Monday, May 1, 2017

From Volume 37: A poem by Colin Dekeersgieter


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

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


等我抬起头,它已消失在樱花 树

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

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)