HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The One that Got Away
From: loredich@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu (That one girl)
Date: 14 Sep 92 15:54:45 EST

The One that Got Away


She will be, she informs me, a fisher of men,
and buckles herself into high hip boots.
Just bodies, she says as she gathers her gear,
	dimestore flywheel fishhook loves.

I touch her slim shoulder, not so much a shoulder
as change of direction, and kiss her goodbye.
I think of her wading--all certain and booted--
	into the cold-licking stream of desire.

She prefers that her lovers be shimmery, silvered,
shivery-cool, wearing suits made of scales.
A slick iridescence, a wriggling presence
	oily, unfeeling, without nervous fear.

Impermeability, breath under water,
a simple fish-life to be lifted with lures.
The flexible fish-moves have suddenly tired me.
	I'll take off my suit, fold it neatly away.

When she comes back, she'll tell me her tired fish-stories,
the one that was _this_ big, the ones she threw back,
and I will regard her through one glazing fish-eye,
	Carefully slipping through holes in her net.



Loredich
September, 1992
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: bkeener@cs.ulowell.edu (Brian E. Keener)
Subject: Spontaneous Poem : "Fallen Athena"
Organization: University of Massachusetts at Lowell Computer Science
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 15:13:11 GMT

This poem was written spontaneously, with little/no editing, etc.  I apologize
	for any typos, misspellings, etc. that result from this situation.

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

"Fallen Athena"  (c) 1992 Ed Sutherland

I cry for you,
My fallen Athena,
Standing on the shore
Looking out over the ocean
Which claimed your life.

I mourn for you,
My fallen Athena.
Your grace and beauty
Now seen no more
In mortals' realms.

I think of you,
My fallen Athena.
Your long, silken hair,
Your timid smile,
Your beauty unequaled.

I follow you,
My fallen Athena,
Into the deep blue sea
And into the realm beyond,
So that we may be together
Once again.

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

Comments/criticism welcome... no flames, please...

							-MetalMaster
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (Queen of the Netherlands)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Posthumous reminded
Date: 6 Sep 92 21:11:49 GMT
Article-I.D.: u.1992Sep6.211149.19083
Reply-To: zola@u.washington.edu
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle




There were signs of O'Toolish silliness everywhere.
"One Green per car"  or was that "one car per green"

Bob Dylan lived there (where) while at U of M.

Chicago is hot, humid.   And no, I WONT tell you 
where I am.

Positively 4th street, 9th and Hennepin.


Patterson, Ithaca, Bloomington, who knows.


-A candle in the wind
Organization: University of Maine System
Date: Monday, 7 Sep 1992 18:37:01 EDT
From: <IO20738@MAINE.MAINE.EDU>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: SUBJUGATOR

death is not a fantasy
you walk on and on
come back and take the horizon
the black moon is there

the wind seeps down upon the clouds
above it can not be seen
do you understand the consultant
or will you be moved along like dust in the night

farewell the SUBJUGATOR has conquered. . . . . . .
From: jeffb@terapin.com (Jeffrey Bean)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Another one for Susan
Date: 10 Sep 92 21:05:27 PST
Organization: BBS

My Second Poem for Love and Susan

Something drives me away from everything,
And my aging heart pumps sour blood
Through my tiring and aching body
The green oasis dwindles and dries,
So I step now again into empty wilderness
And what lies there ahead for me?
A journey, where another step means nothing
Another mile, a mile closer to no where
Another lonely night, another eerie morning
A listless day without you.

                         (C) 1992, J. Bean

    I wrote most of my poetry in a deranged dimentia of emotion... Poetry has
had more of a theraputic purpose than a creative one... I guess that's ok. 
Tell me what you think.

    PS.  One of my fears is that I'll open a book to see something of mine
published there without my knowlege... That's why I'm hesitant to post here.
Whats to stop anybody from adopting any poem they read here as their own?
From: tedr@athena.cs.uga.edu (Ted Kalivoda)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Witches' brew (poem)
Date: 5 Sep 92 16:14:10 GMT
Organization: University of Georgia, Athens

In article <1992Sep3.190547.19011@news.unomaha.edu> kammerer@cwis.unomaha.edu (Al Kammerer) writes:
>
>A Pennsylvannia plantswoman uses a rifle
>To shoot witch's brooms from the tops of conifers,
>Out of reach of ladder or tree-climbers
>Who she might hire to harvest these dwarfed
>Crowns that appear as if by magic.
>She takes the cones she pulls from the tangles
>To her lab, to stratify, to sprout,
>To propagate the genetic dwarves 
>That used to be blamed on witches.
>She has adopted with her rifle
>Nearly thirty new nana forms,
>And given them her name.

Fluid. Out of the last 40 poems I have read, one of the best.  Keep working
on it.

TEd
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Her way
Date: 5 Sep 92 02:48:07 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                               Her way

Her way was to reward by circumspection
punish by isolation
she sent me away
just far enough
so I could see her through the glass wall
never forgetting her
as she made certain
that nothing so substantial
so exciting
as speech or touch
should ever breech her fortress
kept me ever at that distance
at which embers remain mere infant flames
for she hated hot brightness
for the memories it stirred
could not forgive error
but kept it burning brightly
away from her eyes
in her smothered heart.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: zhu@athena.mit.edu (Erin Zhu)
Subject: yesterday
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Tue, 15 Sep 1992 18:36:51 GMT

sometimes i like to feel 
slow rage creeping
like untended vegetation
over battlements of unearthed
unearthly stone
resounding in motions
of a final ponderous crash

and always the voice of loss
lingers forlorn and empty
whispering of unkempt memories
the touches best forgotten
the promises rendered and broken
the words heard and unforgiven
"if only i knew..."

and so the occasional flares 
of lust, long left behind, 
trouble my mind now
with their brevity, insistence
and the pretense 
of knowledge and control
imparted by youth
maintained by naivete.

  --Erin


   /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
      Erin Zhu    (617) 661-8151  /   Out of the ashes
      872 Mass. Ave, #707         /   I rise with my red hair
      Cambridge, MA 02139         /   And I eat men like air.
      zhu@gevalt.mit.edu          /                     --Sylvia Plath

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Subject: Polish warrior (from WWII)...
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 16:35:34 GMT



Broad sword and hand grenade, I charge up to the front,
I notice now my home run has turned into a bunt.
So, I throw my grenade and fall from my horse's back
To find that grenade has given me a smack.
Now I lay here broken and wishing I could ride;
I see my horse still running, looking for a place to hide.
I cry out to the heavens and wet myself a sea,
Noticing my human legs are now the size of flea's.
My enemy comes upon me: I pull my sword and pray
My horse will notice it's rider and come back sometime toady.
Yet worthless is my praying and hopeless is my cause,
My enemy has located me and found my armor's flaws.
And yet my horse is running, searching for a place to hide,
While I lay dead on the field, stripped of all my pride.













What do ya all think 'bout that??
C&C&F welcome/wanted/adored.



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

Death is boring;  slaughter is fun.
Thank you for not smoking!!
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poetry / Emily Dickinson
Keywords: cento
Date: 5 Sep 92 20:04:28 GMT

Last one.  This is a pretty amazing piece of work -- it's a "cento", or collage
of various pieces or writing, pasted together to make a poem.  Sort of like
found poetry, but with some selective editing.  This one was given in Lewis
Turco's excellent "The New Book Of Forms".  Composed from gleanings of the
letters of Emily Dickinson, it has some wonderful moments and a super ending.
See what you think.

(NOTE: The word "that" is italicized at two points in the poem -- I've
represented these two examples as _that_.)


		Poetry

	Memory's fog is rising: I had a terror
	  I could tell to none -- and so I sing,
	  as the boy does in the burying ground,
	because I am afraid.  When a sudden light
	on the orchards, or a new fashion in the wind

	troubled my attention, I felt a palsy,
	  here, the verses just relieve.
					I am
	  small, like the wren, and my hair is bold,
	like the chestnut burr, and my eyes like sherry
	in the glass the guest leaves.  There is always one

	thing to be grateful for -- that one is one's self
	  and not somebody else.  "We thank thee,
	  oh loving Father," for these strange minds
	that enamor us against Thee.
				    If I read
	a book, and it makes my body so cold no

	fire can ever warm me, I know _that_ is
	  poetry.  If I feel physically
	  as if the top of my head were
	taken off, I know _that_ is poetry.  These are
	the only ways I know it.  Is there any

	other way?
		  How does the poet learn to grow,
	  or is it unconveyed, like witchcraft
	  or melody?  I had no monarch
	in my life and cannot rule myself.  When I
	try to organize, my little force explodes,

	leaves me bare and charred.  I marked a line in one
	  verse, because I met it after I
	  made it and never consciously touch
	a paint mixed by another person.  I do
	not let go of it, because it is mine.

	Two editors of journals came and asked me
	  for my mind.  When I asked them, "Why?" they
	  said I was penurious -- they'd use it
	for the world.  I could not weigh my self myself --
	my size felt small to me.  One hears of Mister

	Whitman -- I never read his book, but was told
	  he is disgraceful.  To my thought, "To
	  publish" is foreign as firmament
	to fin.  My barefoot rank is better.  If fame
	belonged to me, I could not escape her -- if

	she did not, the longest day would pass me on
	  chase.
		There seems a spectral power
	  in thought that walks alone.  I find
	ecstasy in living -- the merest sense of life
	is joy enough.  The chestnut hit my notice

	suddenly, and I thought the skies in blossom!

			-- Emily Dickinson

--------
Kevin

-- 
|| +------------------+  You Yankees are so silly 
||-| Kev @ UNC        |  About matters of the heart;
||-| Master Poetaster |  Don't you know that women are the only works of art?
|| +------------------+        -- Don Henley, "Drivin' With Your Eyes Closed"
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jondarr@macadam.ocs.mq.edu.au (jondarr c g h 2 gibb)
Subject: Great Regrets
Organization: Macquarie University, Australia.
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 22:35:29 GMT


        Great Regrets

One of the great regrets in life
  is that we never know
The worth of those we love until
  they turn and walk away;
Perhaps it pains me more to think
  'tis I who've let them go,
With shallow words, or even worse,
  with nothing left to say.

But I have had a chance or two
  to change these careless ways
And thereby change my life, and still
  each time I get to hold
A loved one, I will suffocate
  or otherwise enrage
The one I need the most, always
  I leave them in the cold.

It isn't my technique, perhaps
  my attitude shines through
This thin veneer of love and need,
  until I can't hold back
That thought that there is something more :
  a fallacy held true,
That love is but the merest seed
  of something else we lack,

That many do not seek nor find
  for fear of losing what
They never had the chance to love,
  though Love, it seems, it's not.

		5th September, 1992


                    
              Anyway the wind blows ...
                                                //\         /\\
                             /                 || * \ . . / * ||
               .  _   _   _/  _   _  _          \\____\X/____//
              / /_/ / / /_/ /-/ /  /             / *  /O\  * \
          ._/                                    \__/  "  \__/

jondarr@macadam.mpce.mq.edu.au  (137.111.216.12)
jondarr@mpce.mq.edu.au
jondarr@macgraw.mpce.mq.edu.au

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: chem8w@rosie.uh.edu (Norby)
Subject: poem -- Blue
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    
Organization: University of Houston
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 01:08:00 GMT

__________________Blue_________________

blue is a color
the color of sky
the color of ocean
the color of my eyes
the color of sadness

the sad ocean of my eyes watches out my window at the sky

I see people
     blue people with blue jeans and blue hair and blue baseball caps
     and blue shoes and sad ocean eyes watching out their windows
     at the sky

But I see mostly black
the color of night
the color of death
the color of nothingness

for my life has no daylight
for my life has no life
for my life has no meaning

tonight this is what i see with the sad ocean of my eyes watching out my window
at the sky
From: connorm@vax.sonoma.edu (Michelle Connor)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: sestina??
Date: 9 Sep 92 22:32:00 GMT
Organization: Sonoma State University
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41

Hi!  I have a silly question to ask. 

In one of my texts, the author mentions (without providing an example) a form
of poetry called a 'sestina'. What is this? Who wrote one? Any info or examples 
will be greatly appreciated!

Thanks - Michelle O'Connor
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: asparrow@cs.umr.edu (Angelia Sparrow)
Subject: A lyucanthropic Aubade
Date: Wed, 16 Sep 1992 02:14:00 GMT
Organization: University of Missouri - Rolla
Originator: asparrow@mcs213f.cs.umr.edu

A lycanthropic Aubade
(for C.)

Were it not for
The made up sleeper sofa
with yellow stains
on the blue sheets,
the faint chlorine 
in the towels,
and two fading marks
on my throat,
I would say it was a dream.
The soreness has left.
The fog of teh past two days
is lifting.
All that remains
is a rapidly yellowing image,
an old sepia photo.
No guilt, 
just a memory of ecstacy 
I had dared not hope for.
I offered my throat to the wolf,
and escaped unscathed;
but not unchanged.

Copyright 1991
All comments welcome
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: strung-out
Date: 6 Sep 92 06:26:51 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland


	--
ingrown regrets
replay that first mistake
restless ready
strung-out and sociopathic
fists drawn tight
a cornered canary
nervous palpitation
restless ready
a stalking tom-cat
sharp anticipation
fists drawn tight
to fling at something
just in case
to fling at something
strung-out and sociopathic
ingrown regrets
eyes a machine-gun
pointed at you
who saw the fear
and looked away
i can't turn this thing
on myself
please help me.

-/\/\/\/-

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Kay Miguez)
Subject: again
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 15:34:37 GMT


No poems to offer today; however, last week I read the
Toa Te Ching and it was beautiful. I would suggest it for good reading.

stark raving sane sheilah@wam.umd.edu
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1992 20:32:24 GMT
Subject: Re: void space
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:

> )I wish the sun would touch my eyes.
> )I wish the moon would would tint my tears
> )I wish the stars would make it clear
> )how many years.
> )
> )
> )How many years? 
> 
> 
> 33, I would think.

Jesus.  Why don't you just nail me up right now?  Incidentally,
I will be 33 on July 18 of next year, so get those nails ready.

doug
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - French Class
Date: 11 Sep 92 23:36:07 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


FRENCH CLASS


He had an air of <<je ne sais quoi>>, the <<oui>> on his tongue
	curving sensual lips.

We studied Roland, and I wept for His beauty, His gauntlet
	ascending to God;
  and I savored this silver oration which seemed just for me.

Then, after the lesson, we entertained dinner, not shy in
	our new-found acquaintance.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Please pass the marmalade
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 92 14:43:54 GMT


              Please pass the marmalade

Could you please pass the marmalade
the one made out of my life
passions mixed with adhesions of satisfaction
expectations floating in sweetened vinaigrette
minimal cigarette butts
mired in time.
From: tf01@ns1.cc.lehigh.edu (TIMOTHY FALCONER)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: foggy night
Date: 14 Sep 92 02:09:55 GMT
Organization: Lehigh University

foggy night
mountainside
brights on reflecting back
blind
but driving

courting between
broken yellow lines
and a long
slow
kiss
of a drop

through the clouds
toward greener fields

and the comfort
the strength to fly
to land softly
to return


MU
From: RVESTERM@vma.cc.nd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Date: 12 Sep 92 18:08:29 GMT
 <7710564@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM>

i think a good poem to read would be "sally" by andy summers.
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Out of time
Date: 15 Sep 92 15:36:05 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                             Out of time

I don't have much time
so I'll have to make this brief.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mzaransk@ux4.cso.uiuc.edu (ALIVE SHE CRIED)
Subject: *** (another untituled poem)
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana
Date: Mon, 7 Sep 1992 02:13:16 GMT

 ***

 snorting pain like cocaine,
 but in vane,
 insanity reaches me
 before i rech the shore 
 of tomorrow

 if i speak too soon,
 will the truth drip from my tongue
 like liquid,
 or fall from my lips
 to envelop me in its painful
 wisdom

	    -by, Marcin Zaranski

	    <mzaransk@uiuc.edu>

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tolman%asylum.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman)
Subject: Shallow distribution
Date: 7 Sep 92 11:40:10 MDT
Organization: University of Utah, CompSci Dept


I was born with blue eyes
and a heart that searched for truth

my relatives were all models
and I added to their power
by working out with steel in the afternoons

so that these days it is easy to find
women with laughing vapid eyes
and shallow lies from anyone
who I care to hear them from

but that is not what I sought
and I throw up sometimes at night
realizing fully what I have not

in the distribution of honesty and truth
I have been meted emptiness
or is it that there is nothing more


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
From: mnemonic@eff.org (Mike Godwin)
Subject: Re: Shakespeare
Originator: mnemonic@eff.org
Organization: Electronic Frontier Foundation
Distribution: usa
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 12:40:42 GMT

In article <1992Sep9.081807.17648@nevada.edu> wwhitman@nevada.edu (MICHAEL WISE) writes:

>The most de-
>finitive edition of Shakespeare's work is the Riverside Edition, widely
>available in college bookstores, but not for much less than $40. The true
>advantage of this edition over others is its bibliographic completeness.
>The source of each text is indicated in the prefatory remarks, and variant
>readings are given as footnotes.

I've used the Riverside editions both for teaching and performing, and
have no serious complaints about them, but I regard the Arden editions as
vastly superior to the Riverside editions in precisely those areas for
which Michael Wise lauds the latter. It's worth taking an individual
Riverside volume and looking at a given scene and its notes, and comparing
it to the same scene in an Arden edition. Invariably, the Arden edition
notes and accompanying materials are more complete. In specific cases,
such as "Pericles," which we know only from corrupt sources, the Arden
edition is the only choice for the serious scholar.



--Mike



-- 
Mike Godwin,    |"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact 
mnemonic@eff.org| of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, 
(617) 864-0665  | both are transformed."
EFF, Cambridge  |                           --Carl Jung
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Awkward Seduction
Date: 11 Sep 92 23:35:19 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


AWKWARD SEDUCTION


Your voice whispers riddles deep in my ear
  grants me promise of that is to come.
Subtle, your dangerous timbre surrounds me
  with cherished and ominous future song.

Profane as a heartbeat, and utters less pale
  as you taunt and caress slivered glass;
	thin streaks of silver deaden your tempo
	bright speech haunts your wounded mouth
	winged posies feather, fan your breath
  and I am lost again, in the rhythmic shuffle,
	words scrape my tongue, shame me with boldness.

Fingers, moist, jaundiced trip on my nose
  fall, harsh and sharp, to dull upon your wit.
You offer me your lips, a dialogue --
  and I, crass fool, shall grant you but soliloquy.


-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
From: jeffj@yang.earlham.edu (ChaOs)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Shadows in the Fog
Date: 13 Sep 92 06:40:33 GMT
Organization: And then the Universe stopped.


	Shadows in the Fog

The lyrical dreams of long-dead lovers
Melt away like vapour in the night.
The darkness steals their love
In the Cold.  The Night of the Hawk:
The hunter and the prey in the silence.
Dark fog-vapour swirls around their legs
Catching, clinging, killing.
The worth of life is gone.  There is only
Night and the Fog.
High above, the silent towers
Of steel, glass, and concrete
Stare without eyes at the fight below.
Master of Illusions: the Art
of loosing Shadows on the world.
Feel his call.
Feel the cold
Wet kiss of the Fog
In your lungs.


C&C Welcome.
-- 
JeffJ@yang.earlham.edu (Jeff Johnston)
From: sheilah@wam.umd.edu (Sheila Herndon)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: celery Re: posthumous has red hair today Re: (happy thoughts)...
Date: 14 Sep 92 20:12:48 GMT
Organization: University of Maryland, College Park

i wrote
>In article <236@uiunix.ui.org> donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole) writes:
>
>>against my wild red--if water washed
>^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
>
>Look at this!! Don has red hair! It will go well
>with his flashy new crisp clean warm white shirt
>I just pulled out of the dryer.

Arn't you glad I don't write, truly?

Martin followed the path of her true desire and strayed when she heard
diva-like singing - it was a red head! A sylvan trunk of humanity!
Suddenly He grew bark (how did he do that?) Martin realized she was
trying to cloth people with celery and gave up recording.

(in passing, If anyone lives near New York, the Metropolotin Museam of
Art is displaying Renee' Magritte painting. Renee' Magritte paintings
are way-cool. Go see them. I have to take a bus. I havn't made it yet.
alas. Next year around Feb I guess, the display will move o the
Menil Collection in Houston. A wonderful place, and if you live nearbye
and have never visited the Menil collection, get over there! I had the 
chance to visit once, and so many surrealists!)

-- 
stark raving sane  sheilah@wam.umd.edu