제안 블랙 잭 테이블 _ 마카오 도박 _ 무료 등록 아이폰 포커 게임 다운 
 Issue 9 Reflections 
 SEE CHRYSTAL ' S ARTWORK 
 " High Tide at Bee Beach " 
 " Dear Firefly " 
 My husband and I started keeping bees about a year and a half ago . Before the bees , I would have said — and did — that I was attuned to the natural world . I grew up at the shore , for one thing , picking up starfish and snails , and in general , I prefer to move little critters outside rather than smash them under a rolled newspaper . Getting the bees , however , changed everything — because we had the only local honeybees I know of , I started looking for them when I was out and about : walking the dogs , going for a run , getting the mail . I paid attention to the difference between honeybees and bumblebees , between bees and wasps and hornets and various flies that pretend to be these things as a protective strategy . This past summer , I saw at least twenty different kinds of bee - like pollinators in our small neighborhood alone . 
 Working with the bees creates its own form of attention . If we fear them , we ’ ll handle them roughly , and we ’ ll get stung . If we move with care for them , it ’ s much less likely . It seems to me that love is like that — especially long - term , lasting love . It requires a set of decisions , a series of deliberate movements , a good deal of care . Every once in a while , it ’ s probably a good idea to remind myself of that . 
 I am fascinated with decisions and potential — especially with unrealized potential . We turn down offers all the time , make decisions that invalidate other options , and sometimes we don ’ t even know we ’ ve done it . Sometimes the decisions are difficult ones , certainly , but sometimes a decision feels like the only option , sometimes it ’ s the only realistic option , sometimes the other options just don ’ t appeal . I can choose to fall for the midsummer firefly , the one that flashes at the end of our dead - end street and makes us stop a moment during the after - dinner dog walk . I can fall for them and I have . 
 Those fireflies remind me of my childhood , of being on a walk at our family ’ s beach house and stopping with my cousins to watch the light show of fireflies in the salt marsh . And they are lovely — I am never going to argue otherwise . But I also love the fact that they have to wait out the winter — much like I do , I ’ m afraid — tucked into shelter , warm enough if not exactly comfortable , with all of their potential still inside them . Again , much like me , or at least like the me of an earlier time , although I don ’ t know that I ’ ve ever exactly been flashy . 
 가입 쿠폰 카지노 2019 READ FOLEY ' S POEMS IN ISSUE 9 
 " Rondeau for the People of Nogents Sur Seine , France " 
 " Loveliest Fleeting " 
 Last year I spent a month in residence at Camac Centre D ’ Art in Marnay - Sur - Seine , France . My stated project was to write poems about saints and cave art , but upon arrival I learned I ’ d be living a couple of kilometers from a nuclear power plant . Once settled into my studio , I could not shake my discomfort with living so close to something so potentially destructive . I began researching the history of the nuclear power industry , mostly to reassure myself I was safe . In my random surfing , I happened upon a film clip of a woman sharing her memories of working in a Russian factory where the first nuclear warhead was built . She spoke six words I could not shake : We called it our dear one . She was referring to the deadly missile in their midst . It struck me as a perfect refrain line for the rondeau I was trying to write — a lyric form popular in , appropriately enough , thirteenth - century France . The rest of the poem derived from living , for a short while , just up river from a ‘ plant ’ affording steady employment , affluence , and the potential to wreak radio nucleotide havoc at any moment . How is it possible to live happily in this town ? That was my main question as I wrote and revised this poem . 
 “ Loveliest Fleeting ” is based on a writing exercise created by poet Erin Malone . First , Erin shared with us a poem by Sandra Lin titled “ Loveliest Grotesque , ” which appears in her book of the same title . The assignment was to title our poem “ Loveliest ___________ [ fill in the blank ] , ” then begin with Lin ’ s first line : “ I kept the little ruin near me , ” substituting “ little ruin ” with our own word or words of choice . I decided to go with “ I kept the finite with me , ” probably because I had recently visited several artifact - packed museums — fossils , cuneiform tablets , and ancient Roman coins . All of these relics had been working on my psyche , making me feel a bit on edge , and suddenly , with the help of Malone and Lin , these images began to coalesce around the painful truth that human life is exceedingly short . 
 READ SILANO ' S POEMS IN ISSUE 9 
 " The Garden State " and " In the Apple Tree " 
 I grew up with cosmopolitan aspirations in a rural , southern New Jersey town . Much of my family lives near that same town , and I visit regularly . One such visit occurred the weekend of my 40 th birthday , which is in October . Out for a run in the foggy early morning , I was awestruck — I ’ m tempted to say “ anew , ” but honestly it may have been for the first time — by the gorgeousness of the landscape . It was an honest discovery , as I say in the poem : nothing I ’ d encountered elsewhere in the world seemed that morning any lovelier than the landscape of my childhood . 
 This coincided more or less with the birth of my sister ’ s first child — the first baby in our family in nearly forty years . I began writing about the collision of my memories with reality , particularly of interest to me is the landscape which , on the surface , I would argue is concrete and objective . That was my concern in the “ Garden State ” — when I could see the place freshly , its loveliness was shocking . 
 Ex - patriots of New Jersey are subject to jokes that turn on the irony of the state nickname , “ The Garden State , ” and so I took that as the title of this poem . I don ’ t mean it as the comedians do , ironically in the sense of north Jersey compared to south , but more personally — a reverse Eden , the snake evident in my memories , perhaps only ever existing there . 
 The situation depicted in my poem " In the Apple Tree " is grounded in fact . As a child , I loved to climb trees and foolishly got stuck in the upper branches , over and over , spending terrified hours there . My mother gave the same advice each time , which , though it seemed useless to me , turned out to be perfectly reasonable : you get down the same way you got up . Which is to say , the trick to getting down is not looking down — which you don ’ t , of course , on the way up or you probably wouldn ’ t climb so high the first place . In that , it ' s a bit like writing . 
 A nod to the darker facts alluded to in the piece — a local child did die of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever , though I didn ’ t know him and my parents don ’ t remember the family name . They lived a few streets over from us in Victory Lakes . 
 “ In the Apple Tree ” was written at about the same time as “ The Garden State , ” along with a dozen or more others that also concern my family and the landscape , a series that will be included in my second book , Say Shadow . 
 READ MCCLINTOCK ' S POEMS IN ISSUE 9 
 " The Physician ' s Advice " 
 Stan Lee Werlin 
 " Aspic Bayberry Cathedral " 
 My beautiful and much maligned home state of West Virginia is a place of stories and storytellers , and it occupies much of the landscape in my own stories too . Due to its geography and mountainous terrain , it has always maintained a certain level of uniqueness and isolation , both a boon and curse . For a young person growing up there , one curious about the whole universe , this isolation presents its own set of hurdles . “ The Physician ’ s Advice ” is probably the most biographical story I ’ ve written , originating from real events : winning a scholarship during high school to study for a month in Egypt , seeing a doctor who informed my shaken parents that he ’ d “ never let his son go , ” and of course the stubborn teenager hell - bent on “ something different ” at all cost . I hope this story is presented with both humor and warmth , the result of being able to look back at those events many years later , but it is also meant to draw attention to the misinformation and difficulties that people face , universally , when we want to go beyond the commonplace , when we live a life that others tell us is impossible . So many forces , some even monstrous , pull us in other directions . 
 Today I am happy to say that this trip to Egypt was the first of many . Amazing realities await us around the corners we sometimes fear . So it ’ s next stop Iceland ! Or Iran ! Or Tbilisi again ! These days , even my parents are interested , although they still worry all the same . And West Virginia ? More fascinating than ever . 
 READ DODDS STORY IN ISSUE 9 
 " Warning and Watch " 
 READ BEAL ' S POEM IN ISSUE 9 
 During our college years , I joined a group of hometown classmates on day trips each summer to a friend ' s family home in the dunes of Truro on outer Cape Cod . The drive took three hours each way and we would occasionally play the two word games that appear in the story . The word sequence that begins with the words " aspic bayberry cathedral . .." has been etched in my memory ever since one of those trips , probably because I managed to outlast everyone else in the car and won the game when we reached 23 words at " wombat ". Although I can ' t remember more than a handful of facts I ever learned about American or world history , things that have to do with words seem burned into the neurons forever . In the story I added " xenophobic youthful zookeeper " to complete the 26 word sequence needed in the story . 
 In its first incarnation , " Aspic Bayberry Cathedral " was one of my two unsuccessful attempts to write science fiction . I ' ve always enjoyed reading sci fi in the short story form , and a few stories in that genre have stayed with me over the years , including the brilliant 1943 classic " Mimsy Were the Borogoves " by Lewis Padgett in which two young children experience " Jabberwocky " not as a nonsense poem but rather as a cipher that - once puzzled out - opens a portal to a world seemingly more to their liking than good old Earth . I tried to forge something similar with the notion that there might exist a series of 26 specific words , in alphabetical order from A to Z that would - if somehow improbably discovered and said out loud - transport the story ' s four friends to an alternate universe . 
 Ultimately , the story had a fuzzy , frustrating quality and an utterly ambiguous ending that left readers and eventually me as well feeling dissatisfied and uninterested in the characters and outcome . And so it lay fallow for a while until I accepted its fundamental weakness and decided to forget the fantasy angle and try to write a serious literary piece instead . The central idea of escape stayed with me , as did the notion that a unique sequence of words could become a mantra that a character like Denise , the disaffected protagonist of the story who values mystical concepts and beliefs far more than her career - minded friends , might invest with unusual power and meaning . The wordstring became Denise ' s " cosmic code ", helping her find the will to leave behind the world she knows in search of counterculture nirvana in the Haight .