HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: Jack.Wiggins@bbs.rn.com (Jack Wiggins)
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 92 03:23:36 EST
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Subject: Hot fudge Monday
Distribution: world
Reply-To: Jack.Wiggins@bbs.rn.com (Jack Wiggins)
X-Posting-Software: UniBoard 1.10b S/N 145921

Hot fudge Mondays
 
bleary dreary weary day
rains and drains, wanna say
go-chuck-it-all
go-<ahem>-it-all
but this I cannot say...
 
So cold, so cold
I feel so old
the rain again
is getting bold
wind is blowing
is it snowing?
go-<ahem>-it-all
I'm cold
 
Hot fudge Monday
on a plate
ate it all and
wasn't late
Frozen food and frozen sky
Ha!
I needn't wonder why
little while,
didn't feel so cold
 
Thanks to you that made it be
said ok
and set me free
let me sit
across from you
 
had my cake
and ate it too.
 
<disclaimer> not "litterally"
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: messer@utkvx2.utk.edu (The Jagged of your Dreams!)
Subject: Re: asdf
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    
Organization: University of Tennessee Computing Center
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1992 12:05:00 GMT

In article <1992Nov13.075814.21202@news.acns.nwu.edu>, marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski) writes...
>zen@death.corp.sun.com (d) writes:
> 
>>  Why?  If it's so emotional, it seems like it might be a useful tool,
>>eh?  And what difference does it make what your skin color is when you
>>use the word -- isn't the *way* you use it a bit more important, or do
>>you think that it's ok for an individual to make jokes or insults about
>>themself, their clique, country, whatever, but not for others to do
>>likewise?  Why isn't truth truth, no matter who speaks it?
> 
>Several issues come to mind:  1) context-sensitivity^*, 2) relativity of
>meaning^#, 3) taboo^!, 4) absence of truth as such^@, 5) cultural awareness^$,
>6) cultural permissions^&, 7) shared experience within a totem^+.
> 
>Some of these overlap.  There's enough here for a dissertation but I have
>to go to work later today.  I think you owe yourself to think this through,
>though.
> 
>				-- Marek
> 
*- White noise.
#- MORE white noise.
!- White noise, but pretty and not so New-Age-y(tm).
@- As such white noise.
$- Awareness of white noise.
&- Not even white noise.  Bull ka-ka, I think.
+- I shared an experience within a totem once.  Well, there was a POLE, anyway.

Marek, in my short time here you are one of the precious few for whom I have
developed respect, or even reverence.

But give me just a SMALL break, will ya'?

No matter how many psuedo-scholarly, non-identifying labels you put on it...
Just listen, man.

I own EVERY word I have ever heard.  _Nigger_ is definately one of the better
words that I own, and every once in a while it gets pulled out.

Now, in my art, HOWEVER I use it is great.

I'm just that kinda' guy, baby.   :)

Personal symbolic gender totem context-sensetive truth serum thingies be
damned.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
  "The rain increases with the light and the     ~Damian K Messer            
weight increases with the rain.  In all that     ~Internet:messer@utkvx.utk.edu
long column in brand-new overseas boots weeping  ~Bitnet:messer@utkvk         
blisters stick to the hard wool grey of          ~5809 Haynes-Sterchi Rd.    
government socks."                               ~Knoxville, TN 37912         
               --David Jones, _In Parenthesis_   ~(615)689-5722                
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
From: v131p9t3@ubvmsd.cc.buffalo.edu (Ninstar Cybermage - Back Again from the Mists!)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: +==[====----Puzzles----====]==+
Date: 10 Nov 92 20:43:00 GMT
Organization: University at Buffalo
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41

Puzzles

Walking through life
Incomplete and alone
A person in a framework
With something missing
A piece not there
Need something more

A puzzle with a missing piece.

I stagger as death's sickle
Slices through me
Getting a piece 
Of my Existence
The Energy flows into my framework
[PAUSE]       My life begins to crumble
Then Flies apart

A puzzle knocked on the floor.

Someone saves me
Doctors, nurses, friends
They pick up the pieces
My fiancee helps them
My family, supports them
I feel the pain of lost
And I join them in keeping 
The pieces in one place, my mind

A puzzle picked up and placed in its box.

Now my wife (Fiancee no more)
Smiles at me as I work
On poems in recovery
Homework as I strive
Reviving shattered dreams
Reaching for lost goals
Adding new ones, like my daughter
Watch the pieces falling into place
And my framework is whole

A puzzle with all it's pieces.
They found the missing one
When they picked it up for me.

Soon it will be a whole picture.
Thank you all.


James Shank           	#		v131p9t3@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu
AKA: Ninstar Cybermage  #	or	shank@acsu.buffalo.edu
###############################################################################
"Ten thousand years old...He could be trouble." -Vampire Hunter D
"Every night I say a prayer, in the hope that there's a heaven..."-Styx
"How do you make ammends for a god's sins?"-Forgotten Realms
##############################################################################
Sneaky Types,Inc.:Clandestine operations for the common man.
	"Don't call us.  We'll just bill you when it's done."
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@gator.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: tender
Keywords: act 2
Organization: The Gator Conferencing System 219-289-3745 
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 06:41:48 GMT



 
	it's a tender time of telling in a tongue that I could talk in
	if I knew it, speaking easy, speaking slow
	curl your smoky words around me in the long warm garden grass
	meeting in the middle of the swift dark tumbling tones
	turn the pages of your wordbook, close and low...
	all these open pages, all these seldom sounds
	lay me down along your words and maybe take me down
	all the way along your softly softly spine
	talk me there and back in rain
	not quite whisper, not quite quiver, not quite pain
	don't kiss me now, don't ask me why
	keep talking in the same small brightly flickered tongues
	in strange familiar tongues where we know and taste and dwell
	hard to listen, hard to reason, hard to tell
	these scented words we know quite almost fairly well
	reaching all your places, your distant well-known faces
	touch your fingertips to mine for it is time
	wake me up and take me out
	walk me back and talk me home
 
Sara Gordon & Tom Wachtel, Goshen, Indiana
 

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

Talk to me about computer viruses.        sara@gator.rn.com  
                                          SGordon@Dockmaster.ncsc.mil
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Subject: Urdu Knowledge. Re: Urdu Ignorance (part II)
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1992 20:55:10 GMT

In article <01010064.id22rc@yumyum.resun.com> melynda@titipu.resun.com (Melynda Reid) writes:
...use your resources to
>create understanding not hatred. 
>                               melynda claire reid
>
>melynda reid   who wears hats but does not type caps
>  eel:   melynda@titipu.resun.com  or  nosc.mil!titipu.resun.com!melynda
>  snail: p o box 378 greensboro, florida 32330

I went to the library last night and checked out a few books about
Urdu poetry. I'll post some Urdu poems, and maybe a little introduction
to Urdu. I think the language is centered in Pakistan. It is a conglomerate.
I checked out a book of modern Urdu Poetry, and I think I like the poems
in it better than the traditional. There are a lot of neat words in these
books, one is ghazul. I've heard this word used before but did not
understand what the term meant. It looks so lovely. It is the totured
cry of a gazelle. (I am not makign this up! it is!) (more details later)
(Francis Muir once used this word, but I did not ask him about it since
He hates O'Tooles. He hates O'Tooles so much that he even Picks on 
The Innocent-eyed&tressed-Taranto-who-is-not-Canadian. (Beware Beware))
(but Francis will claim not to hate O'Tooles. He is making this up. Believe
me. Francis is trying to start a cult following of O'Donnel's. O'Tooles,
if some fellow by the name of Orly Michel O'Donnel approaches you trip
his pet schnauzer. He is trying to seduce you. How did I get off on this
tangent?) (not to imply that Taranto is perfectly harmless.)

Here are three poems by Muhammad Wali. (1668 - 1744) 
from the anthology >>The Bulbul and the Rose<< by Ahmed Ali

		I
	Cup in hand the bashful beauty
	Has come to me;
	O heart, forget now all formality,
	Enraptured be, enraptured be.

	I'm ill as with the drinking of the wine
	Of parting's grief;
	O beauty, let those wandering eyes of thine
	Be cups of wine, cups of wine.

	With doubts how long, O mind, will you build
	Walls of thorns?
	The flooding storm of love is rushing in,
	Become a waste, a ruin, a ruin.

		2
	I saw the beauty of my love
	In a dream;
	It was the glory of my Lord,
	Hidden it seemed.

	To die and then become itself
	The source again --
	I saw in a bubble's being this strange
	Phenomenon.

		3
	Be not faithless to me,
	Have some fear of God;
	The world would laugh at me,
	Have some fear of God.

	My life became a burden
	When you went away;
	Come, come back to me,
	Have some fear of God.

	Be not proud to see
	Your face in the looking-glass;
	O beauty, be not vain,
	Have some fear of God.



I do not desire to post any more old Urdu poetry. I disagree with
it too much. I will look over the modern Urdu poetry and see how
it is and post some of it (even if I disagree with it). Afterwards,
I will see about posting more.
-- 
I am always wrong. Don't believe me ever.
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Hill
Date: 10 Nov 92 14:09:43 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA






		Snow crept down the hills
		last night, closer towards 
		us valley dwellers, shivering 
		in our beds. Like that messy 
		white sugar powder on boxed
		doughnuts, a fine dusting 
		settled on the mountain trees.
		Much lower than yesterday, 
		but not yet here. Any day now 
		it will land in my yard, 
		on my walk, on my car. 
		The toys of summer still 
		clog my garage, and the car 
		sits out in the inclements, 
		dripping with cold, surrounded 
		by a world soggy with the 
		night's nearly snow.


		Cecil Williams
		11/09/92
		**************



C&C
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (R L Lowell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: blatantly not poetry.  but I gotta know.
Date: 10 Nov 92 17:56:41 GMT
Article-I.D.: u.1992Nov10.175641.1185
Reply-To: zola@u.washington.edu
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle


well, since a lot of you know me I will post this here instead of
rec.wanna.buy.or.get.hold.of

I need to find, buy, steal, ftp some kind of *IBM* communications package 
that is useful and not necessarily shareware crap.  I want something that will 
allow me to easily grab text and drop it into a word file.  and something
that will have a non-buggy file transfer capability.  Ideally it would work 
within windows (just for drag and drop stuff, not because I like windows).

Thanks,
Rebecca 

returning to the program already in progress.
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Death Scene...
Date: 5 Nov 92 22:30:26 GMT
Article-I.D.: rdg.1992Nov5.223026.19914
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation


	Death Scene...

	Reigns tight, heartbeat a rapid-fire raindrop,
	Like shaking leaves my worried hands rattle,
	Grasping the essence of excitment in a dollop:
	Release!  'Ever cold outward, forever warm inward.

	Gasping that last full, painful breath I sigh...
	The river of all that I am and ever was flows,
	Carving into the soft sands, building a new bed
	For the future of another man's dying woes.

						msj
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: dmcheste@quads.uchicago.edu (dennis michael chester)
Subject: What I got From the Sixties
Followup-To: no follow-up
Keywords: it's all key words
Reply-To: dmcheste@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Distribution: na
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1992 10:15:06 GMT


It's late at night.  I've been out drinking.  I bought a new Bukowski book.  I've been working on this poem all day, and it still reminds me too much of Etheridge Knight's "The Idea of Ancestry".  Actually I wish it was more like Etheridge Knight.  Anyway, comments would help.



	"What I got From the Sixties"

	My parents never went to Woodstock.
	My parents don't own any Beatles albums.
	My mom didn't riot over People's Park.
	My dad didn't burn his draft card.
	These are not my heritage.

	My father went to Viet Nam and didn't die.
	   He stayed in the service for 20 years.
	   A career man.
	   When he joined he said there wasn't anything
	   Else for him to do.
	   Join the army or go to jail.
	   The Black man's burden.
	   He didn't go to many love-ins.

	My father fixes cars, and goes 
	   to blues clubs.  He still
	   wakes up
	   hung-over from gin and grapefruit juice 
	   the night before.
	   My father is unfashionable but lives
	   in that beautiful house with his new wife (there
	   is some bitterness here)
	   My father is six-foot-six and I realize
	   that I will never be as tall as he even though
	   I'm taller than most.

	My mother studied biology at Berkeley.  She was
	   called "nigger" in class by the same people
	   on their way home from a hard days protesting.
	   Mom is a nurse, and when she looks at pictures
	   from the 60/70's she isn't embarassed
	   by her afro.

	My mother runs public health clinics and goes to see
	   plays about Mahalia Jackson.  She complains to me
	   about my grandmother who lives in
	   the house behind us ("MaDear almost 
	   burnt the house down today.  She's getting so old")
	   My mother takes care of my oldest sister, and has
	   managed to push the rest of us through
	   school at the very least.

	I am the middle class son in a 
	   recently middle class history.  Three sisters,
	   a divorce, and 427 dark faced relatives (Hempstead-Foreman
	   Family Reunion) all surround the space I'm in.
	   When I look back,
	   past the sixties, past me, they are
	   what I see.

	I think about this as I pour one more cup of coffee in
	Berkeley's oldest cafe.





This work is far from complete.
enjoy,
     D.Chester

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--It is
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 92 18:44:32 GMT


                          It is
                        (for She)

                Hands
                mouth
                words
                and other parts of me
                getting together
                all over you
                filling all your orifices with
                love
                flowing
                riverrun
                over into under you
                yes
                I know now what you desire most
                it is
                simply
                all of me.




-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: HELP NEEDED (Is poetry luxury?)
Date: 12 Nov 92 18:35:27 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <1992Nov12.144739.866@canon.co.uk> wachtel@canon.co.uk writes:
>
>Sheer defeetism? Perhaps I was a touch unclear. I only meant that
>arguments are not always necessary for having the courage of ones own
>convictions. Poetry, like water, doesn't need justification.
>-- 
>Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)


Poetry, like water,
I only meant
Poetry, the courage
doesn't need
arguments.
Drip drip, found in sink,
found in river,
poetry doesn't need.

Posthumous
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: adults: two
Date: 12 Nov 92 17:01:59 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

=


	adults: two
	to be taken by
	mouth with water one hour before
	sleep not recommended
	for children
	active ingredients: valerian hops passionflower
	(then she hops him back)
	causes drowsiness if affected
	do not drive
	avoid alcohol store
	in a cool dry place


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: this silver
Date: 11 Nov 92 14:29:58 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (Candlestick O'Toole) writes:
>
>
>
>this silver globe you kissed to me
>tarnishes some days quicker than others
>and some days it just hangs suspended in space
>either way
>there is frost and snow
>on parts of this globe
>not my globe, the other one
>the one that is mine is silver
>and tarnishes some days quicker than others
>
>
>rebecca lowell
>zola@u.washington.edu


This lovely poem, with its ambiguous silver globe, would be an elegant
statement from any poet, but since it is from Candlestick I cannot help but
imbue it with Symbolism.  In fact, this poem becomes a Symbolical Manifesto
neatly declaring her beauty's dominion over the Earth (the two globes are
the same).

And who blew her this Omniscient Kiss?

God?  No.

Me?  You flatter me!  No.

Void Man?  A-ha!!!


Who, but the great Nothing could provide her with everything?  Candlestick
and Void Man are the yin and yang (yang and yin) of our Postmodern
Universe.  I of course worship both.

Yours,

Postmodern O'Toole

p.s.

there will be more of Well-Met in Manhattan once I receive Sheila's notes.

-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Wed, 4 Nov 1992 17:42:10 GMT
Subject: Re: blue Re: CopyRights
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
From: moh2@quads.uchicago.edu (Kateri/Mary Anne)
Subject: Not a song (c&c welcome)
Reply-To: moh2@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Sun, 8 Nov 1992 06:56:32 GMT

A Love Poem (they'll never make into a song)

Love is

Finding out a moment too late, that he's used the last of the
toilet paper.
Listening to her talk endlessly about just how wonderful her ex was
in bed.
Digging his dirty underwear out from under the bed.
Placating her mother with promises of finding a more steady job
than writing.

Somehow managing not to strangle each other.

And love means

Saying you're sorry over and over even when you're sure it was
her fault.
Holding him through his crying jags in the middle of the night;
ignoring them in the morning.
Not mentioning the ten pounds she's gained in the last month.
Not laughing when he poses naked in front of the mirror.

Staying together, even when you're not sure why.

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
November 8, 1992

-- 
More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads.  One
path leads to despair and utter hopelessness.  The other to total
extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.
						 - Woody Allen
From: benge_kl@lrc.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: My Life as a Voyeur
Date: 9 Nov 92 20:02:53 GMT
Article-I.D.: lrc.1992Nov9.150254.459
Organization: Lenoir-Rhyne College, Hickory, NC


My Life as a Voyeur
===================

Sometimes I feel like
My life was left unplugged.

I live inside a glass bubble,
With everyone I see
Having a thousand friends
And a hundred lovers,
But I have none
Of either.

What's sad is not
That I won't let anyone close--
There's nothing I want more.

What's sad is that noone wants close.

You speak of being left by your love
And you cry.
I have been abandoned by the world,
And noone cares if I cry.

					KLeB the NoMad
From: stuart@jahangir.UUCP (Stuart)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem--Neo-Homeric epic
Date: 11 Nov 92 18:57:37 GMT
Organization: MDC, NYC

Boy! I would have thought that a Neo-Homeric epic would have gone as follows:

Roses are red
The autumn leaves are orange
The day has come
for me to .... <d'oh!>

Where are you STIMPEE????
-- 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
"No sir I don't like it!" -- Mr. Horse
Stuart Blavatnik			Stuart@Jahangir.uunet.uu.net
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Today is bad
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 92 16:27:33 GMT


                                Today is bad

                Today is bad
                I see little black bugs
                crawling all over the page
                (notice I do not claim any special reality
                on their behalf)
                it makes it difficult to see
                and they are not the kind of dots you find
                in Cream of Wheat boxes three years old
                they eat words instead
                as if writing were not difficult enough
                but I dare not hit them
                and smear
                the letters...



-- 
ralph@wixer.cactus.org
cactus.org!wixer!ralph
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu (Miester aLster)
Subject: friends and modern european history classes..
Reply-To: bkv2673@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
Organization: Rochester Institute of Technology
Date: Fri, 6 Nov 1992 05:26:11 GMT


	come.....
	   come, my friend.
	 be the ink,
	    and be the pages
	     for life
	  and tread onward
	     with courage amidst strife
	   through Armageddon day,
	       towards the dawn's beginning,
            let's sail away.            
                                            

/* inspired by someone, for someone.... */
From: tshields@unssun.nevada.edu (Tim Timothy Dork )
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Anna
Date: 8 Nov 92 22:59:53 GMT
Reply-To: tshields@unssun.nevada.edu (Tim Timothy Dork )
Organization: University of Nevada, Reno


Anna's Wild Years

At 67
Anna met Walter.
True love found
one year after
her first husband's death.

Walter's a
retired actuary
with strong interests
in hung wallpaper.

Anna sells all
worldly possessions.
Avon decanters, real estate.
Leaves a life
of powdered-milk,
cable television,
watched pots.

A 67 Corvair moves
them near Sandy Utah,
into his double-wide
mobile home.
The town of Troy Peak.
Where brown bottles
turn milk molasses.

White haired oddity
amongst hairless grandmothers,
Anna's wild years
have just begun.

Timothy Shields

tshields@unssun.unr.edu
"Spiffy, spiffy, everything is just fine, fine."
From: mas4@ns1.cc.lehigh.edu (MICHAEL ANTHONY STRAUSS)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Stimpee's Deep Thoughts I  -Stimpee
Date: 11 Nov 92 16:28:36 GMT
Organization: Lehigh University


  I like to sit on a plastic chair butt naked.  Then I shit and while its
coming out, I paint yellow stripes on it to make my dick look like it's driving
down a bumpy dirt road backwards.

-Stimpee
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Subject: The Scent...
Reply-To: jessop@ljohub.enet.dec.com (Class Dinosauria)
Organization: Digital Equipment Corporation
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 1992 17:42:46 GMT




	The Scent...


	Sweet smelling flowers
	That flow through your hair,
	A trail of sparkles
	And other delights
	Follow your movements,
	Follow your flights.

	I know in fantasy
	I oft do dwell,
	But never in
	My wildest dreams
	Have I smelled
	A wilder smell.


			msj
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems