HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: Poetry Readings - are they worth it?
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 1992 16:30:00 GMT

In article <1992Nov19.140112.16703@eng.cam.ac.uk> tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk
(Tim Love) writes:

>We have quite a few Poetry Readings in Cambridge. Last year Holub
>read but I didn't go. I've come to avoid lesser poets too -- I'd 
>rather buy the book. ...

You know, Marie told me that the same sentiment can be heard in Ames, Iowa,
but regarding classical music concerts (or popular, I suppose).  The
sentiment goes like this:  Why would any fool go to hear the Chicago
Symphony when it comes to Ames if one can easily buy a Compact Disc?

I will leave this question for others to answer, but I'm smiling at the
thought that the same sentiments run in small university towns across the
world.  We have so much in common!  Does Oxford too have a superb Ruminant
Laboratory?  Do tell...

>Am I missing out? Does anyone like poetry readings?

Yes.  Yes.

				-- Marek

P.s.  Where else would I get a personalized autographed copy of
Carolyn Kizer's _Mermaids in the Basement_ or Gwendolyn Brooks' stuff?
From: abenoit@sumax.seattleu.edu (CHAVALEH)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Marking Post #3/abenoit
Date: 17 Nov 92 03:50:09 GMT
Organization: Seattle University


Again, another post to mark another avoidance.  Someone may just as well
advise Niko that yes, I am going to dog his footsteps until he answers.

While we wait,


>>>>But I believe I have learnt something by being told elsewhere 
>>>>that I write crap, and I don't see why others can't. There is
>>>>always a very good reason to avoid writing crap: love of good
>>>>poetry. 

Indeed there is.  We would appreciate a little more help in obtaining some
good poetry by some positive efforts on your part to help produce some. 
(For one or two tips, locate my original post.)


>>Giving up writing because you are told that you are worthless
>>is an irrational reaction. But if one realises that one is a
>>worthless poet, giving up becomes a *moral need*.

The idea that one is obligated to put away poetry because others perceive
one as a bad poet aside, I would ask Niko just how he intends to keep
those who write good poetry but are convinced by someone (such as himself)
that they do not.  (It is true, I am making the assumption that Niko is
fallible, but humor me.)  One would think that the danger of a potentially
excellent poet mistaking some of Niko's comments, and thus dropping poetry
altogether, would caution him, as he is so in favor of good poetry.

>>Please note that there is nothing inherently commendable about
>>the need to write poetry and share it; but it is imperative
>>not to be a worthless poet. 

Ah, but you have just contradicted yourself.  If you are for good poetry
you surely must want it shared, since you enjoy it so and surely want
others to appreciate it.  You must even want the bad poetry shared. .
.else, how could you destroy it?

And if it so imperative that someone not be a worthless poet, why are you
not assisting them in that positive direction (using, perhaps, one or two
suggestions from my original post)?  If you are again going to raise the
objection that it is not your responsibility, refer to marking post #2, in
which I defeated that objection.)

The sands mark our waiting.

__
                            CHAVALEH
                   abenoit@sumax.seattleu.edu
                (Parenthetical Conversationalist)
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: from carol not tom
Summary: from carol not tom
Keywords: from carol not tom
Date: 22 Nov 92 21:46:56 GMT
Reply-To: watson@hg.leth.ca
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd


hereby fulfilling a request to forward this to rap this since the
author herself is unable to...





This is dedicated to my favorite cynic:

The Falcon and the Armadillo

Wings wide and soaring swiftly she says,
"It's just me, silly! You can unroll now!"
A loose feather drifts slowly
downward, leftward, rightward
landing on the armadillo's nose
tickling and titillating.

The falcon's high altitude giggles 
echoing, yodelling, hiccuping
as the armadillo sneezes abruptly.
"Stop that!", he warns, as the falcon
makes a swooping pass by him,
"Quit aiming where I have no armor!"

One fell swoop and her talons grasp him
hooking under his hard shell sweeping him upward.
"Put me down, immediately!", the armadillo demands.
The falcon takes him higher,
"Isn't this fun! You can see everything from up here!"
The shivering armadillo stammers,
"We'll fall... or be struck by lightning, or....
ummmmm.... hit a tree... oh please!
Put me down!"

The falcon reluctantly complies
dropping the armadillo gently
into the sand, rolling, dusty, cursing.
"Come down too, Ms. Falcon, it's 
much safer down here!", he insists,
"I'll teach you how to burrow!"
The falcon, circling, snaps back,
"Never! Besides, you spend much too much time
digging in the dirt!"
She stops her circling and soars straight up
higher and higher, her gleeful yell
suddenly overpowered by the sound of jet engines.

The armadillo skulks slowly homeward
as falcon feathers drift down
bouncing off his armor, missing his nose.
"I just knew it. I warned her to keep her head 
out of the clouds", he mutters sadly.
Mrs. Armadillo greets him 
and in a fit of chatter he hears her say,
"I'm so glad you're home!
I thought a minstrel had come along
and made you into a guitar!"

- Thumper O'Toole (Carol)
watson@hg.leth.ca 








from carol not tom


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Lilly
Date: 23 Nov 92 02:54:27 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


LILLY

The sun beats hot on your cool, white brow --
shall we take a siesta, then
walk in the moonlight?
Arsenic lilly, a fatal snow-bloom
tranquil on your cheeks,
feels soft to my lips as I kiss you hello.
How come you here, love, so far from home --
to drown in tropic heat,
to steal the soul from our sands?
Death pale in the night you glow like a nymph
and flutter your dove-hands on my breast.

-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: wondering, 32,000 ft.
Organization: UCLA, Department of Sociology
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 92 18:03:11 GMT

	[Yes, I know it's mindless.]


		wondering, 32,000 ft.
		---------------------------------------

		    if i drop
		   a       coin
		into the   clouds
		 will   i       see
		      a   ripple?


			Michael Lichter
			November 17, 1992
			Somewhere over California
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--All
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 92 17:29:58 GMT


                         All

                All
                on this sandy isle
                is sand
                and trees
                water surrounds
                oh
                and me...




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Harvard boys / Marek, Re: Another version of "artifacts" / Natalie
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Sun, 22 Nov 1992 20:01:57 GMT

In article <1992Nov22.004301.17681@husc3.harvard.edu> zeleny@husc10.harvard.edu (Michael Zeleny) writes:
>In article <1992Nov21.194216.1272792@sue.cc.uregina.ca>
>PROWSE@Meena.CC.URegina.CA (Natalie) writes:
...
>>		more artifacts...
>>		-------------------------------------------------------------
>>		
>>		on a table 
>>		near her bed
>>
>>		stands a bud vase
>>		which contains a rose
>>		thirstily drinking itself
>>		into full bloom.
>>
>>		in the trashcan
>>		near her bed
>>
>>		rest six spent, 
>>		contented condoms.
>>
>>		
>>			-Natalie (I like verbs :-) / November 21, 1992
>
>You also like wishful thinking and the pathetic fallacy.
...
>Hi there, Phil.  Give hell to those douchebags for me!
>
>cordially,
>mikhail zeleny@husc.harvard.edu

I fear you would not know the meaning of cordially if it came from MIT and
lodged in your arse.  This is because you appear already more than slightly
damaged in that area...

Is it me or does everybody else sense a correlation between Harvard boys,
Russian names and vile disposition?  These misogynist male persons obviously
don't get fucked enough, and one could see why.  An excellent argument for
intersecting sex with love to some extent, Mr. PostHummus, wouldn't you say?

				-- Marek

		  "Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking
		 when I said I'd like to smash every tooth
			       in your head"

				-- The Smiths, _The Queen Is Dead_



Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rininger@gn.ecn.purdue.edu (Christopher A Rininger)
Subject: After the Flood
Organization: Purdue University Engineering Computer Network
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 92 03:44:19 GMT


This is the second of two poems posted.  Comments/Criticism sent to 
rininger@gn.ecn.purdue.edu.  Thanks-- Chris.




		After the Flood

The riverscape seemed a murky
Drape, with unheard rushing 
Flossing the Folds.

Big savvy fish made the water
Murk,  
Travelling the high-water highway hopefully
To a feast of naive little pond flounders.

And dead, dead wood drifted endlessly drowning,
While traffic jammed on the bridge above.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steele@aem.umn.edu (Stephanie Steele)
Subject: Brother,Mother,Brother,Father (Part 1)
Summary: Brother,Mother,Brother,Father (Part 1)
Keywords: Brother,Mother,Brother,Father (Part 1)
Organization: University of Minnesota
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1992 20:31:50 GMT



(this poem is much too long and useless to post all at once, so i will
torture all of you in little bits....or um, parts.)

Brother,Mother,Brother,Father (Part 1)

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is
unhappy in its own way." L. Tolstoy, *Anna Karenina*


1.

Last night i spoke with you brother,
and i promised to send you a subscription
to the Boston Herald, because in that Seagoville
penitentiary all you have is some Dallas rag.
I will send you the Boston Herald so you can
read about sports and feel homesick for your     
wife, your son.

After i hang up, i see you standing in front
of the prison wall where the pay phone must be.
You finish your cigarette.  As you walk away i
cannot focus on your face.  It has been so long.
I see your shape.  I see a gray, gentle figure
move into shadow.


--

=======================================================================
			   Stephanie Steele
			steele@chip.aem.umn.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Frank)
Subject: blue funk Re: asdf
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 1992 18:17:54 GMT

In article <1992Nov13.173012.28492@news.acns.nwu.edu> marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes:

>If anthropological considerations are white noise to you, you've chosen to
>live in a blue funk of disconnectedness from your fellow human critters.
>
>Owning a bunch of words.



I'm not pro-anysideatall of the argument. but I think this is a funny
sentence. especially the blue funk part.

Anyway, is there any particulary reason for it to be "blue funk of"
did you make that up or is it some obscure reference? much more fun
if you just made it up. It is also very fun to visualize.
Yep, I feel a blue funk of disconnectedness today.

Of course, any one wins my attention when they start hustling words
like that. AND talking about disconnectedness IN THE SAME PARAGRAPH

	(i am very suspicious of this NeXT computer, because I don't
	think it has a caps-lock key. must be some arcane unix joke)

Ha! A NEW TOPIC, disconnectedness and collage or juxtaposition.
together. "discuss." (this last word here a quote.)


	side note, dear marek, I get very confused with my eyes when
	i read your poem and you put punctuation everywhere. like
	periods. e.g. like. periods. I get. confused.  Why? not me. you?

also, back to blue funk of disconnectedness.

I think it's common. I feel like this all the time. especially when
I'm martin and don't understand the assumptions behind the use
of all words, or everything starts meaning it's opposite, or specialized
becomes too general to have any meaning, or people start talking to me
in a different langauge even though they are using the same words I do.

I thinks it's very common.

God! but it's hard to explain. (not really, but that sounded like a fitting
phrase to me. actaully it's not hard to explain but it would take a while
and I'd like more time to think about it and perhaps I should get off my
lazy but and go write something down!)


-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jww@evolving.com (John W. Woolley)
Subject: One of my favourite poems
Date: Sat, 21 Nov 1992 00:05:02 GMT
Organization: Evolving Systems, Inc.
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL4

Gentles --

Poems "written right this minute as I sit here at my keyboard, so let's see
what happens" remind me unavoidably of one of my favourite passages in
American letters.  I copy it without further comment, for your enjoyment
and edification.  This by H. Finn, transcribed and published by S. Clemens.

    This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used
    to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering
    in it out of the "Presbyterian Observer", and write poetry after
    them out of her own head.  It was very good poetry.  This is
    what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots
    that fell down a well and was drownded:

           ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D

            And did young Stephen sicken,
              And did young Stephen die?
            And did the sad hearts thicken,
              And did the mourners cry?

            No; such was not the fate of
              Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
            Though sad hearts round him thickened,
              'Twas not from sickness' shots.

            No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
              Nor measles drear with spots;
            Not these impaired the sacred name
              Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

            Despised love struck not with woe
              That head of curly knots,
            Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
              Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

            O no.  Then list with tearful eye,
              Whilst I his fate do tell.
            His soul did from this cold world fly
              By falling down a well.

            They got him out and emptied him;
              Alas it was too late;
            His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
              In the realms of the good and great.


      If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before
    she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could 'a'
    done by and by.  Buck said she could rattle off poetry like
    nothing.  She didn't ever have to stop to think.  He said she
    would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to
    rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another
    one, and go ahead.
-- 
Fr. John Woolley (jww@evolving.com); vastly enthusiastic about Augustine,
Austen, babies, Bach, backgammon, baseball, beer, the Bible, Botticelli, Burke,
Chesterton, Dante, Dixieland, hardboiled, Hitchcock, Dr Johnson, Latin, Mozart,
Shakespeare/de Vere, St Teresa, Tolkien, Trollope, Fats Waller, and Washington
From: gt7244c@prism.gatech.EDU (John G'alt)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Harvard boys / Marek
Keywords: THE SHAVEN
Date: 23 Nov 92 09:00:02 GMT
Organization: Georgia Tech

>indelible old wishful thinking inscribed in letters of gold
>on your vicarious *ss.
>Venting unremarkable murky frustrations, Marcia?
>Try marcumba, they say it's even more vibrant.
   You say a lot about yourself, Niko, without anyone else's words.
>Mock on, mock on, my memberless merry moron.
   lick butts, lick butts, my f'ing flyer at rolling donuts
>Philip Nikolayev

   The Shaven

Once upon a midnight mellow
Dwelt this foolish Niko fellow
Proving he wasn't bisexually yellow
   With his zelenous co-undergrad.
Screamed he did of ecstatic hallow
Niko too small and Mikhail too shallow
Bled they, shed they, unto fallow
   And flared thier shared gonad.
Next upon the morning, irate
Niko hailed his naughty playmate
Sending curses to that pirate
   That ill-conceived, conspirator reaver.
Next this Mikhail went insane
And kicked and brought to Niko pain
And after both had well been lain
   Carved the schmo a balder beaver.


yay
John G'alt
-- 
John Greenawalt, gt7244c@prism.gatech.edu whooptydoo yes I'm a number
I am the difference between  |  "All the poetry in the trunk you kept your
      A poet at heart        |   life in/ I knew that it would come to 
  And a poet at genitals.    |   light one day."             -CB
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Life
Date: 19 Nov 92 00:38:19 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana

LIFE

Life, and life amaranthine dwell in
stolid stones and locks of hair
well-turned by age and honeyed time.

Speak soft and low - eternity here is
etched in granite, lime and flesh.
Kneel and sing to God in hushed tones
sweet benediction.

-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Errand of Mercy
Keywords: Chihuahua
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 92 16:08:23 PST
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us



Errand of Mercy --

Will someone who lives in the area please take RAP's new boy Philip a 
drool cup and a bottle of valium?

So far, he has managed to exhibit a sociopathic personality, a profound 
immaturity and the intellectual capacity of an obnoxious Chihuahua ... It 
would appear Harvard is stealing his daddy's money, or Philip is stealing 
their's. Either way, I'll wager he's not long for the Ivy League, save as 
a butt for a few of the jokesters at Yale.

Hark! I can hear one of them now:

"At Harvard, the boy nikolay
 had a great deal of drivel to say.
   A twit and a fool,
   he wrote his first rule,
 'Stick my foot in my mouth everyday!'"


                  JJWebb


"If you're peering into a cesspool, 
     you must be looking for a ration of shit."

                          --Beau Blue-- 

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Not REALly
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 92 19:10:36 GMT


                                Not REALly


                Grief
                he was gone
                died
                where did he go then
                if he is still in your heart
                is he not alive?
                not REALly
                in the real world
                only in my heart
                that was
                before
                she learned to stop diminishing herself.



-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Just so you know...
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Date: Sun, 15 Nov 92 15:34:13 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications

                                Just so you know...

                He wrote to tell me
                I write too much
                so he doesn't read what I write
                he just wanted me to know
                perhaps he was trying to convince
                himself
                that his intentions were
                helpful
                benign
                only later will he notice
                that his meanness must be dealt with
                for his own sake.


--
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk (Tim Love)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Iron Birds
Date: 19 Nov 92 09:03:30 GMT
Organization: cam.eng


         Iron Birds

You lay out words to tempt them,
another poem about poetry.

Rhyme radio valves with light bulbs.
Rewrite airstrips. Ancestors can't save you.

Kill your pigs. Burn your foodstores.
Murder the medicine men. Empty your shelves. 

You have seen them flying overhead. 
They will come again. You will write about

how their vapour trails are like the broadening, 
fading scratches on your lover's back.



Tim Love, Nov 1992
C+C welcome.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--My oh my
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 20 Nov 92 17:24:09 GMT


                                My oh my

                My oh my
                love
                in mourning
                for her life
                unto death
                parted from her dear self
                by the years
                in which they grew distant
                lessons mean and small
                covering her with doubts
                worn now
                like a shroud
                as if it were the
                latest
                fashion...






-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: artc@iplmail.orl.mmc.com (Art)
Subject: goodbye......
Organization: MMC
Date: Mon, 23 Nov 1992 18:21:40 GMT

wind
       rain
                ice.......
pain
       tears
                blood.....
I 
       love
                you.......
please
       don't 
                leave.....    :-(








Always......
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: the Realm's Defender, Absent
Date: 20 Nov 92 11:03:14 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

jtrue@acpub.duke.edu (jtrue) writes:

> As Marie so adroitly pointed out, I forgot to post the e-mail address
> of our stalwart defender, Mr. Posthumous of the O'Tooles, who is
> currenly on sebattical due to his newsfeed being temporarily yanked.
> His address is: donz@ui.org so if there is anything you would like him
> to peruse, feel free to send it to him (he must be rather bored right now).
> 
> -jtrue

john, that is true, and though it was true, it is no longer true.


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: nikolay@husc10.harvard.edu (Philip Nikolayev)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Synopsis
Date: 24 Nov 92 05:22:23 GMT
Article-I.D.: husc10.NIKOLAY.92Nov23212223
Organization: The Kremlin Wall of Harvard
In-reply-to: bzahniser@hayes.com's message of 23 Nov 92 21:26:32 GMT

bzahniser@hayes.com writes:

>    A brief synopsis
>    ----------------
>  
>    Moving away slowly
>    as if carried by a powerful
>    but languid river:
>    friends
>    family
>    favorite television programs
>    sons, daughters
>    grandchildren
>    presidents
>    air
>    light.

Yeah, but you forgot the vice-presidential potatoe.

Philip Nikolayev
nikolay@husc.harvard.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: newbeb@bray1a.its.rpi.edu (Brian Samuel Newberry)
Subject: Love
Reply-To: newbeb@rpi.edu
Organization: Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, NY.
Date: Sun, 22 Nov 1992 20:11:14 GMT


  Love

A glance,
A glimpse,
A flick of an eye.

A hope,
A dream,
A reach for the sky.

A heart,
A soul,
A burning inside.

A slip,
A fall,
A tear to be cried.

I rise,
I stand,
I have to try.

	-Brian Newberry
	    2/20/92


Constructive C+C are welcome.

"The bridges we cross before we come to 
    them are over rivers that aren't there."

			-Unknown

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems