HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: root@bing.UUCP (Administrator)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: poem (c&c valued greatly)
Date: 29 Dec 92 09:11:15 GMT
Organization: Bing's Rubber Chicken Factory -- "Our clucks are boneless."

mogadishu
baidoa
faces
skin pulled tight over baren skulls
holes for eyes
you can fill their stomaches with food
strength will return to fill their bodies
but what under god's heaven
could you possibly use
to fill those holes
they have for eyes?

12/26/92
bhb

--
Bing H Bang                                  +---------------------------+
Senior Systems Analyst                       | This is my home computer. |
National Data Corporation, Atlanta, GA       | I do not speak for NDC.   |
uucp: gatech!wittsend!bing!root              +---------------------------+
From: alpope@acacia.Eng.Sun.COM (Alan L. Pope)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Perhaps....
Date: 1 Jan 1993 03:42:24 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc., Mountain View, CA, USA
NNTP-Posting-Host: vichon


                          Perhaps....

                      Here we are again
                      at the rose garden;
                      watching the footsteps
                      wonder down the path
                      we did not take.

                      Smelling columbine,
                      iris and jasmine
                      which we did not
                      know were here before;
                      hearing echoes of
                      laugther we did not.

                      Between the dilemma
                      where the walls close
                      predicitons of another
                      smile arise with dawn
                      from that other future.

                      This bouquet of flowers
                      warms but may not be
                      in me as the eternal
                      mood of the bleak winds
                      over sunless cliffs
                      and of grey waters.
--
"I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several
 weeks." -- Daniel Boone.		Alan Pope <alan.pope@Eng.Sun.COM>

From: larryw@hplsla.hp.com (Larry Whatley)
Date: Fri, 11 Dec 1992 16:33:30 GMT
Subject: Poem: Wind Chimes
Organization: HP Lake Stevens, WA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems



             On Hearing Wind Chimes Saved
            From My Mother-in-law's Estate


          Winter's breath has found my balcony
          and plays upon the chimes
          in keys I have not heard before.
          A year ago they sang
          on salt air in the Islands
          like voices calling from Lipari,
          but having no rapport with gods
          they found themselves in Christmas
          mail bound for South Dakota,
          island air a memory, ringing.
          In March they sang parts with birds
          returning to the Black Hills, carefree
          at first, but slowing
          in the worried coda
          to her last blunt summer.
          Tonight I listen from my pillow
          like Odysseus before the mast,
          hearing them clink like china
          teeth chanting odes to spring.


- Larry Whatley
  12/11/92
  Snow!  near Seattle.  Rare.  Wonderful!
Organization: Bar-Ilan University Computing Center, Israel
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 1992 12:23:13 IST
From: <X67107@BARILVM.BITNET>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Fucking..(Don't Read)

Please No C&C....This wont go in my collected works. I never wrote it.

              2 Fuck With Fuck

      Fucking is one fucking risky bussiness
      In this Fucking day and Fucking age of aids

      And any fucking morality implied
      Is Bloody fucking well denied.

      Besides fucking veses like this
      Have no significence, or fucking bliss

      So my message today:
           2 Fuck with Fuck I say
              There must be a better way
                   To pass the fucking day

      Unless one is a fucking penis head
       With fucking penis-breath

      Or a fucking load of constipated shit
       Up in the head instead fucking brain


         Fuck you
         Go fuck your self
         Fuck face
         Faithless Motherfuck
         Fucking Farthing Fuckface
         Fucking nigger
         Fucking Jew
         Fucking Fag
         Fucking Forigner
         Frantic Fuckerr
You're A Fucking Marshian too
         Go Fuck your friend untill they're blue


I hope You get the message. This 'poem' is not copyrighted. Feel free to
copy it under any name (except mine)
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: ANNOUNCEMENT (was: Re: Critical Comments and a Bonfire Carol (was: Re: STORM))
Date: 3 Jan 93 14:11:28 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

gorokho1@husc10.harvard.edu (Zhenya Gorokhovsky) writes:

> part. It's time to announce what many must have already guessed anyway
> (incidentally, Tom Watchel was one of the first). So here goes:

Wachtel. I'd hate anyone to think I was using a nom de plume or
masquerading in any way...

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Spirit of Christmas
Date: 30 Dec 92 20:24:32 GMT
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago

Spirit of Christmas


Christmas muzak blaring,
sings of hope and caring
as busy ants rush to and fro.

Harried mothers trying
to please the kids by buying
the latest Mario Brothers Nintendo.

Poster child is staring,
begs for pennies sharing;
assuage your guilt, avert your eyes and go.


*****

M.A. Mohanraj
Connecticut
December 28, 1992

-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
From: dan@jonas.berkeley.edu (dan graves)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: new and improved / dan graves
Date: 4 Jan 1993 01:30:29 GMT
Organization: University of California, Berkeley
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: jonas.berkeley.edu


my friend, she dies.
she has always been dying.
her muscles aeat
rotting slowly within her.
her heart a jewel
in crumbled burning house.

she is not sad.
i have never heard her cry.
she grabs all life
and squeezes it in her joy,
with bony hands
that can't lift a beer bottle.

wish i could trade.
give to her beautiful soul
my strong body.
let my black heart die sooner
in her shell
and let the living one live.

dan graves
dan@barkley.berkeley.edu


i posted this earlier with a bunch of capital
letters for emphasis and i don't think it 
worked so well.  So i changed that and a few 
other things and now i think it works much better.
This if for an old friend with muscular dystropy.
If you have any comments about this poem,
please post them or mail them to me.
From: wsh1@quads.uchicago.edu (Wells S. Hansen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: language rhetoric
Date: 2 Jan 93 23:47:05 GMT
Reply-To: wsh1@midway.uchicago.edu
Distribution: na
Organization: University of Chicago Department of Classics


	   	
	   Forbidden
	   __________

	
	   After work each day
	   My neighbor shines his car and 
	   Trims his hedge and lawn. 

	   Forbidden to smoke
	   In the house, he takes his tools
	   And habit outside 

	   Where I pass the time
	   With him to see his daughters, 
	   Young and protected

	   In the smoke-free house. 
	   Perfectly they glide away
	   In the shining car. 



-- 
Wells S. Hansen -Classics Research, Thayer Classical Institute
wsh1@midway.uchicago.edu
tegray@phoenix.princeton.edu
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (riene des tournesols)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: by request / dan graves
Date: 30 Dec 1992 00:01:07 GMT
Organization: Singing Spider Ranch, Walking on Water and Fire Division
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: hardy.u.washington.edu

What I wrote to Dan- 

 dan@jonas.berkeley.edu (dan graves) writes:
>i saw Jesus in berkeley today.
>
>his Eyes burned
> atop his frail cage of Bones.
>his Hair hung down
> over thin Shoulders.
>i hear those Shoulders
> can carry the Pain of the world.
>
>but i don't Believe it.
>
>
>dan graves
>dan@barkley,berkeley.edu
>
yes! this is the one! ah!  at the time even I was sad that I had somehow
lost it.  I had connected the images of jesus and berkeley, and for one
reason or another I had a mental picture (the way I tend to remember things) 
of Jesus in Berkeley, maybe walking through the fire, 
maybe in the flames of the fire....  hmmmm.  in anycase, I didn't see this
as a "religious poem", rather something more symbolic.  An abstract of some
object/person that was more of a jesus-stand-in. 

Over Christmas my brother and I had a dicussion about why Jesus appears in
his (my brother Bob's) artwork so much.  It is not a specific religious 
meaning for him, but rather an icon.

-Rebecca
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Soul ....Z.
Date: 27 Dec 1992 08:14:08 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu



          SOUL


Uncontrolled chain reactions of nuclear emotions,
Fireballs of greed and hate and helplesness
Sear the city .
Pounding surges of primal screams,
Raging fires of bottled-up minds and spirits
Explode in undulating waves
And the world cries for her ... for this city,
This Los Angeles.


Watch your backs ... dodge the bullets
On your way to school ...
Cry at the funeral of a young man
You saw yesterday ... laughing at the sunshine
And the world cries for her ... for this city,
This Los Angeles.


In the streets, rainbows of sweaty city folks sweep
The burn-out shells of a million memories ...
And a trickle of hope emerges
From the parched and ashen earth ...
And the world smiles through its tears
With this city ...
This Los Angeles.


On the phosphor screen ...
Messages from EveryCity, USA took us
For a rollercoaster ride
And brought laughter amidst
Orange blossoms under an electric blue sky.
In spring.


Muchas gracias por nuestros almas.

          
            ***

zita maria evensen
c1992, may 16th


-- 
.. i am a romantic .... no apologies ......
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Fatherlove  (c&c welcome)
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago
Date: Wed, 30 Dec 1992 15:14:49 GMT

Fatherlove

"You're driving your mother to depression!"
	"You have no idea what my life is like!"
"You never ask for our advice!"
	"You always hammer it at me anyway!"

another spate of angry words dies
to sullen silence; the wedge between us
driven deeper

	once we shared an easy communion,
	both fascinated by a six-year old's 
	question of why the sky was blue

but now I don't always look to you for answers

I have failed you	You have failed me
straying off that	not trusting in my
carefully prepared	newfound judgement
path to success,	too risky that I 
wealth, happiness	might be right

no way past the conviction that each of us knows the answers

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
Connecticut
December 29, 1992


-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: Jesus on a Stick Burning with Pastrami -- jchien
Organization: The Land of Flowers (Stanford U.)
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 92 20:32:15 GMT



	[Thanks to Michael Lichter for the inspiring the title
	and imagery.]




	Jesus on a Stick Burning with Pastrami


	The second coming
	came from the hands of cuisine innovators 
	on Christmas night.  The streets were dark,
	the stores closed for the holidays,
	and only the Jewish restaurants
	welcomed the earth with open doors.

	Three white-robed men
	carrying foil-wrapped presents and acrid incense
	entered the restaurant.  They sat apart
	from the rest, and even their menu was of another sort
	(I could tell from the straw manger and horses on the cover
	instead of rye).  They discussed what to order,
	throwing out choices such as "Lamb with Onions and Cream",
	"Pasta made with Extra Virgin Olive Oil", "Cheese
	Wafers and Wine", "Fish Loaves and Breadsticks",
	and even "Bloody Mary".  Apparently these offerings
	weren't miraculous enough for such a holy feast.

	They quietly called over the Jewish manager,
	gesticulating in a manner that demanded
	improved service or public embarrassment.  He nodded,
	then hurriedly talked to the chief cook.  They argued
	and nearly came to fists, but with a fluorish
	they finally presented a silver-lined, cloudy white menu --
	the plastic cover shining as if newly ordained.
	Opening the menu with their fingertips,
	the three men examined the fresh offering carefully.
	As if on a cue, they said, "Yes, one, please:
	'Jesus on a Stick Burning with Pastrami.'"

	The chef began to stir, mix, and fry,
	flipping a small piece of flesh on a pan.
	In a few minutes, he dressed it on a stick,
	and slipped pastrami on the other end.
	He brought it to the three men, then with a lighter,
	he set the stick on fire.  One white-robed man
	took the flaming stick, shaped in a cross,
	and held it above his head as he stood on the table.
	     "The time has come!" he declared.
	"Behold, the second coming of Christ!"

	The patrons turned to look, and the figure
	on the cross, dressed in white,
	came to life and screamed in agony.
	The voice was soft but we could all hear, 
	"The fire! Put out the fire!"



		-- jennifer crystal chien

c/c welcome, as always.
From: sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (   Wilde Dame)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Have / Sheryl
Date: 21 Dec 92 19:13:12 GMT
Organization: Seattle University
NNTP-Posting-Host: sumax.seattleu.edu


	Have
	----------------------------------------------------

	One cannot make love to the stars. It simply
	isn't possible.  

	I can hold your hand, though, in my mind's eye
	and I can keep you inside me through the tired dark midnight
	with the memory of a kiss.

	I can have you in all the ways
	cliches have never thought of.


('have' is one of those words that begins to look like you've spelled it
wrong if you look too closely... :) )
-- 
       Sheryl Stover  %  If you ask me what I have come to do in the world,
  & Hemingway & Clio  %  I who am an artist, I will reply: "I am here to
sstover@seattleu.edu  %  live aloud."                    -Emile Zola
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: geologic jiggle    / Z.
Date: 30 Dec 1992 17:34:24 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)
Reply-To: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
NNTP-Posting-Host: hela.ins.cwru.edu



            geologic jiggle

five ayem ....beautiful cool clear morning
sleeping giant under california desert
awakened to enjoy the sunrise ...
for one minute.

stretches his arms
among the cacti 
and gnarly joshua trees...
and caused a seven-point-four
geologic jiggle  ...
woke me up on time
for my tennis game.

at eight ayem, the giant yawned
and started to wiggle
with an aftershock of six-point-five ...
made me miss
my perfectly executed
tennis sm ... sma ...  smash.

this is getting ridiculous!

        ***

zita maria evensen
c1992,july 4th
-- 

.. you cannot touch without being touched ... third law of motion ...
From: jeannie@scri.fsu.edu (Wicked Witch )
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Funny/answer to 12 days of Christmas
Date: 22 Dec 92 20:05:29 GMT

Last year I got the first three verses of
this off the net, someone was asking if 
anyone knew the rest.  I didnUt but I took it, 
changed the first three verses somewhat and then 
finished it.  I hope you all enjoy it.


On the first day after Christmas,
My true love and I had a fight
So I chopped the pear tree down
And shot the partridge just for spite.

On the second day after Christmas,
I put on a pair of old gloves,
And gently wrung the necks
Of both those stupid turtle doves.

On the third day after Christmas,
My dear old mother got the croup.
So I took those 3 French hens,
And made her some chicken soup.

The 4 calling birds were a mistake,
Their language was terribly obscene;
Of course the 5 golden rings were fake:
They turned my fingers Greeeeeeen.

On the sixth day after Christmas,
Extremely cold weather came around
So I killed those 6 noisy geese
and made a jacket filled with down.

On the seventh day after Christmas,
I shot those 7 swans a swimming
I had to do it donUt you see
they was chasing all the women.

On the eighth day after Christmas,
I had milk up to my eyes
and if that wasnUt bad enough
I had cow shit up to my thighs.

On the ninth day after Christmas,
I took a hammer to those pipes
youUd have thought I killed the Pope
if you heard those pipers gripe.

On the tenth day after Christmas,
IUd learned every dance there is to know
so without a single guilty thought
I threw those dancing ladies out in the snow.

But there is one thing I will admit
about those 11 Lords a leaping
and 12 drummers drumming
IUm not crazy, those IUm keeping!



          Jeannie West (12/22/92)

If you don't care where you are, then you can't be lost.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--By the fire
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 24 Dec 92 14:47:42 GMT


                                By the fire

Comfort comes hard
by the fire
singing howls back at the night
we wear the skins of wolves
include their natures in our own
our vestments the souls of all other life
we sit around the warmth a recapitulation of every other creature
who ever roamed this earth
and lived under the bright dying light we call sun.








-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Mags
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Wed, 30 Dec 92 22:56:55 GMT


                                Mags

I knew I could win
the lottery sponsored by the giant magazine distributor
it was instant realization--
surely, if I bought all their magazines
I would be a certain winner
and the cost would be a merest pittance
taken from my ten million dollar prize
I bought all the magazines (seven hundred together)
on credit against my winnings
I was sure
had that gambler's feeling
that certain itch
that tells me right now
I am the winner
as I sit here in my little magazine house.




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Sat, 2 Jan 1993 05:07:06 GMT
Subject: Re: ANNOUNCEMENT (was: Re: Critical Comments and a Bonfire Carol (was: Re: STORM))
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, gorokho1@husc10.harvard.edu (Zhenya Gorokhovsky) writes:

> I feel somewhat awkward about having received email expressions of 
> approval and sympathy - I really had no intention of fooling anyone
> personally, but the show had to go on. My apologies to anyone who
> feels offended; but I had intended to make this revelation at some
> point anyway.

Offended?  Not at all.  Very amusing.  Nice trick.

doug
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Gothic Romance, Revisited
Date: 3 Jan 93 04:38:49 GMT
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago

Gothic Romance, Revisited


He appeared
In the midst of the crowd.
Garbed in black,
And I in white lace.

(it had always been a fantasy
	of mine
to be carried off by a man in black
	I explained
as we danced that New Year's)

With an evil laugh
He swept me up in powerful arms,
And carried me down
The dark corridor.

(depositing me gently on
	the dining
room floor, where we smiled
	foolishly
at each other for a moment)

Then he disappeared
Without a word
Down the dark corridor
And was lost among the crowd.


*****

M.A. Mohanraj
January 2, 1993

-- 
i thank you God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of the trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes		 - e.e.cummings
From: beh@kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu (various Howellses)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: there are no stars
Date: 29 Dec 92 20:51:56
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: kropotkin.gnu.ai.mit.edu


There are no stars here.
In the bright skies of home,
even to my blinded eyes,
streams of heavenly light pour down.
Night walks in crisp snow,
the only sound that of silence
and the stepping of boots in the frozen white.
And above,
above, there are point lights of stars,
each blue-white, screaming light into endless darkness.
Here, there are no stars.
I am sure that if I could look past the
always shining lights,
there might be stars,
but maybe not --
stars are more discriminating,
and perhaps wouldn't stand the
always noise and fear of here.
No, there are no stars,
here.

--nalh
29 December, 1992
Somerville, Massachusetts
--
If it's me, it's not the other one.  If it's the other one, it's not me.
But then again, we're basically one and the same... oh bother, we're
--Various Howellses (Bruce and/or Nancy)
beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu
From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Christmas gift - for John True
Date: 22 Dec 92 17:41:29 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054


You Should Have Used Your Own Wings


I ducked the flutterplosion,
but feathers flossed my body
and my fingers stood there flying.

Your silver helmet, your leather boots
tickling your thighs, and a lilting laser
all had the pleasure of melting with you.

I bite my nails, read the Gossamer Entrails,
turn to page fifty three, as close as I dare
to the obituaries.

Through the text I see the square
of your chiaroscuro face and hair.
My fingers stand here flying.

My little ones, have you gone numb?
Is this mutiny against my thumb?
Do you carry messages?

Frankly, I miss the down of you,
that soft place for my nose and cheek
and of course my lips.

Frankly, I miss your wings,
I miss your brutish flapping
and your divine insinuations.

Now I have a picture of the hero
in his entranceway, one knee up,
one leg straight.

The wind tries to push him off,
but the miserable inertia of this medium
keeps him still and strong.


Posthumous O'Toole
12-22-92
for JTrue
-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???
From: dan@barkley.berkeley.edu (dan graves)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: for the dying / dan graves
Date: 29 Dec 1992 08:47:42 GMT
Organization: University of California, Berkeley
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: barkley.berkeley.edu

This if for an old friend with muscular dystropy

my Friend, she Dies.
she has Always been dying.
her muscles Meat
rotting slowly withIn her.
her Heart a jewel
in crumbled Burning house.

she is Not sad.
i have Never heard her cry.
she grabs all Life
and Squeezes Joy out of it
with bony Hands
that can't Lift a Beer bottle.

wish i could Trade.
Give to her beautiful soul
my Strong body.
let my Black heart die Sooner
in her Shell
and let the Living one Live.

dan graves
dan@barkley.berkeley.edu


If you have any comments about this poem,
please post them or mail them to me.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kt1@herahera.cc.bellcore.com (tellefsen,karen a)
Subject: From Airplane Windows
Organization: Bellcore, Livingston, NJ
Date: Wed, 30 Dec 92 14:16:40 GMT


From Airplane Windows

Patchwork quilts of green and brown
Bold squares inscribed with circles
Fractal textures red and black
Pleats falling into patterns

Black silk veils all glitter spun
With threads of gold and silver
Shroud the earth at eventide
As seen from airplane windows

12/92

-----------------------------------------
 The news poster gives a bad address;
 send e-mail to kt1@cc.bellcore.com  
 or it will be lost in the ascii aether.
 Karen Tellefsen

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems