HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: colette@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Colette Marine)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: January / Richard Gassan
Date: 26 Jan 93 23:24:32 GMT
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.


Richard asked me to post this for him, as he is unable to post.


January

The sun appeared today,
in a rare show.
Usually, we live in a grey cave,
our ceiling moving but rarely blue.
A useful time, this,
for seeing our trees' straight limbs,
the lay of the land,
and the pasture's state.

I remember forward to June, of the shore's
stiff winds, which push me out
and clean me.
The sun, shining so high and warm,
is then sometimes a too-close acquaintance,
an overstaying guest.
But I welcome her anyway.

Richard Gassan (Gassan@ouvaxa.cats.ohiou.edu)
January 25, 1993
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: Travels
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 16:43:10 GMT

> lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter) writes:

>	Travels
>	------------------------------------------------------
>
>	The city.  The Golden City.  
>	He stopped just outside and took
>	a hatchet to the faded yellow kayak.
>	Night and no money for a room.
>	The curved wood burnt brightly.
>	Paint shriveled and cracked 
>	looking the way his skin felt when he 
>	approached a furnace too closely.
>
>	The kayak had been lashed to the 
>	worn vinyl top of the bluish car
>	when he bought it.  Old Tom said he
>	couldn't bear to cut that rope, the
>	mysterious silky rope that held it.
>	Old Tom was sentimental, he thought.
>	Still, in respect he worked two hours
>	trying to untie before severing the
>	cat's cradle with that rusty hatchet.
>
>	The road to the city was black and
>	empty except for the faded lines and
>	scattered stones.  Squatting on the
>	sand, he pulled a lemur salad sandwich
>	out of what had been a camera bag.
>	The camera was long gone, smashed on
>	a rock, its springy guts spread in
>	hidden fragments amongst the damp 
>	rainforest undergrowth.  It had been
>	possessed.  Spirits.  It shot souls
>	like bullets, penetrating the eyes and
>	conquering the subject, a 50mm dybbuk.  
>	The villagers kept pestering him 
>	about the urban proletariat and the role
>	of the intellectual in a workers' state.
>	Damn East Germans.
>
>	The Golden City glowed orange in its
>	protective layer of fog.  His fire
>	crackled.  He had spiced the lemur
>	salad with rose petals.  It was good.
>	Except for stray bits of fur,
>	which burnt in little grey puffs
>	when he spat them into the fire.
>	From the trunk he pulled his fine
>	catskin coat, not strictly legal, 
>	but it made him feel regal and true.
>	He wondered again if he had seen 
>	any of them alive, moaning in the 
>	moonlight, or hiding under a bush.
>
>	A car whooshed by, eating the breathless
>	miles to the Golden City.  His wet
>	eyes followed the red lights along
>	the bare road across the aching desert.
>	But he would not betray the darkness.
>	He threw another kayak rib on the
>	fire and lay down for sleep.
>
>		Michael Lichter
>		January 21, 1993

Lovely.  Aching desert, lemur sandwiches, kayaks as firewood, dialectical
east Germans, posessed cameeras, and coats made of cats (she-cats, I
trust).  The only thing that is missing (in this darkness) is tabouli.

Still, to have a kayak grace the verse with a lemur, though both in
an advanced state of entropy, is cozy as bliss.  Hi Aileen!  smooch.

thanks Michael.

				-- Marek
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Danny-Boy)
Subject: Re: Idea Economy
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Thu, 28 Jan 1993 15:55:32 GMT

I wrote and could not remember the title:
>a book called something like "spectacle"? written by a French author

This is "Society of the Spectacle" Guy Debord.


(currently busy reading other things though)
-- 
sheilah@wam.umd.edu
And yet nothing has been changed except what is
Unreal, as if nothing had been changed at all.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ga@mrih.no (Gard Abrahamsen)
Subject: Parent Sitter
Organization: More og Romsdal Ingeniorhogskole
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL8]
Date: Mon, 25 Jan 93 10:22:51 GMT

	Parent Sitter
====================================
	the TV is watching my mother
	now and then, it looks after
	my father, too.
	all night.
	all day.
	and I can do anything
	as long as I get back
	to put my parents to sleep.
	I can't let them see
	the late night stuff...
	======================================================================
					Gard Eggesboe Abrahamsen Jan 23rd 1993


     _____
    / o o \  <== Self portrait
===OO=====OO=================================================================
= Gard Eggesboe Abrahamsen                         PO Box 5061, Larsgaarden =
= Gard.Abrahamsen@mrih.no                             6021 Aalesund, Norway =
= finger ga@samson.mrih.no and read the .plan           (still the old one) =
=============================================================================
    \_/ \_/  <== shoe size 42            ^^^ reduced .signature
From: RMacMichael@cup.portal.com (Ryan - MacMichael)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: STANZA
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 93 10:53:00 PST
Organization: The Portal System (TM)

Here once again are the submission requirements for STANZA online poetry
magazine:

 
STANZA, the free online poetry magazine 
ISSN 1063-8377 
 
US Mail: 
------- 
22 Lightning Dr 
Medford NJ 08055-9752 
 
E-mail: 
------ 
GEnie     --  R.MACMICHAEL 
InterNet  --  rmacmichael@cup.portal.com 
 
How to Submit 
------------- 
You may simply send your poems -- preferably via e-mail, though US mail 
is also acceptable -- and I'll look at them.  If you wish, you may include 
a short bio and list of past publications, but it's not necessary. 
 
Please be sure exactly how you want your name to appear, should your work 
be accepted, as well as any special instructions for the printing of your 
piece. 
 
What to Submit 
-------------- 
We are looking for any sort of poetry.  Once our submission volume increases, 
we may have themed issues, but for now anything will do. 
 
We are also looking for reviews of poetry collections, videos, retreats, 
whatever.  We'll also look at any short articles on the life of a poet. 
 
Basically, send us something.  We'll consider it. 
 
If you would like us to review a poetry collection of yours that is being 
made available, feel free to send a reviewer's copy to the above US Mail 
address. 
 
Response Time 
------------- 
I will usually be able to get back to you within a week. 
 
Payment & Rights 
---------------- 
STANZA is a non-profit magazine, so at this time we cannot offer any money 
to contributors.  However, all we ask for is the right to print your work 
electronically once and distribute via the modem. 
 
Other Stuff 
----------- 
STANZA is an online magazine, not a print magazine.  This helps conserve 
paper as well as advance the electronic publishing market.  STANZA is a member 
of the Disktop Publishing Association (DPA). 
 
STANZA is distributed on GEnie, on the rec.arts.poems conference on the 
UseNet, and on many of the larger national BBSes. 
 
Please feel free to e-mail me with any questions.
Organization: University of Illinois at Chicago
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1993 14:09:33 CST
From: <U49839@uicvm.uic.edu>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: one,two,three (C&C needed)



nice



jimbobwe
u40824@uicvm.uic.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Re: Idea Economy
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Thu, 28 Jan 1993 17:54:09 GMT

In article <C1KoLq.180@fc.hp.com> daq@fc.hp.com (Doug Quarnstrom) writes:

>Danny-Boy (sheilah@wam.umd.edu) wrote:
...
>: an ecology of ideas - might fit more, because I was making
>: an observation on survival traits of ideas. etc etc
>
>Curious coincidence as I have been pondering lately a rather
>Hegelian idea of the possibility of the evolution of 
>intelligence through the competition of ideas.

I don't see anyting Hegelian in it, but this sounds within spitting
distance of zoologist Richard Dawkins' ideas in the last chapter of
_The Selfish Gene_.  Check out also _The Extended Phenotype_, _The Blind
Watchmaker_ and the book chapter in _Artificial Life_, Chris Langton, ed.,
on biomorphs.

				-- Marek
From: paleblue@byron.u.washington.edu (Hermes)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: trip
Date: 25 Jan 1993 14:59:34 GMT
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle
NNTP-Posting-Host: byron.u.washington.edu


My Trip

I tripped on the big white moon,
I sipped turtle soup with a spoon,
I had some cratered cheese
and asked politely with a "please"
for Diane to pour the wine
once Dion inspected the vine,
but while taking my coffee with cream,
I found out I was the turtle's dream
and so before he becam alert,
I skipped directly to dessert.

-Hermes
January 25

-- 
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT  Theresa "Hermes" Bock
TTTTTTT_____    _____TTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTT    TTTTTTTTTTTT  paleblue@byron.u.washington.edu  
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Slightly less than perfect(poem)
From: jarney@jupiter.cse.utoledo.edu (jonathan arney)
Date: 24 Jan 93 17:46:43 EST

                   Slightly less than perfect

I lounge across a torn chair,
Cigarette dangling from my lips.
Mystified, I watch as she scrubs the floor,
Voilently.
Curtains are ripped from the walls,
Washed, ironed and rehung.
She dashes around frantically,
Refusing any of my offers,
Refusing to be helped.
Hours later, exhausted and crying,
She rushes through her shower,
Perfecting her makeup,
Erasing all traces of fatigue from her pale face.
By six o'clock, she is as immaculate as her house
And dinner is waiting, warm on the stove.
I smoke nervously, secretly annoyed.
We wait.
At seven o'clock he is home.
Later, as I'm quietly leaving,
She smiles at me through bleeding lips.
Tomorrow, I'll be perfect.

	       E. A. Burnett

"Tomorrow, I'll be perfect.
D
D

Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:13903 alt.cyberpunk:7128 alt.romance:16297 alt.romance.chat:23795
From: ga@mrih.no (Gard Abrahamsen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,alt.cyberpunk,alt.romance,alt.romance.chat
Subject: Ode to Cyberspace (C&C Welcome)
Date: 22 Jan 93 10:18:08 GMT
Organization: KJAKAH productions
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL8]

Prophetical note: Even though Cyber-discos would be great, it really don't beat
the real thing. In the future, perhaps, with VR IRC & stuff... B^))

		ODE TO CYBERSPACE
==================================
		Dance, dance,
		see me dance
		do nothing but
		dance, dance,
		to the rhythm,
		dance, see the
		lights dance
		over my head
		dancing on me
		we dance together
		till I can'tech,
		no I dance
		hopp hopp on
		no dance floor
	       ==============================================================
			Gard Eggesboe Abrahamsen, January 22nd 1993 at 3 am

     _____
    / o o \  <== Self portrait
===OO=====OO=================================================================
= Gard Eggesboe Abrahamsen                         PO Box 5061, Larsgaarden =
= Gard.Abrahamsen@mrih.no                             6021 Aalesund, Norway =
= finger ga@samson.mrih.no and read the .plan           (still the old one) =
=============================================================================
    \_/ \_/  <== shoe size 42            ^^^ reduced .signature
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: Marmalade Haiku (C&C Crystal Clear Cola)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 05:49:09 GMT

------------------------------------------
London Dorm Breakfast Haiku
                         by Jack Szwergold
------------------------------------------

Orange marmalade
spreads gently
over shitty toast


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: A Quinn-Martin Production (C&C Cola is tasty)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 03:11:03 GMT

----------------------------------------------------
If I were a TV show....
                                   by Jack Szwergold
----------------------------------------------------
If I were a TV show
I'd be a
_Quinn/Martin Production_

Like
Barnaby Jones
or
The Rockford Files
or
The Streets of San Francisco
or
Columbo
or
Quincy.

That way, when I die
my shows would be rerunned forever.

And all of my family
and all the world
would be able to watch me
and say,
"Wow.  Don't that guy's clothes look funny."

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lichter@oahu.cs.ucla.edu (Michael I. Lichter)
Subject: Louise Gluck: Two Poems
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 93 08:12:26 GMT

	I've been getting flamed a bunch lately.  I don't know if this
	is because I'm posting too much and boring people, posting too
	much and offending people, or just posting too much.  Since I
	am posting someone else's stuff, this is a good test to
	distinguish between the first two and the third.

	Louise Gluck was born in 1943 in New York City.  She has taught
	at various universities and lives in Vermont.

	What I like about her work, especially in these two poems, is
	the depth and enigmatic character of her imagery, and the
	surprise she builds into the poems (especially the first one).
	Reading her work, I find myself frequently unable to figure out
	what she is doing, what this particular combination of words or
	images is supposed to represent, but at the same time feeling
	that it's right, that it fits.

	Gender relations and what it means to be a sexual being seem
	to be at the core of much of her work, and I appreciate that.

	Also, she reminds me a little bit of our long lost Marie Coffin
	(where are you Marie?).

	These poems are excerpted from _The Vintage Book of
	Contemporary American Poetry_, edited by J.D. McClatchy, 1990,
	Vintage Books, New York.


	Palais des Arts
	-----------------------------------------------------------

	Love long dormant showing itself:
	the large expected gods
	caged really, the columns
	sitting on the lawn, as though perfection
	were not timeless but stationary--that
	is the comedy, she thinks,
	that they are paralyzed.  Or like the matching swans,
	insular, circling the pond: restraint so passionate
	implies possession.  They hardly speak.
	On the other bank, a small boy throws bits of bread
	into the water.  The reflected monument
	is stirred, briefly, stricken with light--
	She can't touch his arm in innocence agin.
	The have to give that up and begin
	as male and female, thrust and ache.



	Mock Orange
	-----------------------------------------------------------

	It is not the moon, I tell you.
	It is these flowers
	lighting the yard.

	I hate them.
	I hate them as much as I hate sex,
	the man's mouth
	sealing my mouth, the man's
	paralyzing body--

	and the cry that always escapes,
	the low, humiliating
	premise of union--

	In my mind tonight
	I hear the question and pursuing answer
	fused in one sound
	that mounts and mounts and then
	is split into the old selves,
	the tired antagonisms.  Do you see?
	We were made fools of.
	And the scent of mock orange
	drifts through the window.

	How can I rest?
	How can I be content
	when there is still
	that odor in the world?
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sl870@neptune.ee.usu.edu (The Gargonator)
Subject: enough
Organization: Utah State University
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 01:18:06 GMT









                       

                         see the light
                         feel the warmth
                         hear the sound
                         it is enough
                         to










Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Influence
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Wed, 20 Jan 1993 15:59:02 GMT

-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: "my body is like a stray dog..." / Halina Poswiatowska / trans: Marek
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 07:43:56 GMT


Halina Poswiatowska in translation, #51.

If you would like to receive a file with first 40 translations from 1990/91
drop me a note.  If you want a random sample of one or several, it's no
trouble.  Includes Polish text.  The translations #41 through #50 are also
available.

draft translation from Polish to English:

		untitled ("my body is like a stray dog...") [Marek #51,
			 p. 345 of _Wiersze Wybrane_ (Selected Poems)]
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		my body is like a stray dog
		if it steals the bone of caress, it will steal from the sun
		later people will say -- this is lyricism of love
		but it is really red fibers of solitude

		garbage dumps of emotions -- it is envious even of them
		it will tiptoe around a prostitute with a soldier
		it will smile to a she-cat streaking under a fence
		it will whisper good night to the birds braced against the wall

		and so losing its way it will await the steep dawn
		stray -- more and more unnecessary to itself
		less and less knowing and understanding
		more and more astonished...
		
		
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1966
			translated by

			Marek Lugowski
			22 January 1993
			Chicago, Illinois


		[Translator's note: Tough poem.  I'd appreciate
		 alternative idioms and phrases to get across
	         the meaning i laid out on the page.]


		"moje cialo jest jak bezpanski pies..."
			(p. 345, _Wiersze Wybrane_)
		-------------------------------------------------------------

		moje cialo jest jak bezpanski pies
		jesli skradnie kosc pieszczoty to chyba sloncu
		ludzie potem mowia -- liryka milosna
	
		smietniki uczuc -- nawet tym zazdrosci
		prostytutke z zolnierzem ominie na palcach
		usmiechnie sie do plotem przemykajacej kotki
		szepnie dobranoc ptakom przywartym do muru

		i tak bladzac doczeka wysokiego switu
		bezpanskie -- coraz bardziej sobie niepotrzebne
		coraz mniej umiejace i rozumiejace
		coraz bardziej zdumione...
		

			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1966.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jis@panix.com (Linus Van Pelt)
Subject: Burritos (C&C music factory welcome)
Organization: PANIX Public Access Unix, NYC
Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1993 01:39:42 GMT

----------------------------------------------------
Burrito
                                   by Jack Szwergold
----------------------------------------------------

Man
Man oh man.
Am I congested.
My sinuses feel like huge Burritos
But they aren't.
Because they're filled with
beans
and
meat
and
stuff,
but my sinuses are filled with
just plain old,
stuff.

Mmmm.
They would be nice to eat right now.
As long as they are filled with beans
and meat
and stuff,
and not stuff
like the stuff up my nose.

The thought of eating something like that
makes me wanna puke.
And if I puked now,
the puke's color would be
olive green
or
burnt sienna
or
greasy yellow
or
lilac
or
mauve
or
just puke color.

I turned on the TV.
Flipped some channels.
Watched some guy spray "hair" on his head
"Oooohhhh Aaaaaah"
The "audience" said.
That's interesting.
Spraying paint on your bald head.

Man am I a loser.
Boy am I a loser.
Here on my bed.
With my Burrito sinuses in my head.
Watching bald men spray paint
on their skulls.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Serious
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1993 17:25:09 GMT


                                Serious

We sit on the steps trailing the apartment out to the street
as if we sat on the tongue of a lolling animal
prone on summer pavement
we sit and talk
it is all serious as children are
even when they are merry
because it is all about the world we can see and touch
with our honest hands honest eyes of seven
and it is now years later
and we are still serious children
now grown up.





-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: bu016@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Zita Marie Evensen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: umbrella    /   z.
Date: 23 Jan 1993 07:49:09 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




Does anyone have  'umbrella' poems to share?  Here's mine. Not quite
tight. Need help all over, but esp with the bag lady.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------


                 umbrella
               _____________              
         
waiting for the ferry, you and i stand
awkwardly and shyly   ...  afar.
eyes speaking litanies ...
fingers aching to touch  and be touched.

soft rain dances about
cooling my hot cheeks ...
i look at the flower patterns
Of rain drops on the smooth pebbles.
i stare into the mist ... wishing.

eyes mischievously sparkling,
a bag lady saunters by ...
and with a weathered raspy voice
and impish smile says:
'dear, go share your umbrella.'


            ***



zita maria evensen
c1993, jan 22


--
From: tara@allen.com (Tara Calishain)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: To the one..
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 93 21:33:22 EST
Organization: Allen Marketing Group - Raleigh, NC

who wanted the Inagural poem. I have it but I have neither the time or 
the inclination to type in the 100 lines that it 'tis. If you send me 
your mailing address I'll photocopy it and send it to you.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: an exerpt of Charles Bukowski's writing
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.
Date: Mon, 25 Jan 1993 03:12:35 GMT


Some Charles Bukowski, as promised.  I hope you'll find the book and
read it because the stories are wonderful.  Read them aloud to your
lover, or your mother, if your lover is too square.

From _SOUTH OF NO NORTH_:


...Robert washed Stella with a dishrag, placed her in the closet
behind the overcoat, closed the door and still managed to get in
the last quarter of the Detroit Lions vs. LA Rams game on T.V.
...
Brenda screemed.  She walked to the window and screamed.  You
could hear her all over the neighborhood.  Then she stopped.
"God, Brenda, don't do that again!  Please, please!"
"I'll do it again!  I'll do it again!  Tell me what's wrong, Robert,
or I'll do it again!"
"All rights," he said, "wait."
Robert went to the closet, took the overcoat off Stella and lifted 
her out of the closet.
"What's that?" asked Brenda, "what's that?"
"A mannequin."
"A mannequin?  You mean?..."
"I mean, I'm in love with her."
"Oh, my god!  You mean?  That thing?  That _thing_?"
"Yes."
"You love that _thing_ more than me?  That hunk of celluloid, or 
whatever the shit she's made of?  You mean you love that _thing_
more than me?"
"Yes."
"Oh..."
Then Brenda really screamed.  She just stood there and screamed.
Robert thought she would never stop.  Then she leaped at the
mannequin and started to claw at it and beat at it.  The mannequin toppled
and fell against the wall.  Brenda ran out the door, got in her car
and drove off wildly.  She crashed into the side of a parked car,
glanced off, and drove on.

Robert walked over to Stella.  The head had broken off and rolled
under a chair.  There were spurts of chalky material on the floor.
One arm hang loosely, broken, two wires protruding.  Robert sat down
in the chair.  He just sat there.  Then he got up and went into the
bathroom, stood there for a minute, and came back out.  He stood in
the hallway and could see the head under the chair.  He began to sob.
It was terrible.  He did not know what to do.  He remembered how he
had buried his mother and his father.  But this was different.  This
was different.  He just stood in the hallway, sobbing and waiting.
Both of Stella's eyes were open and cool and beautiful.  They stared at
him.

			-- Charles Bukowski
			   from "Love for $17.50", 
			   _SOUTH OF NO NORTH: Stories of the Burried Life_
			   Black Sparrow Press, 24 Tenth Street,
			   Santa Rosa, California 95401.


			-- Marek

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems