Monday, February 6, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Jonathan Blake

By Jonathan Blake

Heavy flakes of snow float
Beyond the windows that overlook
The valley. The hills of the horizon
Are blue. I have forgotten what it is
I must do in this world, and the voices
That trouble me are still. I grow
Old, but the winter light in my small
Room grows and fades like the breath
Of god. I do not need science to know
It enters me, lights the holy marrow
Of my bones. I am not the dark wings
Of those birds coming to rest
In the bare oak like the blind eyes
Of a woman who knows night
Comes on. No. When the long mirror
Of the world grows opaque, I am
Nothing. And nothing more.

Monday, January 2, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Sarah Brown Weitzman

By Sarah Brown Weitzman

Though he must have longed for summer gardens
at Giverny, hot light flaring off water-glazed lilies,

Monday, December 5, 2016

From Volume 37: A poem by Henry Walters

By Henry Walters

Not till this old-fashioned morning, Son House singing
through fifty pushups, fifty situps, some pain-
ful stretches into lower registers

that can’t be reached, on a skipping record,
Got a letter this morn-, Got a letter this morn-,
not till I rifled every kitchen cupboard

& poked through sacks of nothing but dry goods,
& the fridge the same, no eggs, no meat, no greens,
& I, who have never been poor, sat down, tired,

not till then did I think about the milkman,
a real man to my parents’ generation
but myth to mine, who’d come in the dawn & leave

two bottles on the stoop beside the door,
uncapped, they said, & frothy, &, sometimes, warm,
narrow-necked bottles that flared out like the bell

of a gramophone, like the mouths of changeling twins
you found each morning, unswaddled, unexplained,
& take in full, & put out empty, & think

no more about than mail arriving twice,
or papers by evening, or kids after school, or sun
going up & down by everybody’s watch.

But now your bottle floats up into mind,
milkman, minstrel, waylaid messenger,
without a message, without milk, without

even a sun to slip slow through your glass,
& you say, Hush—I thought I heard her call
my name, & suddenly your being gone

delivers me a second time into the world,
brimful, & fuller, maybe, than before,
having had no taste of what there’d be to lack.

*reprinted with permission from Field Guide A Tempo (Hobblebush Books, 2016)

Saturday, November 12, 2016

2016 Pushcart Prize Nominees

The Worcester Review has selected its 2016 Pushcart Prize Nominees. 

In no particular order, the nominees are:

Karen Sharpe, "Neutrals"
Henry Walters, "Milkman"
Renee Bibby, "Than All the Treasures"
Heather Treseler, "Voyeur in June"
Judy Kaber, "Elvers"
Hu Xian / Zhang Ziqing / Rodger Martin, "Chinese Wolfberry"

Best of luck to all our nominees!

Monday, November 7, 2016

From Volume 37: A poem by 李白, Li Po



Climbing the Xiling Pagoda [1] in Yangzhou, Autumn [2]
By 李白, Li Po

The pagoda points into blue sky,
and I climb on its top, looking at distant landscape.
The top merges with the sky’s vigor
and towers above the clouds like a brilliant sign.

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Volume 37 Cover Reveal

Coming November 2016!

Volume 37 Featuring the 2016 Frank O'Hara Prize Winners, the Manuscript Winner of the 2016 WCPA College Poetry Contest, New poetry and fiction from emerging and established writers, and a Feature Section on Scofield Thayer.

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

From Volume 36: A poem by Rimas Uzgiris

by Rimas Uzgiris
were swept downstream
in a flood that began with small
buds of water blossoming
into wreaths of rain
that thrust us into a movie
that went faster as we approached the end
and you could scarcely keep up
or enjoy the scenery
passing the sand bar
it all seemed so arranged
driftwood skeletons draped
with souls like shredded sheets
and mewing gulls of memory poked
a sagging sky
then the sea
opened its mouth
O peace that passeth understanding
the part of us that is made of water
will be taken up into clouds.