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Poem

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  • matt_procter
    It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep, to make component parts of place and consciousness meaningless and, as breathing slows down, to do what water
    Message 1 of 6 , May 9, 2007
      It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep,

      to make component parts of place and consciousness

      meaningless and, as breathing slows down,

      to do what water does, announce a source in cadence,

      repetition, sound, allow a gradual dissolving of

      boundaries between the actual and evident and still,

      when all that is done, I know there never was

      a single place for me. I never lost enough to have one.

      I want to live where they refused to speak --

      those first emigrants who never said

      where they came from, what they left behind.

      Their country was a finger to the lips, a child's question stopped.

      And yet behind their eyes in eerie silence, was an island,

      if you looked for it: bronze-green perch in a mute river.

      Peat smoke rising from soundless kindling.

      Rain falling on leaves and iron, making no noise at all.

      --from Falling Asleep to the Sound of Rain
      by David Shapiro
    • SCOTT SLOBODA
      You want to read poetry go down to a coffee house! matt_procter wrote: It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep, to make
      Message 2 of 6 , May 9, 2007
        You want to read poetry go down to a coffee house!

        matt_procter <matt_procter@...> wrote:
        It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep,

        to make component parts of place and consciousness

        meaningless and, as breathing slows down,

        to do what water does, announce a source in cadence,

        repetition, sound, allow a gradual dissolving of

        boundaries between the actual and evident and still,

        when all that is done, I know there never was

        a single place for me. I never lost enough to have one.

        I want to live where they refused to speak --

        those first emigrants who never said

        where they came from, what they left behind.

        Their country was a finger to the lips, a child's question stopped.

        And yet behind their eyes in eerie silence, was an island,

        if you looked for it: bronze-green perch in a mute river.

        Peat smoke rising from soundless kindling.

        Rain falling on leaves and iron, making no noise at all.

        --from Falling Asleep to the Sound of Rain
        by David Shapiro






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        [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
      • Michael Mojher
        If Ignorance is Bliss, What Should Intellectuals Do? - Phil Dhingra I ve been warned that the intellectual s life is somewhat disheartening because we know
        Message 3 of 6 , May 9, 2007
          If Ignorance is Bliss, What Should Intellectuals Do? - Phil Dhingra
          I've been warned that the intellectual's life is somewhat disheartening because we know too much. We are too aware of the flaws in life that living loses its idealistic magic.

          Since ignorance is indeed bliss, but willful ignorance is unheard of, what is the intellectual to do?

          I suggest complete acceptance of the dirty truth. When our expectations of life do not exceed its capacity, we will hopefully get the same comforts of the person in fantasy-land.

          So, here are some admissions. Get ready to "suck it up" as they say:

          - Nobody will ever understand you completely.
          - You can only speak for yourself.
          - There will always be a major distortion between what you know, what you will be able to communicate, and what people will then comprehend.

          ----- Original Message -----
          From: matt_procter
          To: SLOVAK-ROOTS@yahoogroups.com
          Sent: Wednesday, May 09, 2007 8:27 AM
          Subject: [S-R] Poem



          It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep,

          to make component parts of place and consciousness

          meaningless and, as breathing slows down,

          to do what water does, announce a source in cadence,

          repetition, sound, allow a gradual dissolving of

          boundaries between the actual and evident and still,

          when all that is done, I know there never was

          a single place for me. I never lost enough to have one.

          I want to live where they refused to speak --

          those first emigrants who never said

          where they came from, what they left behind.

          Their country was a finger to the lips, a child's question stopped.

          And yet behind their eyes in eerie silence, was an island,

          if you looked for it: bronze-green perch in a mute river.

          Peat smoke rising from soundless kindling.

          Rain falling on leaves and iron, making no noise at all.

          --from Falling Asleep to the Sound of Rain
          by David Shapiro





          [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
        • helene cincebeaux
          If anyone would like more info - contact me directly - have a neat poster I can forward. helene
          Message 4 of 6 , May 9, 2007
            If anyone would like more info - contact me directly -
            have a neat poster I can forward.

            helene



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          • Tom Potsko
            At least the poem dealt with immigrants and Ellis Island. I have no problem with that. Tom ... [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
            Message 5 of 6 , May 9, 2007
              At least the poem dealt with immigrants and Ellis Island. I have no problem
              with that. Tom

              On 5/9/07, Michael Mojher <mgmojher@...> wrote:
              >
              > If Ignorance is Bliss, What Should Intellectuals Do? - Phil Dhingra
              > I've been warned that the intellectual's life is somewhat disheartening
              > because we know too much. We are too aware of the flaws in life that living
              > loses its idealistic magic.
              >
              > Since ignorance is indeed bliss, but willful ignorance is unheard of, what
              > is the intellectual to do?
              >
              > I suggest complete acceptance of the dirty truth. When our expectations of
              > life do not exceed its capacity, we will hopefully get the same comforts of
              > the person in fantasy-land.
              >
              > So, here are some admissions. Get ready to "suck it up" as they say:
              >
              > - Nobody will ever understand you completely.
              > - You can only speak for yourself.
              > - There will always be a major distortion between what you know, what you
              > will be able to communicate, and what people will then comprehend.
              >
              > ----- Original Message -----
              > From: matt_procter
              > To: SLOVAK-ROOTS@yahoogroups.com
              > Sent: Wednesday, May 09, 2007 8:27 AM
              > Subject: [S-R] Poem
              >
              >
              >
              > It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep,
              >
              > to make component parts of place and consciousness
              >
              > meaningless and, as breathing slows down,
              >
              > to do what water does, announce a source in cadence,
              >
              > repetition, sound, allow a gradual dissolving of
              >
              > boundaries between the actual and evident and still,
              >
              > when all that is done, I know there never was
              >
              > a single place for me. I never lost enough to have one.
              >
              > I want to live where they refused to speak --
              >
              > those first emigrants who never said
              >
              > where they came from, what they left behind.
              >
              > Their country was a finger to the lips, a child's question stopped.
              >
              > And yet behind their eyes in eerie silence, was an island,
              >
              > if you looked for it: bronze-green perch in a mute river.
              >
              > Peat smoke rising from soundless kindling.
              >
              > Rain falling on leaves and iron, making no noise at all.
              >
              > --from Falling Asleep to the Sound of Rain
              > by David Shapiro
              >
              >
              >
              >
              >
              > [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
              >
              >
              >
              > To unsubscribe from this group, go to
              > http://www.yahoogroups.com/group/SLOVAK-ROOTS -or- send blank email to
              > SLOVAK-ROOTS-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
              > Yahoo! Groups Links
              >
              >
              >
              >


              [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
            • SCOTT SLOBODA
              Mike I think you missed the boat no pun intended. I came on here to learn and hear about the Slovak people and their experience. I don t need lectured by you
              Message 6 of 6 , May 9, 2007
                Mike I think you "missed the boat" no pun intended. I came on here to learn and hear about the Slovak people and their experience. I don't need lectured by you about an intellectuals life or some guy's poetry let's keep the blog where it is intended Slovak genealogy and answering peoples questions when we can.

                Tom Potsko <jaschr71@...> wrote: At least the poem dealt with immigrants and Ellis Island. I have no problem
                with that. Tom

                On 5/9/07, Michael Mojher <mgmojher@...> wrote:
                >
                > If Ignorance is Bliss, What Should Intellectuals Do? - Phil Dhingra
                > I've been warned that the intellectual's life is somewhat disheartening
                > because we know too much. We are too aware of the flaws in life that living
                > loses its idealistic magic.
                >
                > Since ignorance is indeed bliss, but willful ignorance is unheard of, what
                > is the intellectual to do?
                >
                > I suggest complete acceptance of the dirty truth. When our expectations of
                > life do not exceed its capacity, we will hopefully get the same comforts of
                > the person in fantasy-land.
                >
                > So, here are some admissions. Get ready to "suck it up" as they say:
                >
                > - Nobody will ever understand you completely.
                > - You can only speak for yourself.
                > - There will always be a major distortion between what you know, what you
                > will be able to communicate, and what people will then comprehend.
                >
                > ----- Original Message -----
                > From: matt_procter
                > To: SLOVAK-ROOTS@yahoogroups.com
                > Sent: Wednesday, May 09, 2007 8:27 AM
                > Subject: [S-R] Poem
                >
                >
                >
                > It is the gift of sleep or the approach to sleep,
                >
                > to make component parts of place and consciousness
                >
                > meaningless and, as breathing slows down,
                >
                > to do what water does, announce a source in cadence,
                >
                > repetition, sound, allow a gradual dissolving of
                >
                > boundaries between the actual and evident and still,
                >
                > when all that is done, I know there never was
                >
                > a single place for me. I never lost enough to have one.
                >
                > I want to live where they refused to speak --
                >
                > those first emigrants who never said
                >
                > where they came from, what they left behind.
                >
                > Their country was a finger to the lips, a child's question stopped.
                >
                > And yet behind their eyes in eerie silence, was an island,
                >
                > if you looked for it: bronze-green perch in a mute river.
                >
                > Peat smoke rising from soundless kindling.
                >
                > Rain falling on leaves and iron, making no noise at all.
                >
                > --from Falling Asleep to the Sound of Rain
                > by David Shapiro
                >
                >
                >
                >
                >
                > [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
                >
                >
                >
                > To unsubscribe from this group, go to
                > http://www.yahoogroups.com/group/SLOVAK-ROOTS -or- send blank email to
                > SLOVAK-ROOTS-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
                > Yahoo! Groups Links
                >
                >
                >
                >

                [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]






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