HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: twain@milton.u.washington.edu (Barbara Hlavin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: I give up...
Summary: but the rest of us are more obstinate
Date: 3 Sep 92 22:44:24 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: University of Washington, Seattle

In article <10568@sun13.scri.fsu.edu> nall@sun8.scri.fsu.edu 
(John Nall) writes:
>>> [quote from _Dover Beach_ by Matthew Arnold]
>>
>  Well, when *I* was a freshperson in college, it was one of the poems
>  which was in a very popular textbook which was used by zillions of
>  Humanities 101 classes :-)  One of the others was the one that says
>  something along the lines of "The grave is a nice place, but none do
>  there embrace".  (Yes, I know those are *not* the exact words - I
>  can't recall them).  Janis Joplin said it better: "Get it while you can".

Do you really think so?  Why? 

I yield to none in my admiration of Janis Joplin -- her voice, her   
lung capacity, her prodigious appetite for self-destruction.  And 
I'm not quarreling with personal taste; you may well find the directness 
of "Get it while you can" refreshing, while I prefer the grace and 
suggestiveness of "The grave's a fine and private place/But none I 
think do there embrace," or even "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." 
(Both Marvell and Herrick seemed to be inordinately fond of exhorting 
virgins to make the most of their opportunities.)   

But "Get it while you can" has an unpleasant tone to it; it sounds 
like the kind of shrewd advice some sharpster experienced in self- 
interest might pass along to you, with a nudge and a wink, while 
the other two seem to be saying something more important, and truer, 
about life. 

I was just wondering why you liked Janis Joplin's line better. 

--Barbara 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mstringh@ent1.ent.ncsu.edu (Mike Stringham)
Subject: Vilanelle
Originator: mstringh@ent1.ent.ncsu.edu
Organization: Dept. of Entomology - NCSU, Raleigh, NC
Distribution: na
Date: Mon, 31 Aug 1992 12:05:49 GMT

Here's a vilanelle I wrote some time ago.  A little hokey, but what
the heck.


FISHING AT WEYMOUTH

Poetry loomed but a moment or two
(the sage trout rising to an insect dream)
struck once for the heart, then quickly withdrew.

A walkabout left me slightly askew.
Down in the garden by the wall it seems
poetry loomed but a moment or two.

Six fountains, two pools, a truth in clear view,
and all I could do was flinch as the scheme
struck once for the heart, then quickly withdrew.

It's a gift, a curse, a need to pursue
and know the true shape of the thing.  Downstream,
poetry loomed but a moment or two.

Scoundrels all, my words a mutinous crew,
gone when the Muses first lunged abeam,
struck once for the heart, then quickly withdrew.

Not a word I write will ever undo
a single knot of that singular theme;
Poetry loomed but a moment or two,
struck once, for the heart, then quickly withdrew.


                                --  Mike Stringham
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8593 rec.arts.books:15504
From: burgin@currituck.cs.unc.edu (Robert Burgin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
Subject: Re: I give up...
Date: 3 Sep 92 00:02:54 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Distribution: usa
Organization: The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

In article <1992Sep2.204622.19919@news.acns.nwu.edu> tilden@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Robert Tilden) writes:
>OK, I asked around, and looked in a few books, but I couldn't find it...
>		
>	Ah, love, let us be true
>	...
>	Where ignorant armies clash by night.

	Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach."

	Where did you look?  It's in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations.

	--rb
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Villanelles
Date: 28 Aug 92 17:22:35 GMT
Organization: The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

In article <217@uiunix.ui.org> donz@ui.org (Don Zirilli) writes:
>
>Dear rap,
>
>A certain Kevbo wrote me recently wondering why I had not taken up the
>gauntlet laid down by Fang O'Toole concerning the creation of villanelles.
>Well, being the True Poet that I am, I have of course already written and
>posted a villanelle.  But for Fang and Kevin's edification I herewith
>re-post it:

Well, O Recycler Most Vivacious, if you can do it, then so can I:


		The Bed On My Ceiling Is Slowly Squeaking

	The bed on my ceiling is slowly squeaking;
	It's the married couple who live above.
	I lay here wishing that they were peaking.

	I've learned to put up with the cries and shrieking.
	I've learned to ignore the sounds of their love.
        The bed on my ceiling is slowly squeaking.

	I met them once but they passed without speaking,
	Bore silently by with nary a shove.
        I lay here wishing that they were piquing.

	I could tell management my roof is leaking --
	Trickling passion I can't be part of.
        The bed on my ceiling is slowly squeaking.

	Or maybe I could be blindly self-seeking
	Pretend he's my penis, and she's this glove;
        I lay here wishing that they were peeking.

	How constant and cold their cadence of creaking:
	The sounds of machinery eating a dove.
        The bed on my ceiling is slowly squeaking --
        I lay here wishing that they were peaking.

---------
Kev @ UNC
3/23/92

And, just so everybody knows, I've sent email to Posthumous stating...

	Also, a better-worded challenge: Write a NEW villanelle and post it to
	rec.arts.poems.  You have one week to comply.  How's that sound?

Don't let him escape, folks.  No mercy!

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.poetry,rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
From: gwr@hedonist-1.lanl.gov (Graham W. Redgrave)
Subject: Re: Poetry Suggestion
Organization: Los Alamos National Laboratory
Date: Tue, 1 Sep 1992 21:56:17 GMT

In article <scottj-010992160636@iamac-1.dml.georgetown.edu>, scottj@tahiti.dml.georgetown.edu (John L. Scott) writes:
|> I will soon read a poem to my Toastmasters club (a club for people
|> interested in improving public speaking skills).   I am looking for a
|> particular sort of poem to read--I want an inspirational poem, a rousing
|> tribute to the power and spirit of the human race.  I want a poem that
|> brings a lump to your throat and makes you proud to be a human being.  I am
|> particularly interested in something that celebrates the the noble or
|> courageous individual.  I also need it to be from a reasonably well known
|> poet, one that I would be able to find in a public or college library.
|> 

I don't know how well known Milton Geiger is, but his poem "I Will Not Go
Back" fits your bill pretty well.  I read it in high school public speaking
competitions, and it seemed to produce a throat-lumping, chest-swelling 
pride ;-).  Seriously, it's a good bit of humanist propaganda about how
the I, Everyman, will not sink back into the "ooze and slime" whence I
came.

Hope that's of some use,

Graham

-- 
Graham Redgrave    |    --  I don't speak for the government, 
gwr@life.lanl.gov  |        but I wish the government would speak for me ...  --
From: jtrue@acpub.duke.edu (john)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: days spend themselves/jtrue
Date: 28 Aug 92 01:14:11 GMT

Self-similar and angled like dental
instruments, whorls of non-dairy
creamer paint my
canvas of
coffee.

I dream in walking
that rainstorms really
wash the
world.

Days spend themselves
like low-tar
cigarettes.

Another adjective
breathes,

forgotten.

-jtrue1992

c/c/f welcome
jtrue@acpub.duke.edu
From: beh@geech.gnu.ai.mit.edu (Bruce Howells)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: yet another untitled poem
Date: 1 Sep 92 17:57:00 GMT
Distribution: rec
Organization: Internet access via the Free Software Foundation


I don't understand.

What is it you don't understand,
my dear,
my child,
my love?

I don't understand where I am,
who I am,
what I've become,
this nothingness,
the void.

What void, my child,
my love,
my life?

The void, oh voice,
which comes when you do not,
the feeling which comes from nothing
on nothing
on nothing
on nothing
which cannot be erased by days in the sun
which cannot be erased by nights in the moon.

I see.

I fear.

What do you fear, my child,
my love,
my life?

I fear the void, 
of course, my voice.

How can you fear something
which is not there?

It isn't hard,
my voided voice...
After all,
I also fear
myself.

--Nancy Howells
(beh@gnu.ai.mit.edu for a little while longer)


Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: GC.SUL@forsythe.stanford.edu (Sullivan)
Subject: Re: Poem-Ralph
Organization: Stanford University, California, USA
Distribution: usa
Date: Wed, 2 Sep 1992 10:15:00 GMT

In article <7710542@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM>,
daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom) writes:
>I've wandered up and down in Earth,
>and for what it might be worth
>there's one thing that is certain,
>one little thing that can be known:
>Ralph Cherubini writes boatloads of poems.

or the waves that lap upon the hull?

>
>doug
Mike
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Villanelles
Date: 31 Aug 92 13:04:54 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <14821@borg.cs.unc.edu> denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo) writes:
>And, just so everybody knows, I've sent email to Posthumous stating...
>
>	Also, a better-worded challenge: Write a NEW villanelle and post it to
>	rec.arts.poems.  You have one week to comply.  How's that sound?
>
>Don't let him escape, folks.  No mercy!
>
>Kevin
>
No sooner do I see this audacious missive than I present this response,
fresh from the mind of Posthumous:
(by the way, I thoroughly enjoyed Kevbo's repost.  A brilliant use of the
form.  A lesser poet than myself would not dare try to follow such a piece)



Morning Fog in the Bracken Lay


Morning fog in the bracken lay
and I kissed her once upon each eye,
but the lass with brown tresses walked away.

I asked her with kind words to stay
and said it would be foolish to fly
while morning fog in the bracken lay.

She paused amid the shadows gray
and I thought I may have heard her sigh,
but the lass with brown tresses walked away.

I yelled, I wept, I began to pray
for sunlight, for a clear sky,
but morning fog in the bracken lay.

I whispered a remembrance for the day,
for the dawn, for the moment soon to die
when the lass with brown tresses walked away.

Never again shall we in the moors play,
never again shall anyone her form espy,
for while morning fog in the bracken lay
the lass with brown tresses walked away.


Posthumous O'Toole
August 31

(Many thanks to Mr. Webster for the proper use of bracken, tresses, and
remembrance)


Aaron Radomski, where are you??
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Thu, 27 Aug 1992 15:46:56 GMT
Subject: Re: Calyx, Core, Cunt
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, loredich@miavx3.mid.muohio.edu (That one girl) writes:

> Calyx, Core, Cunt
> 
> Some women carry a dozen pink roses,
> bearing bouquets between slender white thighs.
> Poetic convention relies upon flowers,
> metaphors petaled and veiled with dew.
>  

[the rest deleted]

I found this poem to be very well written, with a
good sense of its own rhythm. 

The gesture towards freedom was also very nice.


doug
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Re: winter growth / Marie Coffin
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sat, 29 Aug 92 13:12:12 GMT

In article <1992Aug28.170014@IASTATE.EDU> mcoffin@IASTATE.EDU (Marie Coffin) wr
ites:
>
>	winter growth
>	------------------------------------------------
>
>	she is nine years old,
>	eyes of no particular color,
>	a seriously unfinished face.
>	no one has ever cut her hair.
>	when she stands up,
>	it tickles her shoulderblades.
>
>	she curves into bed at night
>	under the smooth sheet
>	and smiles.
>	she has discovered a secret,
>	sending out shoots.
>
>	when she lays her hand flat
>	against her chest
>	she can feel the gentle swelling underneath.
>	she cups softness in each palm.
>	maybe the warmth will make them grow faster.
>	she goes to sleep thinking about babies.
>
>
>Marie Coffin
>August 28, 1992
>
>


                                The sister of the moon
                                (for Marie Coffin)

She comes to me
the sister of the moon
otherwise my daughter
now eleven
she comes all sleepy
rising with the sun
with the barking of morning dogs
she comes bleeding
little spots of womanhood
and I comfort her celestial body
in earthbound arms.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: john <jtrue@acpub.duke.edu>
Subject: the yellow morning/jtrue
X-Xxmessage-Id: <A6C2F486D2010D08@phil.zoo.duke.edu>
X-Xxdate: Thu, 27 Aug 92 02:07:18 GMT
Organization: .
X-Useragent: Nuntius v1.1.1d9
Date: Fri, 28 Aug 1992 01:05:51 GMT

Frayed filament and the whiff
of ozone define this
time of debacles
with fermented
ketchup.

White flakes of fallout
or shredded documents
masquerade as
precipitation.

The yellow morning
just says
no.

Consume the
context,

smiling.

-jtrue1992

c/c/f welcome
jtrue@acpub.duke.edu
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Thu, 27 Aug 1992 21:28:44 GMT
Subject: Re: Infatuation
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen) writes:

> 
> Contents of my 32 O'Toole Pockets.
> 
> 1.  Wrapper from pack of Virginia Slim 120's.

Yes, the preeminence of vice.  Wonderful!

> 
> 2.  Small red velvet bound copy of poems of Emily Dickinson

Always taken out in that certain slant of light one would
hope.

> 
> 3.  Red pen without any ink.

How does one know it is red?  Certainty of the uncertain.
Is this a trait of the bringer of light?  Perhaps this
is your duty.

> 
> 4.  Stopper from bottle of Cream Sherry.
> 
> 5.  Black cat hairs.


Wonderfully ambiguous.

> 
> 6.  White hairs from my part mini American Eskimo/part Toy        
>     Poodle.
> 
> 7.  Service pin from Starfleet.
> 
> 8.  Leftover crumbs from a croissant.
> 
> 9.  Maple leaf pin.
> 
> 10. Crushed petals from a red rose.

This may be the very one that I recently committed to paper.
Somehow I felt that its fate was to be crushed.

> 
> 11. Wedding picture of my Mum at 67.
> 
> 12. Crumpled train ticket from Los Angeles.
> 
> 13. Picture of roomie from Chandler, Arizona.
> 
> 14. $100 bill for emergencies.
> 
> 15. To do list with nothing crossed out.

Good good.  Very good.

> 
> 16. Addresses of people met on a train.
> 
> 17. Phone number of First born who has moved out.
> 
> 18. Leaf from a rhododendron.

Named phil no doubt.

> 
> 19. Purple agate from the Oregon coast.
> 
> 20. Bits of goldfish food.
> 
> 21. Latest Star Trek Novel.
> 
> 22. Card from Waldenbooks.
> 
> 23. Scribbled poem on back of grocery list.

Sustnenance and food.  The two go together.

> 
> 24. 24 inch hair from daughter's french braid.
> 
> 25. One ruby.

Only gazed at on Tuesday?

> 
> 26. A letter from my brother, a Reverend.
> 
> 27. An answering letter, not so reverent.

hehehehehehehehe.

> 
> 28. A single perfect pearl earring.

Perfection in a pocket?  You have my admiration.

> 
> 29. Grains of sand from the coast.
> 
> 30. Brochure on the Bahamas from a travel agent.
> 
> 31. Gold dust from the horn of a Unicorn.
> 
> 32. Shakespearean sonnets written by me.
> 
> Affectionately in Light
> 
> Kathleen O'Toole

Greetings from el capitan.

doug
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jmc@SAIL.Stanford.EDU (John McCarthy)
Subject: Re: Shadows
Reply-To: jmc@cs.Stanford.EDU
Organization: Computer Science Department, Stanford University
Date: 2 Sep 92 21:33:56

In article <183ng6INNa2h@matt.ksu.ksu.edu> gdscott@matt.ksu.ksu.edu (Geoffrey D Scott) writes:
   Here is a small poem, I would like responses please send either privately 
   or post either one is fine with me.

   I know how you feel my child,
   For when I was six, my imagination ran wild. 
   When I was alone in the dark in my room,
   I would scream "MOMMA" because of the gloom.
   In the shadows I would see ghosts, goblins and more,
   But then momma would slowly open the door,
   She would save me from the things on the wall,
   So you see my child, to be safe, you have but to call.
					   Geoffrey Scott

I'll try it on my six year old, but I warn you, he tends to be
critical.
--
John McCarthy, Computer Science Department, Stanford, CA 94305
*
He who refuses to do arithmetic is doomed to talk nonsense.
From: jss6@jaguar.uofs.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: One of my favorite poems
Date: 23 Aug 92 19:46:31 GMT
Organization: University of Scranton


  
                           Promised      
                                                     Author Unknown
                     God hath not promised
                           Skies always blue,
                     Flower-strewn pathways 
                           All our lives through;
                     God hath not promised
                           Sun without rain,
                     Joy without sorrow,
                           Peace without pain.
 
                     But God hath promised
                           Strength for the day,
                     Rest for the lavor,
                           Light for the way.       
                    Grace for the trials,
                           Help from above,
                    Unfailing sympathy
                           Undying love...



                                                  --the Shadowlord
From: sara@gator.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: sladko stupid fool
Keywords: bunch of noise
Date: 2 Sep 92 15:58:32 GMT
Organization: The Gator Public Access Unix Site - 219-289-3745




the sprinkling periwinkle
blues and flower-suns
like van gogh's dripping
earless eschered handly holded brushes   
in the distance call
sweet bad boy
it is true
they still in their swaying
beauty
scream your name
in starkly scented silence

it is blasphemy
this beauty love, bespoken

-- 

_________________________________________________________________________
knock knock:    who's there?   guest.    guest who?   guest guest.
                            WELCOME SUPERUSER
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: <none>
From: connorm@vax.sonoma.edu (Michelle Connor)
Date: 3 Sep 1992 10:29 PST  
Distribution: world
Organization: Sonoma State University
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.41    

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: kammerer@cwis.unomaha.edu (Al Kammerer)
Subject: Witch's Brooms
Organization: University of Nebraska at Omaha
Date: Thu, 3 Sep 1992 19:42:57 GMT

In Pennsylvannia she operates with a rifle,
If the witch's brooms nestle close to her aim,
And shoots the tangled, mutated material
From the tree-high cradle it crowns.
In Massachusettes, a wise woman agrees
That a witch could cause a tree to dwarf
A limb she had touched, reducing the angles
Of branching to a nana form
That the Pennsylvannia professor may call
For her own handiwork once she sprouts,
Nurses, and raises the conifer issuing
From the pine cones so explosively harvested.
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Revelry
Summary: a villanelle
Date: 1 Sep 92 14:58:38 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ


Dearest rappers,

I hate to burden you with yet another villanelle, but a certain fanged
O'Toole who shall not be named was disturbed by various "while"s "and"s
"but"s, etc in my previous villanelles that in some small way impinged on
the sameness of certain lines.  And so I post this villanelle, hoping it
will work as a sort of literary Pepto-Bismol for the poor dear.


The Sober Recruit


I watched the soldiers' drunken revelry
foiled by a distant fire's glow.
Cinnamon usurped the flavor of my tea.

Sour breath, or the smoke of an enemy
caused my eyes to tear as if from woe.
I watched the soldiers' drunken revelry.

A private robbed the spirit from my recipe,
I was certain the moment I saw it flow:
Cinnamon usurped the flavor of my tea.

With beverage growing cold next to me
and no excitement pending from our foe,
I watched the soldiers' drunken revelry.

I saw that some were sobbing desperately
and some were stiff, would never know
cinnamon usurped the flavor of my tea,

but the rest were dancing merrily,
if any remained, dancing heel to toe--
I watched the soldiers' drunken revelry.
Cinnamon usurped the flavor of my tea.



Posthumous O'Toole, villanellist etraordinaire
9-1-92
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Tue, 25 Aug 1992 16:42:24 GMT
Subject: Poem-Ralph
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

I've wandered up and down in Earth,
and for what it might be worth
there's one thing that is certain,
one little thing that can be known:
Ralph Cherubini writes boatloads of poems.


doug
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Again
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Wed, 2 Sep 92 16:54:57 GMT


                                Again
                              (for She)

Again
and again
she said
love me
again and again
tell me
again and again
how you want me
he said
again and again
back and forth
again and again
this was their song
do it
with me
for me
love me
again and again.

And so they did.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: terri@cwis.unomaha.edu (Teresa L. Jelinek)
Subject: A Feeling of Detatchment
Organization: University of Nebraska at Omaha
Date: Mon, 31 Aug 1992 21:48:49 GMT

	A Feeling of Detatchment

I feel the need to escape
To escape from this
Ephemeral existence
I no longer belong here
And yet I feel trapped
What is this world 
To which I am confined?
It's something far from 
Vexatious
It's far worse than that
I now await the day
When someone shall take me
Far from this melancholy place
Someone who will show me that
Life has much more to offer...
Surely one cannot be expected
To live under these retrograde
Conditions
Not I,
Not anyone!
Xref: sparky rec.arts.poems:8613 rec.arts.books:15552