Sound

A prelude to our fall theme

It is good to give thanks to the LORD, to sing praises to your name, O Most High; to declare your steadfast love in the morning and your faithfulness by night, to the music of the lute and the harp, to the melody of the lyre. For you, O LORD, have made me glad by your work; at the works of your hands I sing for joy.

—Psalm 92:1-4

Panic sets in for me whenever a well-meaning conversation turns to discussing my music taste. How do I describe my hodgepodge choices in genre? The random songs I know by heart but have no idea what bands play them? Even Spotify had a hard time describing my style. They pegged me for a 60 year old with an affinity for bubblegum pop, early 00s worship, folk music, punk rock from the 10s, lofi, and Broadway showtunes. I’d be confused, too, trying to nail down a specific listening aesthetic. My playlists are for rainy days, long car rides with children, and specific times and seasons I have or am walking through. It feels almost intrusive to ask about the sounds that speak to you most.

Reflections on Crash (1990) by Roy Lichtenstein

Of course, that is the intent of the question, small talk or not. Music rattles what’s inside our locked doors, shakes awake dormant feelings we’ve left unattended, and gently taps on our shoulders, asking us to dance and delight in the world around us. From Gregorian chant to Guns N’ Roses, the type of sounds we surround ourselves with capture glimpses of our identity. But let’s zoom out a bit.

What if every sound we heard was a symphony synced to the one who created it? What if every aural landscape was a place where we could meet with the divine?

Could the ticking of a clock be a comfort in our finitude? Or the slow drip of coffee into the pot be a midnight mercy? The sounds that fill our world: birdsong, laughter, rain fall, the start of an engine, the eruption of a volcano, all demand our attention. They point us to an inevitable truth: if we aren’t making a sound in praise, something else will. Jesus says this in Luke 19:40—the silent stones cry out for its Creator. It makes me consider, then, that each sound that I perceive is a secret song inviting me deeper into His presence.

But sound can be drowned out. We plug our ears. We become disoriented through disruption and disaster. We grow accustomed to louder, bigger, busier noise that we can’t perceive the quieter pulses of sound that our souls most need. In our current culture, noise pollution, metaphorically and literally, abounds. So, we gear up. Don our ear protection, soundproof our studios, and book the cabin in the heart of the mountains. We learn the difference between noise and nourishment.

Maybe then, we can begin to hear Him speak. We can feast on the fortissimo and partake in the pianissimo that surrounds us, notice Him in the rushing river and the shifting sand. And once you have listened, I hope you will join the song He has started. Your melody might be filling the missing measure in the masterpiece.

— Danielle Page, Editor

Modern painting with clef (1967) by Roy Lichtenstein

Our Fall 2026 theme is Sound.

We are turning our ears toward pieces that clash, crash, whisper and whistle. We want to tap our feet to poetry and prose with strong rhythm and rhyme, so let the sound waves ripple across the page. There’s no need to use your inside voice.

We’re ready to sniffle to sonnets, gasp at ghazals, and snap to slam poetry, so bring us your most boisterous stories or your smoothest beats. Either way, we’re listening.

Submissions for Sound are now open and close on September 12th, 2026! Accepted writers will be asked to submit an audio recording for the issue. We can’t wait to experience the sounds of good poetry and prose this fall, so be sure to view our submission guidelines here.

As You Go…

This poem by Danielle is a fantastic example of what we are looking for for our Sound theme. Upon reading it, I felt I could hear the jazz band, the silence, the applause. It is a delight to read and, also, to attend the ear to.

- Alexandra

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Jazz on a Psalm 92 Sunday
by Danielle Page

pop rocks, melody flavored, hit my ears as sweet as a wild berry in July. 
I roll it over in my mind, considering the color of music that emerge, 
fully bloomed but scattered across the band's inner world:
the piano dripping in a golden oil, the sax drowning in a cold blue, 
the singer swaying in a sultry red. then, 

with a flourish—
a Sabbath rest. 

the colors linger, drift across the stage and swirl 
into the crowd. only then does the applause sprout out
and up, declaring joy with each rioting round. 

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With trumpet sound,

The Clayjar Team