HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Subject: what shocks me / Marie Coffin
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Fri, 21 Aug 1992 21:32:47 GMT


	what shocks me
	--------------------------------------------------------
	
	it used to be betrayal
	had the power to take me by suprise
	open my eyes wide
	with the sting of a slap
	
	but these days it's kindness
	that renders me speechless
	like the girl i hurt once in may
	came to my house to say goodbye,
	to wish me a happy summer.
	she hugged me.  so startled,
	i sat there, stiff as old firewood
	staring, dry.
	
	i never forgot, juli.  i never forgot.
	
	she was impulsive as a stream
	had eyes like warm brown pennies
	she encircled me
	she had a baby's tiny hands.
	
	i was practicing forgiveness then
	every day, like scales,
	i fingered my hurts and put them away
	but she was a true artist
	julia child in my kitchen
	splattering healing over the counters
	mozart tossed melody into the room.
	
	forgiveness runs downhill:
	eventually i followed her example
	and let go the bone-hold grip on myself.
	
	i never forgot, juli.  i never forgot.
	
	
Marie Coffin
August 21, 1992

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: cass8806@elan.glassboro.edu (KYLE CASSIDY)
Subject: Re: Infatuation
Organization: Glassboro State College, Glassboro, NJ
Date: Wed, 19 Aug 1992 16:08:40 GMT

In article <200@uiunix.ui.org> donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole) writes:


>>I hear your infectious
>>laugh
>>on the wind

there was obviously a typo in the above:

I hear your infections
laugh
on the way to the clinic


kc
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: steinse@eng.auburn.edu (Scott E. Steinbrink)
Subject: allegory
Reply-To: steinse@eng.auburn.edu
Organization: Auburn University Engineering
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 1992 20:48:59 GMT

This is a very rough draft of a new composition.  Any comments are welcome.


ALLEGORY

Softly, the snow falls,
quietly,
or with a bang,
gently and aimlessly,
or driven by winds,
melting or accumulating or drifting,
nevertheless, down it comes.

Inside, 
fire crackles on the hearth,
as sparks fly
and fickle here-now light
makes shadows quiver crazily
    as if in anticipation of some wondrous second coming,
or stagger about
    like a man four-thirds drunk.

On the farthest wall,
opposite the fireplace,
one shadow stands out clear
holding, if anything,
more steadfastly than the others,
and centered as if the wall
had been built for just this purpose.

Between dark and light one finds
the object which is cause and creator
in the shape of an elegant
lead-crystal bud vase,
standing atop a dark oak table,
wading in a dncing pool of reflected light,
and holding a single perfect red rose.

Crackling fire erases the chill,
but the vase provides life --
    that life which says "home,"
    like no amount of wood can do.
Fire provides heat, but
it is the vase which warms the room,
and the flower which warms the vase,

while always outside, the snow falls.





Scott Steinbrink
From: hoahosth@halls1.cc.monash.edu.au (ANDREA HOSTH)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: S. I. Hayakowa - Semantics
Date: 22 Aug 92 13:52:58 GMT
Organization: Halls of Residence, Monash University

To an indolent student in a General Semantics Class
	To a rodent, cheese is cheese;
		That's why mousetraps work.
	No date or index, if you please.
	To a rodent cheese is cheese
	Without semantic subtleties
		(Listen you mouse-brained jerk!)
	To a rodent, cheese is cheese
		That's why mousetraps. (Work!)


We were introduced to this in the first lecture in semantics that I ever had 
in Eng Lit. I still think its brilliant.

Ankh
From: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Summer Vacation
Keywords: summer vacation
Date: 14 Aug 92 04:49:33 GMT
Reply-To: jjwebb@cruzio.santa-cruz.ca.us



How I'm spending my summer vacation


7/20 -- "Jay, you need a triple bypass."
             "Gee doc, you sure know how to ruin a guy's day."

7/24 -- "Mrs. Webb, the surgery went exceptionally well."
             "Doctor, why does my husband look like a Borg?"

8/13 -- "Wow, more than 400 posts to RAP! This is going to take some time."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


        Faint Wind


        "My heart's been broken so often
        It's a fine powder," he said
                               too loudly,
        "So what's once more gonna do?
        I'll tell ya honey .. nothin'!
        Cause it don't mean nothin' to me
        If it don't mean nothin' to you."
        And he turned and marched away
        Wearing his porcelain pride
                               like a shroud.




        "In the Electric Shadows"
        Copyright (c) 1991 by JJWebb-- 
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Wed, 19 Aug 1992 19:27:55 GMT
Subject: My Sun Spot
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

         My Sun Spot
         -----------

Whenever I should sit inside,
I'm very sure the sun shines darkly.
Through concrete, steel, and fabric,
these antirays still find me 
to stick and catch and fill my flesh 
and make it weigh a ton.
Although I use both hands, not one,
I can barely lift my head.
My skin, it sags and seems
to seek the refuge of the dead.

Science says the sun's still there
shining bright light everywhere
but in my existential pride
I'll confidently shout:
the sun hurls heavy dark about
whenever I sit inside.


doug
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (jestem oczarowana)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: corrected on what I REALLY meant?
Date: 12 Aug 92 15:58:58 GMT
Reply-To: zola@u.washington.edu
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle


Upon seeing my word selection (gigue) a certain rec.arts.books personality
suggested that I might have actually meant "tarantella".  Which is derived
from the Italian 'Taranto'.  Now, why he would be interested in that I am 
not sure, but I did actually mean to say gigue.  But I notice that nearby
in Webster's is tarantism which is really rather marvelous.  Also, there
is tarradiddle.  But who knows what this all means, I feel a need to do a
little gigue.

-Rebecca/zola/Candlestick/&c...
#######################################################################
"Don't be afraid to take emotional posession of words.  If you don't
 love a few words enough to own them, you will have to be very clever
 to write a good poem."  -Richard Hugo
##########################################zola@u.washington.edu########
From: donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Yo, read please...
Date: 14 Aug 92 12:35:09 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <0095F085.3E7BB8E0@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu> ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu writes:
>
>By the way, what is an O'Toole and how did they invade this newsgroup??
>

An O'Toole is a rather sophisticated sandwich.  They are able to invade any
newsgroup they wish simply because they are so very delicious.

Yours,

Posthumous O'Toole

-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / /
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: When He Goes, He Will Go On a Saturday
From: loredich@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu (That one girl)
Date: 21 Aug 92 02:47:13 EST

When He Goes, He Will Go on a Saturday

The pale clean boy with ragged curls
is still.  Once occupying centers,
he sticks to the outskirts,
avoiding fall Saturdays.
They impose with their own cool stillness
on the careful schedule of his errands.
 
He cannot easily forgive the inconvenience.
 
No, he is better in summers, on Fridays,
when the afternoon sun can be muted with drapes,
and the sterile air-conditioned air 
from which he won't emerge till nightfall
can cushion him.  There is slowness and stateliness,
a Maria Callas, a _Swann's Way_,
a queer heavy beauty to the summer he lives.
 
But in fall, on Saturdays, nothing is right.
It seems, he decides, more prudent by far
to confine himself carefully, tucking away
any designs he might have had on accomplishment
for the day.  There are usually few.
 
The light on a cool still Saturday
is thin.  Though the sky is the jaded thick blue of October,
I feel swaddled in brown, a sweater of unease.
I do miss the jaded thick blue of his eyes,
late afternoon rising on Saturdays, fall.
 


Loredich
August 21, 1992
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: The Atlas Family
Date: 20 Aug 92 00:26:11 GMT

This is a goofy little thing.  Imagine it being sung in the round.  It does
have a point, but one probably not worth digging for... (:->)

		The Atlas Family

	Sinking, shrinking,
	Falling like rocks
	From Galileo's hands on Leibniz's clocks
	In Newton's time
	And Cartesian space
	Their names have dropped to a better place.

-----------
Kev @ UNC
8/18/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  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: spg@Xenon.Stanford.EDU (Stephen P. Guthrie)
Subject: First Attempt
Originator: spg@Xenon.Stanford.EDU
Organization: Computer Science Department, Stanford University.
Date: Wed, 12 Aug 1992 21:42:11 GMT

I've never tried this before, so it's probably garbage. Feel free to tell
me so. 

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

Wind, howling with pain and longing, fury and despair,
The tempest within me tugs, bites, tears;
A silky breeze caresses and enfolds.

Jagged flame, erratically leaping as children at play,
Inside grasping fingers that clutch and claw;
Glowing embers envelop with gentle warmth.

Crashing seas, raging like bulls in combat,
Swirling currents overwhelming, dragging me down;
Lapping waves, their soothing rhythm comforts. 

An avalanche, directed fury, untameable,
I am smothered, suffocating, powerless;
Shroud of snow, soft, silent, pure.

This love, violent, savage, 
Cries to be tamed, cries to be heard;
Unwanted tenderness, I am alone.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Portrait of a poet
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Thu, 20 Aug 92 02:23:26 GMT


                        Portrait of a poet

Her appetites are hardy
company serves her needs
then she treasures her solitude
that vital silence in which she transcribes
yes for herself
though others may see
her present
inner being
which parties on the page
as it wishes
(in a true Democracy
each voice
has its chance).
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--You read me Pasternak
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sat, 22 Aug 92 00:20:58 GMT


                          You read me Pasternak
                                (for She)

You read me Pasternak
from your Technical Office
where no one had heard of him
could have done in Russian
I would have understood--
You.
Not the poem.
From: sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (sheila)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: rambling
Date: 16 Aug 92 17:57:35 GMT
Organization: The University of Texas at Austin, Austin TX

Once Matt and I went to Mt. Bonnell. It was drizzling that day.
After we had climbed the steps (steps, I like that word, steps steps
steps) After we had climbed the steps (I would have said stone steps
or large stone steps, that were gray or brown, rock colors, but I liked
steps so much that I left it by itself) we walked to the platform to
view Austin. We viewed the Colorodo River (I hope it's the Colorado 
River, it would be embarassing for me to give it the incorrect name)
Then we climbed around a bit, and sat next to a mesquite (sp) tree
and actually, quiet a few other trees and rocks, grass and dirt, the
grass in this area rather scrubby at times.
The most fun part of this all, was the drizzle from the rain. At the
angle it came in, due to the wind, and the simple number of rain drops,
the image of the drops came right to your eyes in a perpendicular to your
glasses (if you are wearing them). A rather startling effect, that can
make your stomach feel like you are going fast, like on a rollar coaster.

This feeling was so fun, and it was so pleasant to remember the other day,
that I wanted to share it. It would be one two one two again real fast
one twoo, three, drops of rain and they would loop into your face. It
was exciting. Something to make you laugh with suprise when you focused
on them.

Before I remembered this feeling, I remembered, probably because I felt
dizzy, swinging around when I was small. I would like to swing around,
I imagine most everyone has liked to swing around, because you can go
real fast and then stop and lie on the ground and the gound keeps 
moving. I was remembering that. I tried to remember it very well,
I did not seem to remember having room to do it in my living room. I don't
remember the couch and two chairs going around. The front yard? perhaps,
I don't remember so many times that the spare two trees in our front
yard went around much eather. Plus, through many times, our front yard
grass was kinda scratchy. Then I remembered walking accross the streeth,
down and up walking over the ditch and twirling to fall into the cold
soft grass and watching no trees close by go in circles because I was
in the middle. I also used to take my pet parakeet out there. He would
like to chew on the grass, walk around to explore. I took him to school
once because when I left I missd him so, that I just brought him with me
one day.
I remember the way my head felt when I spun around.
-- 
stark raving sane!   sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--I  know
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 16 Aug 92 20:34:33 GMT


                        I know

I know you don't spend
much
any?
time thinking about it
but when you look down
and realize that you are standing
on a large sphere which is hurtling
through space at some thousands of miles
per hour
then you think about the wonder of it
at least a little bit.

Don't you?

What about when I tell you that the large sphere
on which you now stand
is hurtling
not straight ahead
but describing an endless spiral
down around the Sun
which is also hurtling through space?
This must make you ponder
slightly.

Yes?

Well then
what if I tell you
that the sun and the planets
all hurtling through space
describe a larger spiral
as the galaxy of which we are part
turns
as it
too
hurtles through space
in a spiral dance composed of
throusands and millions of galaxies.
Now
admit it
you are thinking about this a little.

Right?

Too bad...
From: jbuck@n154.mentor.stortek.com (Jeff Buck (jbuck))
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Act 1
Date: 18 Aug 92 23:44:48 GMT
Organization: Storage Technology Corp.


"Act I - Penultimate Scene" 1/15/92

Alarms blaring; splitting head, head aching
spinning, spinning - throwing up.
The heat! staggering in the dark,
saved from guilt.
Spinning and spinning and again.
Fists clenched tight,
tiny wrecking balls orbiting at arm's length,
deadly and yet, harmless

Gone in. Gone deep.
Eyes peer out - nothing gets in.
Disconnected, disaffected.
Is that right?
Lost at home, no way back.
Swallow - and more.
How proud we are, on the edge of control.
Pushed to the limit to feel no pain,
and an empty no pain we have while spinning.
Why won't the world stop spinning?!

Where am I and how did I get in here?
This place is much too large,
and it's cold now.
Raining -
Slogging through the grime in darkness.
Unclean shambles, old and sinister,
but not too.
Perfect for the splitter who's not split at all.
Stuck there on black throbbing nights,
spinning and reeling,
frantically running nowhere,
removed from family
with no place of his own.

comments?
--
-jb
That is: Jeff_Buck@stortek.com
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--I, so used to fixing
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Fri, 21 Aug 92 20:25:42 GMT


                        I, so used to fixing

I
so used to fixing when disaster strikes
find myself without tools with which to help you
just at your time of need
when I would most wish to
I find myself
empty-armed
unable even to give you my body
which could at least comfort you
and so I watch
as you drift like some slow ship
along the currents of your soul
which usher you now into the tropics
of your own life
into a black-teared calm
before the storm
which you must create
to free yourself from the cruel moorings
of thoughtless conditioning
while
I
so used to fixing
stand alone
and watch through salt-blurred eyes.
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--Sometimes I fear simplicity
Date: 17 Aug 92 18:11:07 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                        Sometimes I fear simplicity

Sometimes I fear simplicity
look around to clothe me in past complexity
as if to prepare for a coming storm,
not yet inured to the calm tropics in which I now reside
not yet aware down deep
that the weather which once tormented me is no more.
Put your arms around me Love,
til the torrent which is my fear
passes east into oblivion.
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Spring2 (was Re: Spring1)
Date: 21 Aug 92 05:22:32 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

Who was it said "if you feel you have written a sentence which is
particularly fine, strike it out."?  Evidently a nimble stylist, or
a closet poet with claustrophobia and ingrown furtiveness. Possibly
both. In any case, in the course of correspondence with that most
Posthumous of O'Tooles, the following text fell out of my fingers,
and later asked (oh-so nicely) to be posted. It has been slightly
corrected and has been poeticized by the addition of a title, and
the shuffling of carriage returns. I do hope P.O'T does not feel
his trust betrayed, but the words did ask oh-so nicely, as stated.

	Spring
	------	

This being sub-tropical south-east Queensland,
we've pretty much got to the end of winter
and all the European trees have only just decided
it's time to do a strip-tease. Autumn! they think,
children frolicking in the piles of fallen leaves!
busy busy time for the squirrels!
But these are strange squirrels -
they're rather big and lethargic
and not at all interested in collecting nuts.
A sham! these are not rodents, but marsupials.
And now that the European trees are all ready
to be tough and stoic through a long, bitter winter,
suddenly it's bloody Spring,
and don't the eucalypts have a good giggle -
Ahhr sucked in, ya turkeys -
dropped yer leaves fer nuthin'.
This what Spring is about in Queensland.

				-Michael Norris
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: First Attempt
Date: 13 Aug 92 09:55:07 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

Stephen P. Guthrie writes:

> I've never tried this before, so it's probably garbage. Feel free to tell
> me so. 
> 
> ------------------------------------------
> 
> Wind, howling with pain and longing, fury and despair,
> The tempest within me tugs, bites, tears;
> A silky breeze caresses and enfolds.
> 
> Jagged flame, erratically leaping as children at play,
> Inside grasping fingers that clutch and claw;
> Glowing embers envelop with gentle warmth.
> 
> Crashing seas, raging like bulls in combat,
> Swirling currents overwhelming, dragging me down;
> Lapping waves, their soothing rhythm comforts. 
> 
> An avalanche, directed fury, untameable,
> I am smothered, suffocating, powerless;
> Shroud of snow, soft, silent, pure.
> 
> This love, violent, savage, 
> Cries to be tamed, cries to be heard;
> Unwanted tenderness, I am alone.


a thought:

	A silky breeze caresses and enfolds.
	Glowing embers envelop with gentle warmth.
	Lapping waves, their soothing rhythm comforts. 
	Shroud of snow, soft, silent, pure.



-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lugowski@ils.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: The Funeral / Wislawa Szymborska / trans: Marek+Joanna
Organization: The Institute for the Learning Sciences
Date: Sat, 22 Aug 1992 20:51:29 GMT


		The Funeral (translation of Pogrzeb)
		-------------------------------------------------------------
 
		They took the skull out of clay,
		and put it in the marble.
		Ho, ho, ho, dig them medals,
		on satin pillows, medals.
		They took the skull out of clay.
		 
		They read aloud from a note:
		a) He was a regular guy.
		b) Now, let's strike up the band.
		c) Dang, wasn't immortal.
		They read aloud from a note.
		 
		So, nation, you be the judge,
		and so cherish this treasure,
		that someone born only once
		may well end up with two graves.
		So, nation, you be the judge.
		 
		And, sure there was a parade,
		for a thousand of trombones
		and cops for the promenade,
		and ringing for all that tolls.
		And, sure there was a parade.
		 
		Their eyes would dart to and fro,
		from the ground to the heavens,
		detecting deadly pigeons
		tendering bombs in their beaks.
		Their eyes would dart to and fro.
		 
		Between them and the people
		there were to be only trees,
		only that which sulks and sings
		in silence and songs of leaves.
		Between them and the people.
		 
		But here we see drawn bridges,
		and here a canyon of stone,
		with bottom hardened for tanks,
		with echo to rumble low.
		But here we see drawn bridges.
		 
		Flushed with its own slushing blood,
		the crowd retires with hope,
		still ignorant of knowledge
		that's graying the steeple cords.
		 
		Flushed with its own slushing blood.
		 
		
			Wislawa Szymborska
			Poland
		 
				translated from Polish
				by Marek Lugowski / Joanna Trzeciak
				Dallas / New York, 1989
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: pmullins@cs.ulowell.edu ([Irish Harp])
Subject: Magazines, etc that publish poetry?????
Organization: University of Massachusetts at Lowell Computer Science
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 1992 19:59:43 GMT

Hi,

I hope that this is an appropriate newsgroup to post the following message.
A friend of mine has been writing poetry for the last couple of years.
However, he hasn't tried to get any of his poems published and/or send
them to magazines that hold poetry competitions, etc.

I am interested in hearing from people through email that know the names
and (possibly) the addresses of organizations, etc that publish poetry.
My friend does not have access to the net, and unaware that I am posting
this message. Also, I am quite unfamiliar with the process of poetry 
publication, and so, I would appreciate any help on the subject.


thanks 'n advance,

Patrick
-- 
"I am over here, YOU'll always be over there,
 There's an ocean in between,
 The Irish Sea is to your back, An tOilean Ur is to mine,
 As they claimed in '85, We shall return, And I will." 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: spg@Xenon.Stanford.EDU (Stephen P. Guthrie)
Subject: Second Attempt
Originator: spg@Xenon.Stanford.EDU
Organization: Computer Science Department, Stanford University.
Date: Fri, 14 Aug 1992 04:28:06 GMT


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.

    -----------------------------
       
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.

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

P.S. What do you think? Should I show Isabel 
     (she probably has no idea) or is it way
     too corny?