HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (Queen of the Netherlands)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: a touch of green
Date: 21 Aug 92 17:19:10 GMT
Article-I.D.: u.1992Aug21.171910.15867
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle




>Has Josef resurrected himself in me?

no.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: paulchem@tigger.cs.Colorado.EDU (Icarus)
Subject: Re: Infatuation
Organization: University of Colorado, Boulder
Date: Thu, 20 Aug 1992 02:30:14 GMT

In article <cass8806.254@elan.glassboro.edu> cass8806@elan.glassboro.edu (KYLE CASSIDY) writes:
>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

1] Which could be:

I see your affections
lie 
in the eyes of a cynic



2] Stay Cool.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
.    ~ ~                                                                     .
.    o o      signito ergo sum.              paul chemmanoor.                .
.     |    i sign therefore i am.            Computer Science department.    .
.     =                                      Univ. of Colorado, Boulder.     .
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: mikero@microsoft.com (Michael Robin)
Subject: fire - a dream
Date: 15 Aug 92 23:49:13 GMT
Organization: Microsoft Corporation

The God that I had forgotten
had forsaken me.
I am in this place alone,
even without the company other
tortured souls.
The pain I learned to endure in life
is a thousandfold here.
Later it comes to pass through me.
But there is always some new torment.
Many times I have awoken in
my mother's arms or in the embrace
of a woman, only to return here.
At first I struggled to remember
my past - but why? Now I let the 
episodes carry me. They think I am
conquered and twisted and evil. Strength
comes from where I thought it had been lost. They
do not know. To keep my place I, too, torment
many souls and become their tool - I am
sorry. But one day, one year, one age -
when He enters below with a blinding fury
to free us, I will let Him pass.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: 78witherspoo@cua.edu
Subject: New Subjugation
Organization: The Catholic University of America
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 1992 19:01:56 GMT

	New Subjugation

Wind, earth, heat and desire,
	iron bars that pressured me,
	mocked me,
	and tricked me.

Life is liquid, and sane,
	and it doesn't make any difference
	who is right or wrong,
	who questions me,
	who tries to rule me.

I am ruled by something
	that I cannot name,
	that I cannot feel,
	that I cannot touch.

Butterflies dance across my surface,
	tickling my ears with new vision,
	my eyes with harmony,
	my tongue can feel everything now.

Life is new now,
	I am alive again.

-- 8/18/92
______________________________________________
Hi gang! Just back from vacation! My apologies to Bing and Barclay, I was kept
very busy while I was down there.  But I really liked the city, and will
probably be back.

This is a rough little ditty, any help would be appreicated.

Love and good walking,

Tom Witherspoon

78witherspoo@cuavax.dnet.cua.edu
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Superheroes
Date: 20 Aug 92 00:28:18 GMT


		Superheroes

	Jim walks in the room, wearing that same set
	Of Spiderman pajamas that Mandy
	Had him wear the night before.  Webslinger?
	Not him.  But so what, it was fun.  So he
	Hops on the sofa, hands behind his head,
	Gonna take a nap without a care in
	The world.  Meanwhile, Mandy's Wonder Woman
	Costume is still on a hanger in their
	Bedroom closet.  She is asleep, naked,
	On their king-size bed with the powder-blue
	Sheets.  As the impartial, unobtrusive
	Poet, I don't know why they sleep apart.
	It's really none of my business.  But, I'll
	Sell you the photographs for fifty bucks.

-----------
Kev @ UNC
8/19/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  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"
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8279 alt.sex.bondage:16243
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,alt.sex.bondage,talk.bizarre.rabbit
Subject: Spring3
Date: 22 Aug 92 23:57:31 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland


	Spring (cleaning)
	------

tidying the basement
a box that rattles with a heavy, muffled clunk
one i packed the night before i flew out
to rediscover one by one three wild years wiser
opening the kitchen drawer to find a knife
hesitation
that's what it must be
slid the knife under the tape
slit it neatly from beneath
left the box in silence a few careful seconds
unsealed but unopened
lifted the lid with a slow, steady motion
a tangle of black and chrome. yes.
we've drifted too far apart now
i wouldn't show you these things again
our toys that crazy summer
smooth smooth chains
and the padlock you kept in the freezer
velcro straps that helped us learn
the value of suspense
bits of leather, silk and feathers
that spiky pine cone as sharp as i remember it
as sharp as your tongue.
are you happy out there in the suburbs?
they say you've become frightfully straight,
lost the spark, took up commitments
with a rugged, dependable man
who wouldn't dream of running off
to istanbul
just because he liked the name.
he seemed so dull when i met him
but it was only once - we had
nothing to say to each other.
they say you've become so conservative -
how could you?
when you used to be so ..
restrained.

		--Michael Norris.
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: while I am at it
Date: 13 Aug 92 13:28:36 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

Anyone for a cascade?

In article 2505@tau-ceti.isc-br.com, cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams) writes:
>
> zola@u.washington.edu writes:
>>
>>word for the day:  gigue
>My feet start twitching, 
>then soon I can't stop;
>Gigue Jag...
I'm in the kitchen,
but it's a sweat shop;
Clique Fag...
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Yo, read please...
Date: 13 Aug 92 18:37:39 GMT
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU




Hey ya all, I am going to be in Seattle and was wondering what cool
and froody things there are to do/people to meet.  If anyone wants to
get together with me and look at some poetry or just fart around
while I am there, please drop me a line before the 16th.  Thanks!!



By the way, what is an O'Toole and how did they invade this newsgroup??


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

Death is boring;  slaughter is fun.
Thank you for not smoking!!
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Trying to find...
From: lklawson@acs.harding.edu
Date: 21 Aug 92 16:44:37 -0500
Reply-To: lklawson@acs.harding.edu
Organization: Harding University

I have been looking for "The Incape Rock."  The problem is, I don't remember
who the poet was.  Also, I have been looking for a Depression Era Poem.
I only read it once, the line that I remember was something like 
   Soft is the sound of an egg on a zinc counter
Sorry, that's all I remember.  Any help would be appreciated.  E-mail to
LKLAWSON@ACS.HARDING.EDU
Thanx - Kirk
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Dead Fish
Date: 21 Aug 92 22:50:27 GMT


		Dead Fish

	This is a big world sometimes, and, as my
	Uncle Nate likes to say (for different
	reasons) it has too many of them chinks.
	We hear of how a woman is eaten
	by invisible demons in the midst
	of a crowded Moroccan marketplace,
	and how a man's laid to rest beneath the
	latest exit of the Jersey Turnpike,
	and how some Pacific isles still await
	orders from Tokyo.  Speculations
	abound that there is a society
	deep within our hollowness, and that King
	Arthur's court holds in a similar sort
	of stasis in a lost cave in Cornwall.
	Old stories indeed, but not as old as
	the poet who drunkenly drowned in his
	own reflection under a newer moon.
	Night was a great deal lighter way back then,
	and shadows were not nearly as hungry --
	but even jaundiced rivers will accept tribute
	from patrons of the arts, for there is truth
	in wine, if only for a time.  And how
	can a man swim without getting wet?  He
	cannot, and so he calmly contemplates
	the 10-ness of his toes and the 2-ness
	of his feet, and closes eyes too dry to
	count the bubbles leading to the jade that
	he once loved -- and so lately leaves behind.

---------
Kev @ UNC
8/21/92
-- 
|| +------------------+  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"
From: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: in the lobby of my hotel / Marie Coffin
Date: 19 Aug 92 19:20:19 GMT
Article-I.D.: IASTATE.1992Aug19.142019
Reply-To: mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin)
Organization: Iowa State University


	in the lobby of my hotel
	------------------------------------------------------------
	
	the flowered carpet
	and the sound of running water
	and the greenery everywhere
	mute the noise.
	
	if i set down this coffee cup
	a maid will silently appear
	and dust it.
	over there, a woman
	with a lilting accent
	has no greater concern
	than choosing
	the right croissant for me.
	
	three men in suits rush through the revolving doors.
	then their pace slows.
	the peace in here soaks into them
	and they relax.
	
	my croissant crumbles in my lap.
	i love the illusions of this place
	and i hope the maid doesn't mind too much
	about the crumbs.
	
	
Marie Coffin
August 19, 1992
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--The Tell-me Girl
Date: 21 Aug 92 14:07:29 GMT
Organization: Real/Time Communications


                                The Tell-me Girl

Her need was
one
was to be told
all the time
constantly
she could say
"Tell me"
in thirty-four languages
yes
she knew "Tell me"
like soldiers know
"I want to go to bed with you"
it was the name of her need
and when I would come inside her
her whole being would cry out with
"Tell me"
and I would go mad for her
and tell her again and over
in the one language
spoken by all
the one with no words.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: lugowski@ils.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: Rubens' Women / Wislawa Szymborska / trans: Marek+Joanna
Organization: The Institute for the Learning Sciences
Date: Mon, 17 Aug 1992 23:27:36 GMT


		Rubens' Women (translation of Kobiety Rubensa)
		-------------------------------------------------------------
 
		Girl-goliaths, feminine fauna.
		Naked as the crash of barrels.
		They're swarming in stampeded beds.
		They sleep with mouths still open from bird cries.
		Their pupils have run inward,
		penetrating to the very glands
		from which their yeast taints their blood.
		 
		Daughters of the baroque.  The dough rises, clothed.
		The baths are steaming, the wines are blushing.
		The piglets of clouds are dashing through the sky.
		Meanwhile, the horns are blasting in physical alarm.
		 
		O bloated, O oversized,
		O doubled by your unveiling,
		O tripled by your violent pose,
		fat carnal courses.
		 
		Their skinny sisters got up earlier,
		before it dawned within the painting,
		and no one saw how they filed in a row
		onto the unpainted side of the canvas.
		 
		Exiles of style.  Ribs all counted.
		Birdlike feet, birdlike hands.
		They will try to fly on gaunt shoulderblades.
		 
		The 13th century would have given them
		a gold backdrop,
		the 20th, a silver screen.
		This 17th has nothing for the flatchested,
		 
		for even the sky curves in
		relief.
		Relieved angels, a relieved god --
		a moustached Apollo astride a sweaty steed
		enters solo into a teeming alcove.
		
		
			Wislawa Szymborska
			Poland

				translated from Polish
				by Marek Lugowski / Joanna Trzeciak
				Dallas, 1989
From: lalaw@s1.gov (Leroy Alaway)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: A Fairy Tale Poem
Keywords: Romance
Date: 14 Aug 92 19:57:53 GMT
Reply-To: lalaw@s1.gov
Organization: Lawrence Livermore National Lab
Originator: lalaw@nerthus.s1.gov



To kill the myth that Engineers can't write. A little poem for your
enjoyment.


A Fairy Tale Poem

I went for a walk in the starlight last night,
Not feeling afraid or alone;
I talked to my Father about doing what's right,
I know I can't do it on my own.

I dream of wearing armor that is shiny and bright,
Living like a knight in a medieval life,
Defeating fire breathing dragons with honor and might,
Living happier ever after with my fairy tale wife.

But I've noticed my armor has some dent here and there,
That the dragons have gone up and died;
Though I'm not a fairy tale knight, still I love and I care,
I'm not about to run or to hide.

I went for a walk in the starlight last night,
To watch the stars as they shown;
Looking into the heavens I saw a princess of light,
Who danced through the stars all alone.

I felt like a knight as I gazed there for hours,
Watching this princess just dance;
Opening my heart and waiting with flowers,
In a time of gallantry and romance.

This princess she moved in such wonderous ways,
I knew that she must be the one;
But then she stopped and said she couldn't stay,
And vanished with the rise of the sun.

I went for a walk in the starlight last night,
I walked down the street by your home;
I prayed to my Father to keep you in sight,
I walked by myself but not alone.

I feel like a knight upon his white horse,
Who succeeded in finding his dream;
But has questions about which direction which course,
To turn it into reality or so to make it seem.

So much this knight wants to reach out and hold,
His princess with all of his might;
So many words to be cherished to be told,
Of love eternal and bright.

I went for a walk in the starlight last night,
Not feeling afraid or alone;
I dreamed you were holding me ever so tight,
Like at the end of a fairy tale poem.

(c) 1991 LeRoy W. Alaways

To Kim Lisa Coleman, where ever you are now. I hope you still are
a princess of light and good luck on your upcoming marriage.

				  Your fairy tale knight.

			aka One Tin Soldier (who rode away).

Comments on the poem are welcome!!
From:  (Michael Snider)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: what the Q?
Date: 23 Aug 92 16:13:32 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: BNR

Well, am I surprised that some characters from Microsoft Word for the
Macintosh turn into Qs on the net!  Affected were a reply to the poem
"Calyx, Core, Cunt" and my own poem "Another Story." I'll figure out how to
fix it for future posts--they seem to be mainly apostrophes and dashes--

QQ  Michael Snider  QQQQalas, no email, so reply by postQQQQQQ
Talk of fame, honor, pleasure, wealth, all are dirt compared with
affection.
                                                    Charles Darwin
Critics quarrel with other critics. With an artist, no sane man quarrels.
                                                    George Santayana
BNR can't have any opinion, not even mine.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--What little boys are made of
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 23 Aug 92 13:10:02 GMT


                        What little boys are made of

Parts and pieces
this is what little boys are made of
hair and
eyes
jeans
and button-down shirts
glances
the shape of thighs tapering away from bulges
shoes made for removing
hands adaptable to gentle uses
suggestions of strength
a tendency to explain the inexplicable
beneath it all
a silence
which reminds her
of the cave...
From: z_templetocd@ccsvax.sfasu.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject:  A LITTLE MADNESS TO SHARE
Date: 13 Aug 92 14:00:31 CST
Organization: Stephen F. Austin State University



I HEAR A SCREAM
RINGING THROUGH THE HALL
LEADING TO MY BRAIN
AND AROUND MY HEART
THE CANDLES ARE SHOOK
LEAVING DARKNESS
AND A FAINT RESONANCE.

MADNESS IS A FINE, FINE POWDER
COVERING EVERYTHING I TOUCH,
IN EVERY BREATH I TAKE,
LET ME GET AWAY.....CAN'T.

POETRY, POETRY
IN MY MIND,
EVERY THOUGHT A POSSIBLE RHYME,
IN EVERY ACTION
A RESOUNDING VERSE,
AND ONLY IN DEATH
WILL I FIND ITS WORTH.

BEFORE I LET GO OF THIS RAZORS EDGE,
I BLEED ENOUGH TO BREAK THE FALL.

IM LOSING IT IN A BAD WAY.

SHOULD I TAKE ANOTHER LIFE TO EASE THE PAIN?


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--A different story
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 23 Aug 92 13:37:06 GMT


                        A different story
                        (for Jaguar Woman)

"it was a different story when I was in it"
                       --Jaguar Woman

it was a different story when I was in it
when I was her age
seeing everything coming to me
everything up ahead
now I look in both directions
sometimes at once
and realize
that there is more behind me now
than
perhaps
lies ahead
it is a different story now
something
other...
From: stedman@aludra.usc.edu (Ian D. Stedman)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Starshine
Date: 17 Aug 1992 04:58:41 -0700
Organization: University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA
NNTP-Posting-Host: aludra.usc.edu

          Starshine
 
The sun still shines on the world everywhere,
The shining light still on someone there,
A red-gold ball sinking always so slow
And a brand-new dawn somewhere will grow,
     From Starshine.
 
When Apollo's chariot takes my flight,
And I am bathed in brilliant light
I cast my glance over all and see,
Ten million flashes winking at me,
     Like Starshine.
 
When the evening's quiet slanting low,
And the gold is glimmering, fading slow,
I lift my gazing aloft so high
And search across the darkening sky
     For Starshine.
 
And from below, the city twinkling,
Rubies and careless sapphires sprinkling,
But seldom am I long neglecting,
That it is but poorly reflecting
     The Starshine.
 
And so I turn back to the gleaming
Diamonds in daisy chains streaming,
Millions, billions, King Solomon's skies,
Find the zenith, and close my eyes
     To Starshine.
 
And so from the gorgeous sky I part,
Seeing only Starshine in my heart,
Remember her peaceful, loving, there
And bask in the glow of her starlit hair,
     My Starshine.
 
And though I might live with an eternal sun
And if my nighttime will never come,
I will still dream of Solomon's skies,
Lit by the stars in her blazing eyes,
     My Starshine, my love.
 
                              IS`92
From: zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (jestem oczarowana)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: a poetic treat
Date: 14 Aug 92 19:16:36 GMT
Article-I.D.: u.1992Aug14.191636.28184
Reply-To: zola@u.washington.edu
Organization: Bi-lingual Spider Farm, Seattle


I have a book of wonderful poetry, the following is something that
I marked some time ago.  I just re-read it and marveled again at
how touching the poem is.  So, here it is for you folks.

-Rebecca



                     ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Wislawa Szymborska
(1923 -   )
Poland

She is considered one of the best of the post-war
Polish women poets.  She exemplifies in her work the 
Polish poetic attraction for the baroque allied with
a modern sharpness and frankness.  Her qualities
are most significantly portrayed in her volume -Salt-.

                    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I am too near to be dreamt of by him.
I do not fly over him, do not escape from him
under the roots of a tree. I am too near.
Not in my voice sings the fish in the net,
not from my finger rolls the ring.
I am too near. A big house is on fire
without me, calling for help.  Too near
for a bell dangling from my hair to chime.
Too near to enter as a guest
before whom walls glide apart by themselves.
Never again will I die so lightly,
so much beyond my flesh, so inadvertently
as once in his dream.  Too near.
I taste the sound, I see the glittering hust of this word
as I lie immobile in his embrace. He sleeps,
more accessible now to her, seen but once,
a cashier of a wandering circus with one lion,
than to me, who am at his side.
For her now in him a valley grows,
rusty-leaved, closed by a snowy mountain
in the dark blue air. I am too near
to fall to him from the sky. My scream
could wake him up.  Poor thing
I am, limited to my shape,
I who was a birch, who was a lizard,
who would come out of my cocoons
shimmering the colours of my skins.  Who possessed
the grace of disappearing from astonished eyes,
which is a wealth of wealths. I am near,
too near for him to dream of me.
I slide the arm from under the sleeper's head
and it is numb, full of swarming pins,
on the tip of each, waiting to be counted,
the fallen angels sit.

	(translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz)
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: in your slow turning
Date: 23 Aug 92 14:51:18 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

=


	in your slow turning, your slowly turning hand
	there lingers what you might call an expression
	in the long slow fine honed cold steel languor
	of your extension, holding slowly, hand to hand
	an expression longing sleek to understand
	this contraction...move your hip just so
	and turn your touching hand to hold my breath
	this extension turning slow...you rise to stand


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mtaranto@shearson.com (Mark Taranto)
Subject: Re: corrected on what I REALLY meant?
Organization: Yale CS Mail/News Gateway
Date: Wed, 12 Aug 1992 20:01:55 GMT


zola@hardy.u.washington.edu (jestem oczarowana) writes:

> 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.

I'll not stand for being called a personality.

Tarantism, by the way, is a disease that causes one to twitch, as if one
is dancing the Tarantella.  It was once thought to be caused by the bite
of the Tarantula.  It is not.  It is caused by being bitten by a gigolo,
causing one to dance the gigue.

As will be painfully obvious to all in r.a.p, I do not write poetry,
but I put this little ditty together for you.  In memory of Joe Green,
it should be sung to the tune of "Streets of Laredo."  It describes how
I met the Queen of the Netherlands.

        As I was dancing the Tarantella
        I saw a young woman with long red hair.
        She was dressed up just like Cinderella
        A blink of my eyes, then no one there.

        When next I saw her she danced to the jig,
        Twitched as a gigolo bit a big hole.
        Clutching her Webster's, she quotes from her .sig
        "I'm Candlestick, zola, Rebecca Lowell."


Mark

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: tolman%asylum.cs.utah.edu@cs.utah.edu (Kenneth Tolman)
Subject: Love poem?
Date: 19 Aug 92 18:12:31 MDT
Organization: University of Utah, CompSci Dept


	oh shit
	my hand is exposed
	the plans so carefully laid
	and designs a twisted
	all laid bare and open clearly
 	
	"You are so nice" she said
	once then before she knew
	now it was in shambles
	and her new knowledge
	bred control

	these millions of faces
	make it easy for me
	and now I have found another
	in this sea of breathing living squirming bodies
	or perhaps they have found me
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems