HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: ktw@cbnewsb.cb.att.com (kenneth.t.wolman)
Subject: Of The Angelic
Organization: AT&T
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 1992 20:05:36 GMT


OF THE ANGELIC

When I called you "My angel"
you cried _No, it's not true,
I'm not, you don't know_: but
for those few seconds, you passed
from earthly being into
airy aspiration, lifted
on my wings to the height you feared.
Because I transported you,
captive to my dreams,
when I lowered my wings,
your descent was into light:
and now I could see you, could see you
in human shape as you saw me.
But what if, for those few moments,
we saw each other, angelic,
and rode the air on each others' wings,
lifting one another into the wind?

We would fall, tangled.


Kenneth Wolman, August 18, 1992
-- 
Ken Wolman   AT&T Bell Laboratories   (201)564-2866   ktw@hlwpk.att.com
	"Stare.  It is the way to educate your eye, and more.  
	Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop.  Die knowing something.  
	You are not here long." -- Walker Evans
From: denelsbe@bizet.cs.unc.edu (Kevin Denelsbeck)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Recipe
Date: 16 Aug 92 03:02:58 GMT


		Recipe

	1. Take two people (escaping from two other people).

	2. Mix together until they have consistency.

	3. Apply low heat until they start to simmer.

	4. Stir in wine.  Raise heat to high.

	5. Allow to boil; cover.

	6. Remove from heat, strain contents.

	7. Let cool.

	8. Makes too many servings.

	9. Don't forget to lick the mixing bowl clean.

---------
Kev @ UNC
8/15/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  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: water772@Armstrong.EDU (Kelly Waters)
Subject: Tears for the Wall  (first post, criticism requested)
Organization: Armstrong State College, Savannah, GA
Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1992 08:14:57 GMT

	This is my first post to this news group, and I would appreciate
any criticism offered.


		      Tears for the Wall
 
		 I watched as the battle raged.
	      Ignorance, as a wall, stood defending
	      As ideas formed the effort to breach.
 
	      In like fashion they attended posts
	      no compassion, no giving, no mercy.
	    the struggle seemed fruitless and empty.
 
 	   Yet newborn thoughts hurled forth in fury;
  	    many striking marks, but one more fully.
	  It was not by might the wall was shattered.
 
	   Nor was fate sealed by that thought alone,
	       but due its effort victory began;
	     and through the crack, truth spilled.
 
	     Light danced and reflections revealed
	      that black alone could not describe
	        so austere, so deep a surface.
 
	     Once sealed and protected, It drank
	     the light as though angry, straining
	    to staunch the steady flow from within.
 
		Distance befriended that wall,
	  as the light could not outrace its extent;
	  only the crack revealed its fragile nature.
 
	     So it was the crack stole all glory
	       the wall had painfully gathered.
    	    And in that moment of fleeting comfort,
	      the only tears shed were its own.
 
 
			L. Kelly Waters
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: richh@netcom.com (the keeper of the cheese)
Subject: Some thoughts after leaving Cleveland
Date: Sat, 22 Aug 92 21:59:17 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 

     First, at an airport.
     I, in a shirt of yours
     You, from a dream of mine.
     Two items:  a suitcase of clothes, and one so thin
     You can clearly make out the contents.
     You laugh and choose to carry that one.

     Before, you know, I thought you had sprung up fully formed
     As I had.
     No precedent, no simple shaping.
     No landmarks to guide a traveller.

     Another traveller. 
     A traveller to whom every country is foreign
     Especially his own.

     Welcome, the pinkening you seemed to say,
     To the most foreign, most familiar country of all.
     Drink from me, eat from me, rest.  
     Yes, rest.
     Plant daisies, tend them with me, watch them grow.
     Put away your compass and map--only discover.
     You'll see.
     They do things differently here.
     But also the same.
     Can you feel that, just above my skin?
     Watch my face, but not always.
     I do not hold up to constant scrutiny.
     Take pictures--these you can scrutinize.
     
     No, you did not spring up out of nothing,
     But you *are* a product of some irritation, a wrinkle,
     A fissure, a lack--a vacuum 
     That the universe felt obliged to fill.
     And did so, happily, knowing that
     To fill what fruit would bear.

RICHH
From: block@iccgcc.decnet.ab.com (Buy American Quality)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Up and Down
Date: 20 Aug 92 07:01:52 EST


Up and Down

From beyond my my dreams, you entered my life
Sparkled brightly, passionately, briefly,
Then you were gone, returning to the arms of another
You'd questioned me about being free 
and relationships that had ended,  
Recovery is slow as I continue to glow 
as a result of our unbridled passion
Organization: University of Maine System
Date: Saturday, 15 Aug 1992 01:43:28 EDT
From: condor <IO10560@MAINE.MAINE.EDU>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: funeral

 who will come to my funeral?
 all your friends will come.
 who are my friends?
 all those who really love you
 who really loves me?
 look around the answer is obvious....
From: sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (sheila)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: List mania
Date: 20 Aug 92 04:49:40 GMT
Organization: The University of Texas at Austin, Austin TX

When I was younger I would like to read poems like
"Kubla Khan" and "Jabberwocky" and I liked teh
sound of "Something there is that doesn't love a wall"
and I would keep in mind Dylan Thomas.

My poetry reading habits of late:

some really short early poems of Robert bly (havn't read
anything he's written lately, I have a bad impression of
him, maybe not, I'll probably check out some of his recent
stuff and see if I like it)

prosey poem things like Robert Hass

rereading. (schooly type poems, Ode to a Nightingale)
(Ode to melencholy - think that's the cool one with bursting
a grape on the roof of your mouth. or the other) (etc etc,
I'm going off on a tangent in my head)

Rilke (because Joe Green kept mentioning his name. First I bought
a thin thin book, something about hours, time or hours was in the
title, then I bought letters to a young poet, then I bought
sonnets to orpheus, sonnets to orpheus is my favorite
(this brings to mind buying books, Poetry books and reference books
seem to me the best types of books to buy. I've bought a lot of
fiction books, and now they take up so much room.))

Basho haiku

bought a book with LiPu and TuFu, but havn't had consideral time
to read it. 

can't think of my other habits. Have been reading more books of
fiction than poems. Have been packing more than reading.

I leave soon. Maybe I'll login from U of Maryland. 
:) cool. New home. New family.
-- 
stark raving sane!   sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu
From: hovis_ea@lrc.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem-Vow
Date: 17 Aug 92 18:13:56 GMT
Organization: Lenoir-Rhyne College, Hickory, NC


	Heavenly light.
	Glistening,
	in skies above.
	Becoming,
	pure grace
	and
	perpetual motion,
	on earthg below.

	The joy,
	of love in life,
	I have in
	You
	combined.
	The love of
	Human affection,
	with the love
	divine.

	I feel you as
	You
	lay beside me.
	Warm. 
	Dear.
	Flesh on flesh,
	bodies intertwined.
	Silent affection is
	expressed with
	sleep endowed.

	Love of My
	life,
	and My
	all for life.
	I 
	give to
	thee every part of
	Me.
	Til the end of
	Time.

	Understanding,
	friendship in
	life found.
	My
	kiss seals the
	vow.
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Second Attempt
Date: 14 Aug 92 08:23:36 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

Stephen P. Guthrie writes:


> Well, I don't really know the rules of this poetry stuff, but encouraged
> by a couple of nice comments about First Attempt, here's another.
> Please be brutal.

do you really mean this? i do not like to be brutal...
     
> Isabel,
> Into my world you drifted,
> like a fresh spring breeze,
> dusting out the cobwebs,
> from the crannies of my heart.
> 
> I lay lifeless and cold,
> a feather in the dirt,
> then you sailed lightly by,
> leaving me fluttering in your wake.
> 
> Your childish laughter,
> spontaneous gaiety,
> drew me out and let me see,
> the beauty of the world again.
> 
> The gaudiness of the sunset sky,
> heady fragrance of dew painted roses,
> the sting of a snowflake upon my tongue,
> muffled conversation of waves on the shore.
> 
> These are the gifts you brought, Isabel,
> when you drifted unexpectedly into my life,
> now you merrily continue on your way,
> and I float gently back to earth.



consider:

                                                     14 August 1992
	
	Dear Isabel,

	Into my world you drifted, like a fresh spring breeze, dusting
	out the cobwebs, from the crannies of my heart.

	I lay lifeless and cold, a feather in the dirt, then you sailed
	lightly by, leaving me fluttering in your wake.

	Your childish laughter, spontaneous gaiety, drew me out and let
	me see, the beauty of the world again.

	The gaudiness of the sunset sky, heady fragrance of dew painted
	roses, the sting of a snowflake upon my tongue, muffled
	conversation of waves on the shore.

	These are the gifts you brought, Isabel, when you drifted
	unexpectedly into my life, now you merrily continue on your
	way, and I float gently back to earth.

	Yours sincerely,


	Stephen P. Guthrie



but do please keep posting.

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8158 rec.arts.books:14776
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
Subject: Re: A history of the O'Tooles (Was Re: Yo, read please...
Date: 17 Aug 92 15:12:47 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <9208152206.AA07542@cfdev1.shearson.com> mtaranto@shearson.com (Mark Taranto) writes:
>
>        A HISTORY OF THE O'TOOLES
>        From Atlantis to Green and Beyond
>
>        Mark Allen Taranto
>        Guns & Literature Press
>        St. Paul
>        $19.95 (Hardback)

Here we see Mark Taranto, proven O'Toole basher, speak of an impending book
about the O'Tooles AND declaring himself:

>the historian of the
>O'Tooles.  

This threatens me because it is at least in name very similar to my
Official O'Toole Title as "O'Toole Archivist" which I inherited from Josef
O'Toole after his death.

But even more frightening is his attempt at a book in which he intends to
use "facts" to reduce O'Toolism to so many numbers and statistics.  As
O'Toole Archivist, I refuse to have anything to do with facts and I urge
you all not to buy this book.  In fact, I will be organizing O'Toole
protests in order to have the book banned from bookstores everywhere
(Waldenbooks has already expressed interest in this notion, due to their
concern over lack of sales).  And, be warned, when O'Tooles protest there's
more involved than mere picket signs!  (we are Irish, after all)

However, I must say I am flattered by your implication that I am an
Archangel (though this has yet to be verified).

Yrs,

Posthumous

(p.s. both your note and my reply will be forwarded God-knows-where so that
the Maestro himself may read it.)



-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
From: denelsbe@bizet.cs.unc.edu (Kevin Denelsbeck)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Pointed Suggestion
Date: 16 Aug 92 03:46:39 GMT


		Pointed Suggestion

	Oh good, another chance to seduce you.
	If you should be drawn in by these words, for
	Just a bare moment, then I have conquered
	You.  Do you understand?  If you don't, then
	My conquest is worthless.  So you must get
	Sucked in.  Keep reading.  Or else this poem
	Has no life.  And you wouldn't want that, now,
	Would you?  No I didn't think so.  So, I
	Think we are about done.  I think it worked.
	This poem has not disappeared, or ceased
	To exist.  And the next line will haunt you:
	Rippling forces demand patient lovers.
	And so remember that, till the next time.

---------
Kev @ UNC
8/15/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  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: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Night talk
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 20 Aug 92 17:22:09 GMT


                        Night talk
                        (for She)

Lying here in our bed
conversation of words of day
now asleep
gives way as if in dream
to other language
my thoughts suddenly form
in patterns of touch and pressure
as heat and coolness replace adjective and verb
and my sentences melt into sensate streams
my first thought I will tell you
no words come
no
it is the soft pressure of your breast
against my face
your coolness
my heat--
I am flushed from the goodness of you--
I push my cheek farther into your softness
as if emphasizing the topic,
your reply a readjustment of position
so that your arm may include me more fully,
move me closer yet to your heart.
The discussion now intimate
I pull you to me and raise my head to kiss your lips
this full stop
pillowed period
ends the paragraph
concludes the discussion
at least for tonight
and I close the wakeful book
asleep in your parenthetic arms.
From: hovis_ea@lrc.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: DESERTED STREET
Date: 12 Aug 92 13:46:24 EDT
Organization: Lenoir-Rhyne College, Hickory, NC

Dark Gray,
Flash
of nightfall,
deserted street.
The brick road,
winding,
down.
The solitary figure,
silohetted
under the
coner light.

The streets are
never 
lonely,
there is always
someone,
close by.
Ghost,
spector,
friend or foe,
we learn our
lesson
til
the end.

Last quarter,
goes to the phone call
home.
Five years, 
it has been
since
you've heard 
a friendly voice.

The phone is 
answered,
the voice is
heard.
The distant hello
echoes long.
The soft strain
of hello
is anyone there,
comes through.
To afraid 
the phone goes down
with a 
resounding
click.
As the voice 
repeats are you there.

The figure floats back,
into the night.
Just as the voice on
the wire.
Under the corner light
everyonr is the
same.
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Limerick
Date: 21 Aug 92 04:14:12 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

It's been a long and frustrating week, and finally it's Friday afternoon.
The fact that the following sillyness crawled into my conciousness proves
beyond doubt that lack of sleep causes serious brain damage. C&C, especially
better punch-lines are welcome, but in general, i think this is a lost
cause. Welcome to Friday.


A young linguist found a canonical
Shibboleth, pan-anglophonical,
A way to distinguish
All dialects of English
By reading the poems of McGonnagall.


--Michael N.--

P.S.

When I logged on to post this, the following mail came through from a
friend in Sydney.

:From ####### Fri Aug 21 12:38:54 1992
:Apparently-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
:Subject: Preweekend hysteria setting in ... 
:Status: RO
:
:Three Indian women are sitting side by side.
:The first is sitting on a deerskin, and has a son who weighs 130 pounds.
:The second is sitting on an elkskin and has a son who weighs 170 pounds.
:The third woman is seated on a hippopotamus hide and weighs 300 pounds. 
:Now, what mathematical rule does this demonstrate?
:
:
:Well ......
:
:... the squaw on the hippopotamus is equal to the sons of the squaws on
:the other two hides!!
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Thoughts after the conventions
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 23 Aug 92 13:00:36 GMT


                        Thoughts after the conventions

You know what I can't stand about
you?
It's that you are not like
me.
I stand over here.
You stand elsewhere.
You are supposed to stand over here
too.
Then we can talk together about
what
we
don't
like
about
THEM.


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jondarr@macadam.mqcs.mq.oz.au (jondarr c g h 2 gibb)
Subject: Fears Concerning Love
Organization: Macquarie University, School of Mathematics, Physics, Computing and Electronics
Date: Thu, 13 Aug 1992 00:54:56 GMT


        Fears Concerning Love

Perhaps it's love, perhaps it's nothing more
Than lust and friendship, joining, as they do,
To centre on one Lady I adore,
And true affection's just another game
I play within myself - that's nothing new - 
The rules may change, the games are all the same.

While toying with her heartstrings will I see
The damage I could do ? or could she break
My loveless blood-pump just as easily ?
I know she always takes my breath away,
Still heavy panting, even in her wake,
No wonder I can't find what words to say.

But if it's love, then can she love me too ?
Or will these feelings all be felt in vain,
As often is the case, what love I knew
Before was always written in the sand
And I don't want to float away again
Upon the tide; how could she understood ?

Such questions, and I thought I knew so well
The ways of love. I'm frightened, can't you tell ?

			13th August, 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
From: ryanp@lclark.edu (Ryan Powell)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A try at Rhyme
Date: 22 Aug 92 08:49:30 GMT
Article-I.D.: lclark.1992Aug22.084930.29639
Organization: Lewis & Clark College, Portland OR


Hello...this is my second post to the poetry-net.  Please be kind, this is 
a poem I wrote three years ago when I was spending a winters break in 
Paris...back when I believed that poetry=rhyme.

A misty night on Paris streets,
The churning fog appears in sheets.
An old man on the corner dreams
Of youth beat out in twisting streams.

A young man and his wife pass by
Their noses turned up to the sky.
They grimace and increase their pace,
Frightened by this old man's face.

He struggles to his feet and sways
From passing by of many days.
He walks down to the Seine so grand,
And gently bends to dip his hand.

The dark gloom reveals his face,
Deeply scarred by the human race.
This could be you or me one day,
Remember when you walk his way.    please.

-Ryan

     -peace
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: A Consolation for Nanlee, a secular requiem
Date: 15 Aug 92 06:01:55 GMT
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA

In rec.arts.poems, melynda@titipu.meta.com (Melynda Reid) writes:

> 
> A Consolation for Nanlee
>        -dedicated to the memory of
>         Nanlee Haston, murdered 
>         in Autumn of 1984 by
>         Salvatore Lasprogato-
> 

[The rest deleted]

I am hesitant to use the word 'beautiful' with respect to
this piece given its nature, but I will simply
say that this song was there.  For a few moments it
was actually in the place that all poems yearn to be in
when they impinge upon my consciousness.

Thanks Melynda.  I will think a thought of Nanlee when
next I encounter dusk.

   I wonder who she was.  Not biographically....



doug
From: beh@hal.bu.edu (Bruce Howells)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: the singer's song
Date: 18 Aug 92 02:42:03 GMT
Distribution: rec.arts.poems
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


they say the swan sings once
and only once
upon the moment of death
the swan sings,
they say.

when sing I?
when the others have stopped singing?
when the sun has set
and the stars are rising?

when sings the singer?
when the mist rises out of the
damp earth
near Lake Superior?

I am the singer
was the singer
am the singer?
I am.
I am?
when sing I?

when the telephone rings
and Teri sings
somewhere,
somehow,
there's a place for me
too, somewhere.

Gavotte, and all,
but I am the only one who knows
Lescaut as I know Lescaut

they say the swan sings once
in the night of her death
as the nightengale gazes on the
last lights of day
but I,
I sing never
and always
when the singer sings

the song of the singer
is never silent
is never heard
is never felt
is never
mine.

Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu)
temporarily at least....
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: First Attempt (revised)
Date: 14 Aug 92 08:14:21 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

Stephen P. Guthrie writes:

> Wind, howling with pain and longing, anguish and despair,
> The tempest within me tugs, bites, tears.
> 
> Jagged flame, erratically leaping as children at play,
> Inside grasping fingers that clutch and claw.
> 
> Crashing seas, raging like bulls in combat,
> Swirling currents overwhelming, dragging me down.
> 
> Furious skies, torrents lashing like knives,
> My breast thunders with suppressed desire.
> 
> Thundering avalanche, directed fury, irresistable,
> I am smothered, suffocating, powerless.
> 
> A compassionate breeze caresses and enfolds;
> Glowing embers envelop with gentle warmth;
> Lapping Waves, their soothing rhythm comforts;
> Leaves murmur sensuously, glistening raindrops;
> Shroud of snow, soft, silent, pure.
> 
> This love, violent, savage,
> Cries to be tamed, cries to be heard;
> Unwanted tenderness. I am alone.


                                                                   |
                                                                   v
sorry to be explicit, but my first point (thought) was that you were
being too explicit. the weather report is not effective. storms have
raged before. so they dont mean. but if you say what you see, others
might see what you mean. i love it when the lines line up like this.
                                                                   ^
                                                                   |

so, another thought, in passing:

	a breeze caresses gentle warm lapping waves
	the soothing rhythm of snow soft silent pure

but then i dont know this from that...

-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)