bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025_split huggingface dataset:
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Grief
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go.
Hart Crane (1899–1932)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Idiot
Sheer over to the other side,—for see—
The boy straggling under those mimosas, daft With squint lanterns in his head, and it’s likely
Fumbling his sex. That’s why those children laughed
In such infernal circles round his door
Once when he shouted, stretched in ghastly shape. I hurried by. But back from the hot shore
Passed him again . . . He was alone, agape;
One hand dealt out a kite string, a tin can The other tilted, peeled end clamped to eye.
That kite aloft—you should have watched him scan Its course, though he’d clapped midnight to noon sky!
And since, through these hot barricades of green,
A Dios gracias, grac—I’ve heard his song Above all reason lifting, halt serene—
My trespass vision shrinks to face his wrong.
Theodore Roethke (1908–1963)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
In a Dark Time
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade; I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren, Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire! I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall. That place among the rocks—is it a cave, Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon, And in broad day the midnight come again! A man goes far to find out what he is— Death of the self in a long, tearless night, All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly, Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind, And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
Dylan Thomas (1914–1953)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Out of the Sighs
Out of the sighs a little comes,
But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony; the spirit grows,
Forgets, and cries;
A little comes, is tasted and found good; All could not disappoint;
There must, be praised, some certainty, If not of loving well, then not,
And that is true after perpetual defeat.
After such fighting as the weakest know, There’s more than dying;
Lose the great pains or stuff the wound, He’ll ache too long
Through no regret of leaving woman waiting For her soldier stained with split words
That spill such acrid blood.
Were that enough, enough to ease the pain, Feeling regret when this is wasted
That made me happy in the sun, How much was happy while it lasted,
Were vagueness enough and the sweet lies plenty, The hollow words could bear all suffering
And cure me of ills.
Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew, The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin, Groping for matter under the dog’s plate, Man should be cured of distemper.
For all there is to give I offer: Crumbs, barn, and halter.
James Schuyler (1923–1991)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Payne Whitney Poems: What
What’s in those pills? After lunch and I can hardly keep my eyes open. Oh, for someone to talk small talk with.
Even a dog would do.
Why are they hammering iron outside? And what
is that generator whose fierce hum comes in the window? What is a poem, anyway.
The daffodils, the heather and the freesias all
speak to me. I speak back, like St. Francis and the wolf of Gubbio
The Payne Whitney Poems: Pastime
I pick up a loaded pen and twiddle it.
After the blizzard
cold days of shrinking snow. At visiting hours the cars below my window form up
Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “Howl”
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating acrossthe tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
Anne Sexton (1928–1974)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “The Double Image”
1.
I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer, flapping in the winter rain,
falling flat and washed. And I remember mostly the three autumns you did not live here. They said I’d never get you back again.
I tell you what you’ll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
I, who chose two times
to kill myself, had said your nickname
the mewling months when you first came; until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomime
above your head. Ugly angers spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled like green witches in my head, letting doom leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet, and old debt I must assume.
Death was simpler than I’d thought. The day life made you well and whole
I let the witches take away my guilty soul.
I pretended I was dead
until the white men pumped the poison out,
putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole of talking boxes and the electric bed.
Carl Wolfe Solomon (1928– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Anti-Totalitarian Manifesto for Evergreen Review
(after 5 years of imprisonment for yelling at my mother)
Every psychiatrist is a prick. Literature and psychiatry are incompatible. These people are sophists.
Conrad believes in evil; Freud doesn’t. Freud is horwhit as Reich, his collaborator’s imprisonment in Lewisburg proves. Sullivan was a paranoid. Do I have to
pay these European refugee birds and their American competitors, the Sullivanians, to keep from being
put into a straitjacket, to keep from—Aw shit
they are keeping me in a bughouse accused of paranoia because I refuse to pay the pettifogging fucks. They are quacks. Admit it publicly. The handmaiden of timid librarians—10 years of these cocksuckers. Drop dead to every American Psychoanalytic Review. They’re just phonies. No Ginsberg isn’t mad.
Carl Solomon
And I’m not either. Long live infinity. Long live Ginsberg. Viennese prurient bourgeois crap.
Friendly reader in your other-directed household,
The “Irrational Man” is your friend. Join me in my
fight for freedom. Down with every mush-mouthed author who pays lip-service to an unproven “Science” with a
paraphenalia of worthless medicines and contraptions which cost lives—because it is stylish. It’s stylish
because they have loot and the patients don’t. It’s the new Gestapo. I never did nothing wrong. You read my article—so I like Isou and Artaud. Why the fuck am I
being held. I shit in your mouth. VIVE LAUTREAMONT. I’m just a nice boy. Why don’t you the American Public get
me out if it’s such a nice country?
Lucille Clifton (1936– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
shapeshifter poems
1
the legend is whispered in the women’s tent
how the moon when she rises full
follows some men into themselves and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful shapeshifters they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses at night their daughters
do not know them
2
who is there to protect her from the hands of the father not the windows which see and say nothing not the moon that awful eye not the woman she will become with her
scarred tongue who who who the owl laments into the evening who
will protect her this prettylittlegirl
3
if the little girl lies still enough
shut enough hard enough
shapeshifter may not walk tonight
Quincy Troupe (1943– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
River Town Packin House Blues
Big Tom was a black nigguh man, cold & black,
eye say Big Tom was a black nigguh man, black steel flesh,
standin like a gladiator, soaked in animal blood, bits of flesh, wringin wet,
standin at the center of death,
buzzards hoverin, swingin his hammer called death,
260 workdays,
swingin his hammer named death
Big Tom was a black packin houseman, thirty years,
eye say Big Tom was a black packin houseman, loved them years,
& swang his hammer like ol John Henry poundin nails.
swang that hammer twenty years crushin skulls
of cows & pigs screamin fear
the man underneath slit their throats, twenty years,
the man underneath slit their throats
Big Tom was a ‘prentice for ten long years, watchin death,
eye say Big Tom was ‘prentice for ten long years, smellin death,
was helper to a fat white man, who got slow,
was helper to a fat white man,
Franz Wright (1953– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Voice
I woke up at 4 in the afternoon. Rain woke me. Dark. Mail—a voice said, You’ll have mail,
scaring and gladdening my heart. Enough anyway to get me out of bed, attempt to make coffee, dress and begin limping down stairs. All
the boxes were empty. Of course. A voice said,
He just hasn’t come yet. But I knew. It is 4
in the afternoon—the others have already taken
the mail indoors. Hours ago. If this my box is empty now then it was always empty.
Rain. Darker
now. By the time I had walked, more or less, back up the stairs, the treacherous voice had nothing more to say.
Joe Bolton (1961–1990)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Laguna Beach Breakdown
You had come searching for a second chance, But trying to break through, merely broke down, Until at last any sense of purpose
Seemed nothing more than something else to lose. You let it go and, seeing no reason to mourn
What you could no longer name, kept silence Under the vast vacuum of a heaven.
Someone had nailed stars up to hold in place. You were hoping maybe a change of season
Might help, but there was none. You woke at dawn Shuddering in the indifferent embrace
Of your own arms, unable to turn or return, Dreaming of drowning, neutral as seaweed in the war The sea continually waged against the shore.
Brian Turner (1967– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Eulogy
It happens on a Monday, at 11:20 a.m., as tower guards eat sandwiches
and seagulls drift by on the Tigris River.
Prisoners tilt their heads to the west
though burlap sacks and duct tape blind them. The sound reverberates down concertina coils the way piano wire thrums when given slack. And it happens like this, on a blue day of sun, when Private Miller pulls the trigger
to take brass and fire into his mouth:
the sound lifts the birds up off the water,
a mongoose pauses under the orange trees, and nothing can stop it now, no matter what
blur of motion surrounds him, no matter what voices crackle over the radio in static confusion,
because if only for this moment the earth is stilled, and Private Miller has found what low hush there is down in the eucalyptus shade, there by the river.
PFC B. Miller (1980–March 22, 2003)
Ricky Cantor (1985– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
E 9th Street
I’m from mental illnesses and corner bars and taking parts from stolen cars.
I’m from street fights at three thirty and ass whipping ‘til next morning.
I’m from a drunken father and a pissed off mother and was raised by my older sister and brother.
I’m from parents that are Mexican
and I’m ashamed to say that I’m American.
I’m from hard boiled eggs and government cheese oh, and did I mention ass beating.
I’m from joyrides at five
and a brother that loves to say access denied.
I’m from a little sister who’s worst than crazy and two little brothers that are fucking lazy.
Moral Issues about Animals
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Humans use animals in a dazzling variety of ways. The fish and meat on the table for dinner come from farms, fish markets, and butchers. Many items of clothing are from the leather industry, the animal dye industry, and the fur trade. Circuses, zoos, and trained-animal fights (such as cockfights) are parts of the entertainment industry. Many cosmetics have been safety-tested on animals, and the pharmaceutical and chemical industries each year expend millions of research dollars on millions of animals in toxicological studies. Hunting and fishing are considered by many to be relaxing and pleasurable. Companion animals can reach to the level of “man’s best friend.” These examples touch little more than the surface of the human use of animals. All reflective persons find it difficult to determine precisely which of these uses of animals are morally justified and which are unjustified. Most of us are more than a little confused about how to make our moral views consistent. For example, we tend to be upset when we learn about abuses of and neglect of companion animals, but when we read fundamentally identical reports about the conditions of farm animals such as pigs and cattle, many simply regard these creatures as “animals
Veal Crates and Human Palates
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
On February 1, 1995, Coventry Airport in the United Kingdom was alive with animal welfare campaigners protesting the transport of very young calves to Europe to be reared for veal. The animal protesters were of all ages and backgrounds, even old-age pensioners. Some watched animal rights protester Jill Phipps try to block the path of a large transport truck by running alongside it and finally cutting in front of the truck and raising her hands. To their horror, she slipped and was crushed to death as the wheels ran over her chest and stomach. Just before her death she had said in an interview, “We will continue even if someone gets hurt. Someone will eventually be hurt.”1 This 31-year-old mother became a martyr for her cause. Representatives of many animal rights and animal welfare organizations attended her funeral some weeks later. The movie star and veteran animal rights campaigner Brigitte Bardot flew from France to attend the ceremony. The issue of veal crates has perhaps caught the attention of more persons than any other animal welfare issue in recent times. According to a senior police officer, on the force for more than 37 years, the protests in the United Kingdom were at a new level. He had never seen so many people, from such diverse backgrounds, unite on an issue. It had brought together “vegans [strict vegetarians] and villagers, grandmothers and mothers, animal rights and pensioners in a campaign of civil unrest.”
The Sport of Rooster Fighting
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
A young teacher in the midst of a separation from his common-law wife and reflecting on deep questions about his own recent conversion to Christianity was offered the opportunity to rest at a friend’s villa in Italy. He invited a small group of his students to accompany him to the villa to continue their work. He held daily seminar discussions that ranged widely. The core focus was on the works of the Latin poet Virgil, especially the meaning of evil and cruelty in a world presumably created by a benevolent God. One morning, as the group was proceeding to its place of study, members observed two barnyard roosters spoiling for a fight. They stopped and watched with fascination as the fight commenced and took a violent turn. They remained absolutely transfixed by the encounter until it was settled. Later, the teacher reflected on the nature of the episode’s fascination and its relationship to the larger question of the place of cruelty and pain in the world. Some of the questions he raised and discussed with his students included:
Monkeys without Mothers
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Following approximately a six-month gestational period, a pregnant female rhesus monkey (Macaca mulatta) begins to show evidence of the imminent birth of her infant. If she lives in a “natural” environment such as a forest in Southeast Asia, she starts to change her usual activity patterns and may move away from the typical social pathways of her group to more secluded and quieter parts of the environment. Her group likely comprises many other adult females, males, and immature animals of varying ages and temperaments. As the time of birth nears, she shows evidence of labor by hunching, squatting, leaning on vertical surfaces, and touching her vagina frequently. As the labor progresses, the placental sac ruptures and the head of the infant eventually emerges from the birth canal. The mother then reaches between her legs with both hands, carefully grasps the head of the baby with her fingertips, makes a gentle bending movement to the right or left and then firmly pulls the infant free. She immediately places the newborn on her chest.The rhesus monkey infant is born equipped with strong grasping, rooting, and sucking reflexes that help to secure the infant to the mother and help it to locate the nipples and to suckle.
The Experimental Study of Animal Aggression
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Can aggression be studied in an ethical manner? Aggression is a behavior found almost universally in the animal kingdom. It is defined as a hostile act that poses a threat to another creature. It is exhibited in many ways, including threatening body movements, vocalization, fighting, wounding and inflicting pain, sexual attack, and killing. Commonly, animals act aggressively to exclude others from their territory, to capture food, or to control populations. Displays of aggression are influenced by age (newborns and infants below a certain age do not show aggression), by the physical environment, by previous social experience, and by the aggression level in a particular community. One manifestation of aggression is infanticide—the killing of infants by adults. It occurs in several species of animal. Human infanticide is practiced in several cultures to control population, to favor the birth of a particular sex (usually male), and in waging war. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, biologists reported anecdotal observations of infanticide in both male and female wild animals.
Prologue “Cant Matter”
Authors: Weinstein Philip 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Because you make so little impression, you see. You get born and you try this and you dont know why only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs . . . like five or six people all trying to make a rug on the same loom only each one wants to weave his own pattern into the rug; and it cant matter, you know that, or the Ones that set up the loom would have arranged things a little better.
Untimely
Authors: Weinstein Philip 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
They both were desperate as 1918 arrived and the likelihood of Estelle’s marriage with Cornell Franklin loomed unavoidable. Neither wanted it to happen, but it seemed to approach with a logic and momentum they could not counter. To the outward eye, Franklin was as appealing a candidate for marriage as Faulkner was not. Handsome, ambitious, the son of an established Southern family, he had graduated from the University of Mississippi in 1913, covered with honors. President of his class, captain of the track team, he was the most notable of the suitors the precocious Estelle attracted. He took her to the glamorous college parties she was otherwise too young to attend, and he may have spoken of a future they might share. Since older boys had been buzzing around her and saying similar things for years now, she knew that such chatter went with the pleasures of the chase. It augured little. When her parents sent her off to Mary Baldwin College that same year—to get a proper “finishing” to her education—she hardly thought of Franklin as a future husband. Her bond with Faulkner was deeper—something she unthinkingly drew on as a talisman that would protect her from the consequences of her own flirtations. For his part, Franklin hardly knew that Faulkner existed. Finishing law school at the university in 1914, Franklin headed to Honolulu, where family connections had secured him the post of collector of the port. His career was all before him and already on the rise. He knew that when the time came, Estelle would be the right partner to share it with him.
“When de Saints Go Ma ‘chin’ Home”: Sterling Brown’s Blueprint for a New Negro Poetry
Authors: Stepto Robert Burns 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Perhaps it is fitting in celebrating Sterling Brown’s eightieth birthday and career of great achievement to turn once again to his first published poem, “When de Saints Go Ma’ching Home.”It is a Big Boy Davis poem—”the guitar-plunking” singer of marching saints is Big Boy—and it is the only “Big Boy” poem specifi- cally dedicated to him.The dedication reads: Such a dedication has a way of bringing a smile to our lips; so much is afoot here in what is, for Brown, a typically mischievous way. Obviously, Big Boy was a character, a roustabout, a “terribly unemployed dude” as Toni Morrison would remark. Evidently, however, he was much more than a colorful vagrant in the eyes of some, those folks including Sterling Brown, the author and persona. While Brown appreciates and often reveres the “characters” in our shops and churches, neighborhoods and towns, and while he often writes about them, he rarely if ever dedicates poems to them.
“Game to the Heart”: Sterling Brown and the Badman
Authors: O’Meally Robert G 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Janie in Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God agrees with Tea Cake that blacks are subject to quick and easy classification by whites: “De ones de white man know is nice colored folks. De ones he don’t know is bad niggers.”Nor has this subtle classification strategy been limited to the late 1920s South Florida of that novel’s setting. Instead it seems to have been an enduring American system, documented in the literature of the slave trade and in the execution narratives, as early as the eighteenth century. In these latter, a disproportionate number of the gallows narrators were black, and their grueling stories were popular among whites, perhaps because of what Ralph Ellison has described as a willingness, on the part of many whites, to project.