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.

Monday, May 1, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Colin Dekeersgieter


THE ANTHOLOGISTS

By Colin Dekeersgieter

You are roiling in the newest star,
a constant measure of the law
of fading. This fissure of the night, toggled by Doppler,
arpeggiates the ocean to sway the suzerain moon
until she gives the sheet over to the bright tone.     
This is jurisdiction, this being in the water’s body
as the winking beacon of a heartless light,
an indivisible orbed orison coursing
over the origin of the incubatic purling

Monday, April 3, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Daniel Saalfeld



STRAYS
By Daniel Saalfeld

Riding to Stalin’s dacha on Easter morning,
we listen to a Russian woman point out,
in Russian, the major Sochi landmarks
from hotels to monuments to parks

Monday, March 6, 2017

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



樱花落

那时,我正迎着曙光
漫步在铺满樱花碎石的小径
一只白鸟扇动翅膀,发出咕咕的叫声
等我抬起头,它已消失在樱花 树
梦幻的边缘。
我蹲下身,触摸樱花粉嫩的躯体
感知它扑向泥土时最后的
颤抖

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Get Involved at The Worcester Review!

The Worcester Review is currently seeking a copy editor to join the editorial team. Like all editorial positions at The Worcester Review, this is a volunteer opportunity and is ideal for a candidate looking to build copyediting credentials and references at a literary journal.

Copy Editor Position Description:

The primary role of the Copy Editor is to help the Managing Editor prepare The Worcester Review for publication. The Worcester Review is the annual publication of the Worcester County Poetry Association. Most of the work of the Copy Editors is done independently; however, all editors are invited to attend twice-yearly staff meetings, usually held in January and June.

The Copy Editor timeline is as follows:

Monday, February 6, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Jonathan Blake



VIGIL
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.