Introduction
In this issue of Young Ravens Literary Review, we delve into the intricacy of roots. Almost instinctively we know what root means. Even if we were to live in a world without flowers and trees, we would still need a word for those multifarious anchors of nature and soul that remain mysteriously hidden to nourish us. We would need a word for lineages of language that stretch back for centuries, their meaning entwining cultures and continents. We would need to describe where we come from and how we are still standing firm today in spite of storms, blights, and twists of fate. We need roots. Nature roots us in both the universe and ourself.
From Agnes Vojta, we learn that a name or a plant or animal can be a “another root,” a networked understanding of nature that grows the speaker herself (“Naming,” 7). Judith Kelly Quaempts and DS Maolalai explore how human roots are intertwined with those of the plant world. The tenderness of the orchardist caressing her trees (“Orchardist,” 15) and “the careful/ hands of farm-workers” remind us to approach nature gratefully. In “Back to the Wild” (17), Claire Drucker’s speaker finds a self unafraid of the brokenness of the world, while Kelly Morgan’s calligram reveals that like racism, the roots of the kudzu are noxious, long-lasting, hard to eradicate (“From Kudzu, On Eating the South,” 10–12).
We seek connections through spiritualism and religion, and sometimes just a picture of a perfect fruit, as in Ana Pugatch’s “The Monks Took Pictures of the Fruit” (68) can root us in the happiness of the moment. The speaker of August Smith’s “In the Backyard” (21) wonders, “Have you, in fact, come back to your roots?” There will always be any number of experts to speak with learned certainty, but Smith’s self is “re-situated” again and again in baroque interiors and suppositions about transplantation to lush jungle landscapes. Ultimately, only the self knows its own home. Jennifer Shomburg Kanke seeks a beloved “you,” who does not return with the comforting “smell of mold and benzene.” The story of this absent person creates a kind of mental trick, a silent “impression of crickets on an August night/ that I can’t turn the sound up on” (“Maple Street on My Mind,” 25).
Connections and roots don’t have to be elaborate—they can be simple in their strength and beauty, like becoming familiar with the birds we see out our window daily, or following a cherished routine like making coffee (“The sharp, biting aroma inviting and familiar,” Jennifer Novotney, “Percolate,” 51), or hanging laundry on a line (Shelby Lynn Lanaro, “Out on the Clothesline,” 32). Dayna Patterson’s embroidered tree art deftly roots craftsmanship and nature together. At the same time, connections we seek don’t always happen, or fray with age, like memories lost to dementia or green spaces devoured by urbanization.
Ultimately, we seek roots and connection because we are scared and want to be stronger (Linda M. Crate, “just to be safe,” 54). Sending roots out, connecting with others and with the complex world around us, is worth it—we “plant . . . anyway” (Cameron Morse, “Strawberry Plants, 75). Perhaps, deep down, we desire to “call upon the comfort of the things beyond the edge of vision” (Judith Ford, “Waves,” 50). We hope you enjoy the abundance of creativity in this issue. As always, we are grateful for you.
Elizabeth Pinborough and Sarah Page
From Agnes Vojta, we learn that a name or a plant or animal can be a “another root,” a networked understanding of nature that grows the speaker herself (“Naming,” 7). Judith Kelly Quaempts and DS Maolalai explore how human roots are intertwined with those of the plant world. The tenderness of the orchardist caressing her trees (“Orchardist,” 15) and “the careful/ hands of farm-workers” remind us to approach nature gratefully. In “Back to the Wild” (17), Claire Drucker’s speaker finds a self unafraid of the brokenness of the world, while Kelly Morgan’s calligram reveals that like racism, the roots of the kudzu are noxious, long-lasting, hard to eradicate (“From Kudzu, On Eating the South,” 10–12).
We seek connections through spiritualism and religion, and sometimes just a picture of a perfect fruit, as in Ana Pugatch’s “The Monks Took Pictures of the Fruit” (68) can root us in the happiness of the moment. The speaker of August Smith’s “In the Backyard” (21) wonders, “Have you, in fact, come back to your roots?” There will always be any number of experts to speak with learned certainty, but Smith’s self is “re-situated” again and again in baroque interiors and suppositions about transplantation to lush jungle landscapes. Ultimately, only the self knows its own home. Jennifer Shomburg Kanke seeks a beloved “you,” who does not return with the comforting “smell of mold and benzene.” The story of this absent person creates a kind of mental trick, a silent “impression of crickets on an August night/ that I can’t turn the sound up on” (“Maple Street on My Mind,” 25).
Connections and roots don’t have to be elaborate—they can be simple in their strength and beauty, like becoming familiar with the birds we see out our window daily, or following a cherished routine like making coffee (“The sharp, biting aroma inviting and familiar,” Jennifer Novotney, “Percolate,” 51), or hanging laundry on a line (Shelby Lynn Lanaro, “Out on the Clothesline,” 32). Dayna Patterson’s embroidered tree art deftly roots craftsmanship and nature together. At the same time, connections we seek don’t always happen, or fray with age, like memories lost to dementia or green spaces devoured by urbanization.
Ultimately, we seek roots and connection because we are scared and want to be stronger (Linda M. Crate, “just to be safe,” 54). Sending roots out, connecting with others and with the complex world around us, is worth it—we “plant . . . anyway” (Cameron Morse, “Strawberry Plants, 75). Perhaps, deep down, we desire to “call upon the comfort of the things beyond the edge of vision” (Judith Ford, “Waves,” 50). We hope you enjoy the abundance of creativity in this issue. As always, we are grateful for you.
Elizabeth Pinborough and Sarah Page