Saturday, October 14, 2017

Volume 38 Cover Reveal!

Volume 38 of The Worcester Review is coming soon! 
Subscribers, expect for your copies to arrive in early November.


Cover Art "Mothership" by John Vo
Cover Design by Kirsty Walker, Hobblebush Books



We're so proud to bring you work by these talented poets and writers...




Monday, October 2, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Leone Scanlon



MY SEVENTY-SIXTH YEAR
By Leone Scanlon

In Chagall’s kitchen a red floor, a cake, and a cut melon on a red table,
pink roses for her birthday, her feet not quite touching the floor,
he, floating above and around, head curved like a swan’s for a kiss,
like the father in cummings’ poem swaying “deep like a rose”
over his mother to kiss, like a poet, as I imagined he would and did
when I was young, life transformed, the way Chagall
turned a kitchen with cake, knife, red floor into flying,
the way pain slices flesh and spirit crimson,
the way cut roses spill petals over a table filling the room,
the way the on-sale rose bush my daughter planted
blooms again and again even in late October, scenting the chill
as I descend the steps in slippers and robe to pick up the paper,
sky still starred, pink changing to blue, crows cawing from a tree-top
and turn, gathering my robe, breathing in roses, to start the day.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

The Worcester Review -- Staff Openings

The Worcester Review seeks to fill several positions on our editorial board.   We invite you to click the links below to view the full position descriptions. If you are interested, please contact Managing Editor Diane Mulligan at editor.twr@gmail.com

Assistant Managing Editor

Poetry Reading Editor

Copy Editor


Monday, September 4, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Karen Sharpe


When Worlds Collide
By Karen Sharpe

after Edvard Munch’s painting, Girls Picking Apples, from the collection of Scofield Thayer


Innocence, you are but deceit twined in green
a shackle of softness in a girl’s thigh and chin
an obsession with a torrid itch
purity, you twist the empty tongue.
As ever, pleasure is a lie that defies your definition:
hunger kneels plainly before the blossom
ripens with lipless lust, desires the waxing bloom.
Above, the wild sky swirls its azure threads
its empty net casting for ruin. As ever,
the ocean lifts its stormy myths, it swells
with its legends, it lists with forgotten men.

Monday, August 7, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by 黄昏, Mi Zheng-ying





夕阳越滚越远,眼看就要落进长河
一只雀鸟从树林间腾空而起
仿佛时光射出的箭矢
天空瞬间暗淡,夜色如潮涌来
黑暗发出回声


Dusk
by 黄昏, Mi Zheng-ying

As the sun rolled down to the river
to where it would soon plunge,
a bird shot up from the trees
like the arrow of time.
The sky turned black, and night
came in like waves
grating in the dark.

Monday, July 3, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Marsha Truman Cooper



ROADSIDE ASSISTANCE
By Marsha Truman Cooper

“The perfect gift is always hidden too well.”
—Pat Conroy

At the scene of my accident
a tow truck driver tried to decide
whether my car was drivable.
His phone vibrated.
He leaned against my smoking
wreck, listening,
tore a sheet off his clipboard
and wrapped the paper
around the top of his thigh
to scribble in pencil.
Such notes usually
wind up looking
like the beak attack
of a furious hen, but
he finished without
poking holes. He’d used
a personal physics
of gentleness, exerted
the exact force per unit area
to write without injuring
any skin of his page.
The woman I hit watched too,
almost ignoring
her expensive dents.
Then, as the snarl cleared
and I sat high in his cab,
he blew a kiss over
his shoulder, over
the crash, over shattered glass.
The face of my victim
colored and smiled as if
nothing bad could happen
on the other side of this gift.

Monday, June 5, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Judith Robbins

Worcester Tornado of 1953.  Credit: WCVB Boston

WORCESTER, MASS., JUNE 9, 1953
By Judith Robbins

The thought of it, the sight of it,
the everliving fright of it
does not die from year to year
but returns, written in memory
with a dark pen that marks black
the mind’s funnel that tunnels
back to the day and night in early
June of 1953. What it meant for you
and me was fear, caught from our
mother like a dark disease, spreading
quickly through limb and vein
as we sat on the couch until very late
awaiting a second tornado authorities
warned of. Over the radio, news
of death and destruction. The numbers
grew with the passing hours––names
of the dead, names of the missing read
again and again. Does anyone listening
know the whereabouts of So-and-So?
So many So-and-So’s unknown before
that night formed a terrible litany not
forgotten for months afterwards
in all our communal prayers.