YRLR Issue 20 Previews
Exploring Sound & Melody
Exploring Sound & Melody
Issue 20 will be released at the end of July.
Until then, we hope you will enjoy previews of art, nonfiction and poetry,
and interviews with artist and author.
Until then, we hope you will enjoy previews of art, nonfiction and poetry,
and interviews with artist and author.
Poetry Preview:
You Kids Be Quiet by Willie Carver
Before my mamaw said to hush and we might just hear the stars I had never known the holy whisper rolling in a chorus of a thousand baritones ripping the skin off the sky tearing it from hill to hill its fresh wound trilling down in drenching bursts of buzzing life calling up chords of lightning bugs harmonies slipping in drunken flits echoing between the trailer and creek drawn west in the husky undertow of the dense rumble of the darkness |
Interview with Willie Carver
1. In your poem, only by hushing is a new world of wonder revealed. How are silence and sound bound to each other?
I write a lot about time and consider its limits and boundaries. Increasingly, I feel that the boundaries between past and present are more permeable than we think because they're not separate concepts, just opposite points on a circle. I feel the same about silence and sound. I have felt silence that, in its absence of external sources, feels loud on the inside—sometimes because we're lost in our own thoughts, and sometimes when we've melted into our surroundings. I have known sound to silence the depths of my thinking, to undo me just as much as silence can. I think when the human being acts as medium or witness, sound and silence begin to mirror each other with blurred boundaries.
2. What was one of the earliest significant sounds that you can remember in your life, and how did it affect you? (For example, the sound of an ice cream truck, or a thunderstorm, etc.)
It's the first few wispy notes preceding the theme song to Reading Rainbow—that panflute-like oscillation that pattered up and down while cartoon graphics changed the reality on screen. I remember the excitement when it heralded Reading Rainbow, which was so hopeful and joyful that it made the universe feel like a good place where good things might happen. I grew up in a rural area with a fairly homogenous culture and almost no regular experience with people of color, so those notes—that song!—paired with LeVar Burton smiling at me and telling me about books with diverse characters taking place as far away as New York and California left me with a faith that I would find comfort and kindness anywhere I looked. It ended up being true.
3. If you could only choose one song to record and save for the future, what would it be and why?
I hope I am never given such a difficult task! If it were for only my future, the last song I'd ever hear, then maybe my mom and aunts singing, "I Want us to Be Together in Heaven." They would gently sing this with a wooden guitar during altar call when I was a kid, and there was a sweetness and finality to it that felt like hope. My extended family, perhaps like most, has since been destroyed by politics and drug abuse, so the idea that there is an ending in which things resolve themselves in a harmonious way bringing us all together is a gentle promise. But if it were everyone on earth, the only song saved, I'd choose any lullaby. They are sung the world over as a way to welcome newborns into the world, into song, into rhythm, into connection with others. If there are songs that should survive humans, let it be them, music that reminds us we are ultimately here for each other, for love.
Willie Carver is a Kentucky Teacher of the Year, an author, and a public speaker. His work has been featured in 100 Days in Appalachia, Another Chicago Magazine, Smoky Blue Literary Magazine, Miracle Monocle, Good River Review, and Salvation South, among others. His collection of narrative poems, Gay Poems for Red States, has been named a Book Riot Best Book of 2023, An American Booksellers Associations must-have book of 2023, a Top Ten Best Book of Appalachia, an Over-The-Top Book by the American Library Association, and was named a 2024 Stonewall Honor Book.
I write a lot about time and consider its limits and boundaries. Increasingly, I feel that the boundaries between past and present are more permeable than we think because they're not separate concepts, just opposite points on a circle. I feel the same about silence and sound. I have felt silence that, in its absence of external sources, feels loud on the inside—sometimes because we're lost in our own thoughts, and sometimes when we've melted into our surroundings. I have known sound to silence the depths of my thinking, to undo me just as much as silence can. I think when the human being acts as medium or witness, sound and silence begin to mirror each other with blurred boundaries.
2. What was one of the earliest significant sounds that you can remember in your life, and how did it affect you? (For example, the sound of an ice cream truck, or a thunderstorm, etc.)
It's the first few wispy notes preceding the theme song to Reading Rainbow—that panflute-like oscillation that pattered up and down while cartoon graphics changed the reality on screen. I remember the excitement when it heralded Reading Rainbow, which was so hopeful and joyful that it made the universe feel like a good place where good things might happen. I grew up in a rural area with a fairly homogenous culture and almost no regular experience with people of color, so those notes—that song!—paired with LeVar Burton smiling at me and telling me about books with diverse characters taking place as far away as New York and California left me with a faith that I would find comfort and kindness anywhere I looked. It ended up being true.
3. If you could only choose one song to record and save for the future, what would it be and why?
I hope I am never given such a difficult task! If it were for only my future, the last song I'd ever hear, then maybe my mom and aunts singing, "I Want us to Be Together in Heaven." They would gently sing this with a wooden guitar during altar call when I was a kid, and there was a sweetness and finality to it that felt like hope. My extended family, perhaps like most, has since been destroyed by politics and drug abuse, so the idea that there is an ending in which things resolve themselves in a harmonious way bringing us all together is a gentle promise. But if it were everyone on earth, the only song saved, I'd choose any lullaby. They are sung the world over as a way to welcome newborns into the world, into song, into rhythm, into connection with others. If there are songs that should survive humans, let it be them, music that reminds us we are ultimately here for each other, for love.
Willie Carver is a Kentucky Teacher of the Year, an author, and a public speaker. His work has been featured in 100 Days in Appalachia, Another Chicago Magazine, Smoky Blue Literary Magazine, Miracle Monocle, Good River Review, and Salvation South, among others. His collection of narrative poems, Gay Poems for Red States, has been named a Book Riot Best Book of 2023, An American Booksellers Associations must-have book of 2023, a Top Ten Best Book of Appalachia, an Over-The-Top Book by the American Library Association, and was named a 2024 Stonewall Honor Book.
Nonfiction Preview:
Nature Walk by Riley Bauer
There are sounds that we ignore on our average day. They don’t matter to us, or at least they aren’t important enough for us to notice them. That’s what we like to think, at least. It took me quite some time to realize that each noise, whether I chose to hear it or not, was as important as every other noise in the world.
In my high school Nature Writing class, my teacher would take us out to the park every Wednesday. He called these our “nature walks.” At first, I didn’t really get the assignment. We were told to be completely silent. Our phones were to stay in our pockets. Earbuds were to be put away, and we would go to different places in the park and stand there and just listen. It was ironic to me, taking a class where we were told to listen to the sounds of nature while the sounds of heavy machinery and large smokestack-like towers spewed chemicals into the air in the refinery just across the fence from the school. The refinery was in sight the whole time we stood there. The sound almost drowned out the sounds of the birds.
But we could hear the birds. Despite the flames shooting out of the towers in the refinery that blow God-knows-what into the air, I heard them. Robins, mourning doves, and the one or two bluejays that liked to sit on the trees near the concession stand at the softball field. You never realize how many birds you can hear until you are thinking about it. To us they are background noise—why should we care if some birds are talking to each other? It isn’t the chatter of our world, it isn’t the chatter that we care to hear because it doesn’t impact us and therefore it is insignificant.
Until you start to listen. Until you start to watch them. The more you listen, the more you think about those birds. Each Wednesday I would start to watch a new bird. One day it would be a robin, and she would be gathering sticks near the playground for her nest. I watched her weave them in and out, until she was satisfied in the stability of her little nest up high in the tree. Another time it was a mourning bird, who sat on the edge of the concession stand while we stood in the dirt beside it. We all gathered in a circle and listened to her song. The refinery was no longer the noise that we heard, despite the clanging and despite the foul metallic groans. It became insignificant.
I became interested in the life of a bluejay that would follow us to the park and back. When we returned to the classroom, we were to write what we noticed outside, and those who were artistically inclined were to draw something they noticed. I had written that I noticed a bluejay following us to the park. I looked to the window beside my seat, to the tree right outside the window. There it was, sitting on the tree. It tilted its head and stared into the classroom. A chirp, then it flew away.
That was the noise I remembered that night. When I was comfortable in bed the house was silent, when the refinery was burning off material in those smokestacks when nobody was outside to see it despite the fact that everyone could hear it, especially when you lived just four houses down from it, the noise I remembered was that chirp.
Because I knew that it was better to think about a life, no matter how small, instead of the destruction down the street.
In my high school Nature Writing class, my teacher would take us out to the park every Wednesday. He called these our “nature walks.” At first, I didn’t really get the assignment. We were told to be completely silent. Our phones were to stay in our pockets. Earbuds were to be put away, and we would go to different places in the park and stand there and just listen. It was ironic to me, taking a class where we were told to listen to the sounds of nature while the sounds of heavy machinery and large smokestack-like towers spewed chemicals into the air in the refinery just across the fence from the school. The refinery was in sight the whole time we stood there. The sound almost drowned out the sounds of the birds.
But we could hear the birds. Despite the flames shooting out of the towers in the refinery that blow God-knows-what into the air, I heard them. Robins, mourning doves, and the one or two bluejays that liked to sit on the trees near the concession stand at the softball field. You never realize how many birds you can hear until you are thinking about it. To us they are background noise—why should we care if some birds are talking to each other? It isn’t the chatter of our world, it isn’t the chatter that we care to hear because it doesn’t impact us and therefore it is insignificant.
Until you start to listen. Until you start to watch them. The more you listen, the more you think about those birds. Each Wednesday I would start to watch a new bird. One day it would be a robin, and she would be gathering sticks near the playground for her nest. I watched her weave them in and out, until she was satisfied in the stability of her little nest up high in the tree. Another time it was a mourning bird, who sat on the edge of the concession stand while we stood in the dirt beside it. We all gathered in a circle and listened to her song. The refinery was no longer the noise that we heard, despite the clanging and despite the foul metallic groans. It became insignificant.
I became interested in the life of a bluejay that would follow us to the park and back. When we returned to the classroom, we were to write what we noticed outside, and those who were artistically inclined were to draw something they noticed. I had written that I noticed a bluejay following us to the park. I looked to the window beside my seat, to the tree right outside the window. There it was, sitting on the tree. It tilted its head and stared into the classroom. A chirp, then it flew away.
That was the noise I remembered that night. When I was comfortable in bed the house was silent, when the refinery was burning off material in those smokestacks when nobody was outside to see it despite the fact that everyone could hear it, especially when you lived just four houses down from it, the noise I remembered was that chirp.
Because I knew that it was better to think about a life, no matter how small, instead of the destruction down the street.
Interview with Riley Bauer
1. By recognizing that bird chatter is more than just “background noise,” how do you feel more interconnected with the natural world?
By taking a moment to recognize bird chatter as more than "background noise", I feel more connected to the natural world because I am taking time to see the songs and the sounds that birds make as conscious communication between the birds. In taking an effort to listen to them as individuals, I believe that it shows that everything in nature has value. When we reduce birdsongs to background noise, it lessens their meaning to us. Each bird has a reason for the song they sing. It's just like how we have a reason for everything we say and sing - by focusing on the sound that the birds make, I think it can help realize that birds are being too, not just part of a world passing by us. They're part of our world, and we're part of theirs. They probably hear us talking too, and they might even like to listen sometimes!
2. What was one of the earliest significant sounds that you can remember in your life, and how did it affect you? (For example, the sound of an ice cream truck, or a thunderstorm, etc.)
One of the earliest sounds that I remember having a significant impact on me was the sound of thunder. As a kid I was absolutely terrified of storms, so any time I heard thunder I would get so anxious that I would make myself sick. Even if the sky was clear and I heard something that sounded like thunder, it would bring me to a panic. But, once while I was camping with my grandpa Gary and my grandma Kathy, I heard a clap of thunder in the distance. There were some clouds in the sky, but in hindsight it wasn't really enough to tell us that a storm was coming. My grandma Kathy told me the phrase, "pink at night, sailor's delight, pink at morning, sailor's warning". I know some people say it a little differently, but that's how she said it to me. The sky was turning pink that afternoon, so according to that phrase, it must have been okay (at least in the way I interpreted it back then). From that day on, each time I heard thunder I would check outside (even if it wasn't late enough for the sky to change color) and say that phrase, and it helped me overcome most of my fear of storms. Even though it's been about eleven years since my grandma Kathy passed away, I still say that phrase when I hear thunder.
3. If you could only choose one song to record and save for the future, what would it be and why?
Choosing only one song to record and save for the future is definitely a challenge for me, but after some thought, I think I would choose the song Little Bitty by Alan Jackson. This is a song that's always brought happy memories forward for me. I like that the song embraces the idea of the little things in life and says that it's okay to just enjoy the things you have, even if they aren't very flashy. Saving it for the future would seem like a good idea to me because I think in the future, whether it be myself or my family, everyone could be reminded that they don't have to be in the biggest house or have the flashiest things to enjoy life. It's important to embrace the small and the simple things. I have always thought that it's better to live in the moment and appreciate what you have rather than being so focused on how things could be bigger and better to the point where you never got to slow down and live in the moment.
Riley Bauer is a 22-year-old student attending Eastern Illinois University and is from Roxana, IL. He is pursuing a master’s degree in Creative Writing with a minor in Premodern Global Studies and a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. His short story “The Rabbit King” was published in the Spring 2022 edition of The Vehicle. Aside from writing, Riley enjoys martial arts and spending time in nature.
By taking a moment to recognize bird chatter as more than "background noise", I feel more connected to the natural world because I am taking time to see the songs and the sounds that birds make as conscious communication between the birds. In taking an effort to listen to them as individuals, I believe that it shows that everything in nature has value. When we reduce birdsongs to background noise, it lessens their meaning to us. Each bird has a reason for the song they sing. It's just like how we have a reason for everything we say and sing - by focusing on the sound that the birds make, I think it can help realize that birds are being too, not just part of a world passing by us. They're part of our world, and we're part of theirs. They probably hear us talking too, and they might even like to listen sometimes!
2. What was one of the earliest significant sounds that you can remember in your life, and how did it affect you? (For example, the sound of an ice cream truck, or a thunderstorm, etc.)
One of the earliest sounds that I remember having a significant impact on me was the sound of thunder. As a kid I was absolutely terrified of storms, so any time I heard thunder I would get so anxious that I would make myself sick. Even if the sky was clear and I heard something that sounded like thunder, it would bring me to a panic. But, once while I was camping with my grandpa Gary and my grandma Kathy, I heard a clap of thunder in the distance. There were some clouds in the sky, but in hindsight it wasn't really enough to tell us that a storm was coming. My grandma Kathy told me the phrase, "pink at night, sailor's delight, pink at morning, sailor's warning". I know some people say it a little differently, but that's how she said it to me. The sky was turning pink that afternoon, so according to that phrase, it must have been okay (at least in the way I interpreted it back then). From that day on, each time I heard thunder I would check outside (even if it wasn't late enough for the sky to change color) and say that phrase, and it helped me overcome most of my fear of storms. Even though it's been about eleven years since my grandma Kathy passed away, I still say that phrase when I hear thunder.
3. If you could only choose one song to record and save for the future, what would it be and why?
Choosing only one song to record and save for the future is definitely a challenge for me, but after some thought, I think I would choose the song Little Bitty by Alan Jackson. This is a song that's always brought happy memories forward for me. I like that the song embraces the idea of the little things in life and says that it's okay to just enjoy the things you have, even if they aren't very flashy. Saving it for the future would seem like a good idea to me because I think in the future, whether it be myself or my family, everyone could be reminded that they don't have to be in the biggest house or have the flashiest things to enjoy life. It's important to embrace the small and the simple things. I have always thought that it's better to live in the moment and appreciate what you have rather than being so focused on how things could be bigger and better to the point where you never got to slow down and live in the moment.
Riley Bauer is a 22-year-old student attending Eastern Illinois University and is from Roxana, IL. He is pursuing a master’s degree in Creative Writing with a minor in Premodern Global Studies and a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. His short story “The Rabbit King” was published in the Spring 2022 edition of The Vehicle. Aside from writing, Riley enjoys martial arts and spending time in nature.
Cover Art Preview:
"image_123650291" by Natalie Shea
Interview with Natalie Shea
1. How does visual art also convey a sense of sound and melody?
Visual art is sound and melody for the eyes. It speaks to us just like sound and melody does. Visual art can include rhythm, repetition, balance, and unity; many of the same principles and elements we find in music.
2. What was one of the earliest significant sounds that you can remember in your life, and how did it affect you? (For example, the sound of an ice cream truck, or a thunderstorm, etc.)
I am from the Deep South and the sounds I hear at night soothe me. I live where it is very rural and the woods come to life at dark with sounds of cicadas, crickets, bull frogs, owls, and an occasional whip-poor-will.
3. If you could only choose one song to record and save for the future, what would it be and why?
I could never pick just one song to save for the future because different songs speak to me in different ways. I am a fan of many genres from classical to alternative rock and there are too many great songs to be able to narrow down to just one. I’m amazed by the ability of music to invoke emotion.
Natalie Shea is an artist and writer from Georgia.
Visual art is sound and melody for the eyes. It speaks to us just like sound and melody does. Visual art can include rhythm, repetition, balance, and unity; many of the same principles and elements we find in music.
2. What was one of the earliest significant sounds that you can remember in your life, and how did it affect you? (For example, the sound of an ice cream truck, or a thunderstorm, etc.)
I am from the Deep South and the sounds I hear at night soothe me. I live where it is very rural and the woods come to life at dark with sounds of cicadas, crickets, bull frogs, owls, and an occasional whip-poor-will.
3. If you could only choose one song to record and save for the future, what would it be and why?
I could never pick just one song to save for the future because different songs speak to me in different ways. I am a fan of many genres from classical to alternative rock and there are too many great songs to be able to narrow down to just one. I’m amazed by the ability of music to invoke emotion.
Natalie Shea is an artist and writer from Georgia.