------------------+
Senior Systems Analyst                       | This is my home computer. |
National Data Corporation, Atlanta, GA       | I do not speak for NDC.   |
uucp: gatech!warlord!bing!root               +---------------------------+
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Another one for Susan
Date: 13 Sep 92 10:03:06 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

In article 1ggy@terapin.com, jeffb@terapin.com (Jeffrey Bean) writes:
>    I wrote most of my poetry in a deranged dimentia of emotion... Poetry has
>had more of a theraputic purpose than a creative one... I guess that's ok. 
>Tell me what you think.

Well, that's how I started, so it must be OK.			:-)
Here's one of my early spewings of angst to prove it. ('87?)

	--
Admitting, admitting
I'd slash my words
Poison my pen
Write my brains out on the floor
Till demon stab fry spit flows again
Palping thumper cased in itching brittle scab.
	--

>    PS.  One of my fears is that I'll open a book to see something of mine
>published there without my knowlege... That's why I'm hesitant to post here.
>Whats to stop anybody from adopting any poem they read here as their own?

Nothing at all. But hey, does it really make a difference if someone
goes waving your poem about with their name on it? I mean, there's
nothing material to be gained from being the owner of a poem, so only
the most gormless of dickheads would do such a thing as claim one,
and all that happens if they do is you get to so feel ripped off that
you can write lots of new ever-so-cross poems much better than the one
in question. I avoid worrying about such things by firmly believing that
everything I write is rubbish, so when I press the deliver button it all
flows out of my sphere of influence like a poo 'round the s-bend. It also
means it's always a surprise when someone says something nice about it.

Smile

-/\/\/\/- 


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--He and I
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 4 Sep 92 18:08:17 GMT


                                He and I

We meet on the beach
every day
without fail
she
I
and the Old Man
she
is
the Woman
who lives there with him
I am only ever
a visitor
except when
sometimes
they turn into blue light
and enter my heart
and I know that
finally
we are one
every day it changes
it is different
that is what stays the same
in my quest for certainty
in my fear
I have finally had to settle
simply
for that
is as certain
as it gets
I never stay still
am always moving
I am the oscillations
of atoms
of lives
of planets
of entire galaxies
my movement is the only certainty
he will ever know
I will never even show him
who he is
until the beginning
which he thinks to be
the end
of the beginning
I can say nothing
except that I awoke
as from a great sleep
and stretched out my being
as energy
and blossomed into all that is
and when I have reached my full stature
my reach extended to its full radius
then will I go into myself once more
collapse into relaxed slumber
tight
like a hibernating animal
storing its own warmth
and I will sleep again
and there will be nothing but potential
until I wake again.
From: watson@hg.uleth.ca (The terror that flaps in the night)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Letter to Ralph Cherubini
Date: 15 Sep 92 20:35:21 GMT
Reply-To: watson@hg.uleth.ca
Organization: University of Lethbridge

In article <2582@bsu-cs.bsu.edu>, bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh) writes:
>
>
>Dear Ralph,
>
>*Thank you*!  I enjoy others' comments but can't bring myself to
>criticize others' work because poetry is, to me, a sacred trust.
>I will say, however, that your poetry is something I look forward
>to each day.  I admire your ability to put into words things that
>I can, at this point, only feel...as such words of praise from
>you are unexpected delights.
>
>I'm 26 years old and still have a lot of emotional and creative
>growing to do.  Encouragement like yours is something that helps to
>keep me going in that respect; thank you, thank you for writing.
>
>I'll continue to post...only time will tell.
>
>Sincerely,
>
>Tracy Flynn-Marsh
>
>

Well... in keeping with this gratuitous poet (ego) stroking, I must say that
Watchel makes me wet and O'Toole makes me sweat.  (hey look... I rhymed)  ;)

Luv,
Libby Doe
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Glass
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 92 18:05:59 GMT


                                Glass
                             (for She)


Glass
is known only by its frame
or the accretions of time
speckling a surface
detected by inference only
as I look at you
via the Rorschach of those aspects
of myself
which throw you into
anger
laughter
reverie too
this is the way
we know one another
in this nice-and-dirty world.
From: rhh@alice.att.com (r hardin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Date: 7 Sep 92 01:26:32 GMT
Article-I.D.: alice.23637
Organization: AT&T Bell Laboratories, Murray Hill NJ



Jesus went unto the mount of Olives.

And early in the morning he came again into the temple, and all
the people came unto him; and he sat down, and taught them.

And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman, taken in
adultery; and when they had set her in the midst,

They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in
the very act.

Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned:
but what sayest thou?

This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him.
But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground,
as though he heard them not.

So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said
unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a
stone at her.

And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground.

And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience,
went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last:
and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.

When Jesus had lifted up himself, and say none but the woman, he
said unto her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man
condemned thee?

She saith: No man, Lord.  And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I
condemn thee: go, and sin no more.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rbear@inferno.uoregon.edu (Richard Bear)
Subject: Uncle Dave
Organization: University of Oregon Network Services
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL5
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 92 05:14:28 GMT
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: TO RALPH@WIXER.CACTUS...
Date: 14 Sep 92 21:21:34 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Outreach Services - Oregon State University

In article <1992Sep13.190941.332@lrc.edu> blosser_cy@lrc.edu writes:
>
>		
>
>
>
>		his poetry makes my stomach churn
>		disgustingly sentimental...pining
>		away after a female that has left
>		him like some discarded ice cream
>		cone to melt away on the sidewalk
>		of life...i often wonder what the
>		hell drives him so?...to publicly
>		embarrass himself on a newsgroup;
>		does he crave attention? or is he
>		just frustrated by his inability?
>		romantic poem after romantic poem
>		spews forth from his lips like so
>		much liquid waste--god, man, like
>		get a life!


In answer to your many questions.  We *all* crave attention
even you.  And just what is so embarrassing about revealing
deep emotions?  That is what most of us do here.  If you're
really interested in what drives him, why don't you email him
and ask.  Make that personal contact that so many seem to be
afraid of.  

All the postings here are wrenched from deep within and most
of us are helpless victims of our muses.  We write the poems
and submit them for perusal in this public forum.  If you do
not *enjoy* certain poems, that is your right and certainly
the poet has done no wrong.  I write for myself and not to
please any audience, then I share them in case anyone else
is interested.  Some I touch, others not, but *nothing* is
worthwhile unless shared.  That is my philosophy.  

So, read these offerings if you want; enjoy them if you like,
don't if you don't; critique; make constructive suggestions,
but *don't* try to suggest to another what they should write
about.  *Some* of us have no control over what our muse
sends us, we are just the conduit.

Kathleen O'Toole, Bringer of Light