Ink Sweat & Tears is a UK based webzine which publishes and reviews poetry, prose, prose-poetry, word & image pieces and everything in between. Our tastes are eclectic and magpie-like and we aim to publish something new every day.

We try to keep waiting-time short, but because of increased submissions, the current waiting time between submission and publication is around twelve weeks.

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Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Sally Michaelson on Holocaust Memorial Day

      from The Lorch Family Magic Trick Adolf Althoff is used to riding tigers so when Gestapo soldiers come looking for Irene he plies them with Schnapps while Irene squeezes into a passage tight as a magician’s box – contracting in size until she is thin as bone if they slash a knife through it will probably miss her.     Mohammed Sahraoui Though he creaks like a tree bending under the aajej Mohammed still backflips back to his circus years when raising the alarm he whispers « go fishing » as Irene spirits herself away to the caravan hide-out while he prowls to and fro sniffing out Gestapo– a lynx in a leotard leaving no trace in the snow.     In the Heyday of the Circus tigers ripped apart their rations of raw meat before it grew icicles, stallions kicked at their stalls wired by the moon not to gallop in circles, elephant dung froze rolled off the dustpans like giant hailstones, the circus compound is now a makeshift enclosure of petting animals...

Anna Saunders

    Telling the Bees Little vials into which the sun has poured I tell you all I know about the failing crop, a marriage party, a stricken cow. Last summer I tied a ribbon to the top of your home, whispered with a sweet tongue that a new master had come. Winged engineers you shape hexagon from wax, craft perfect tessellations – there is little I could teach you but much I can share. Gold furred confidents today we speak like pelted sisters. I whisper of when I licked the sweat of his back as he slept how love leaves a bitter taste to the mouth, how men bring salt, not honey. It will seem that the night has come early as I cover you in black silk, knock on each hive to spill my message. I will sing as I dress you, a doleful tune of death and desertion my words a soft drone Little bee, our lord is dead Leave me not in my distress.       Anna Saunders' most recent collection is Feverfew.  She is the author of Communion, (Wild Conversations Press), Struck,...

Andrew Nightingale

    How it feels to be a bat There are the headaches, then the feverish sense of darkness. Taste, none but the crackly limbs of gnats. Hate is a constant on the radar and immense blank surfaces block the call by which I come to belong in the shape of a response. I tell you so you don't use that weapon empathy. In thinking into me you penetrate to take possession. I believe you believe you are alone in having that privilege, while all the while you're slowly being re-encompassed by black wings.       Andrew Nightingale (@andrenothingale) is currently working on a group of poems about the "Anatomical Venus". His previous work has included visual, concrete and prose poetry. He lives in St Leonards-on-Sea and works in the charity sector.

David Belcher

    A defence against all sabotage I shake out the creases from my coat, and climb the hundred steps leading to the feet of a bronze giant, its right hand raised, welcoming. I’m meant to lift my eyes, to take in its magnificence, to be stirred up into believing a myth— I tell it, No. It finds nothing to say. In the early morning, the city feels large and spacious. I watch the few people I encounter. I am training my mind to perceive, not the flash and bang of a pistol, not the white gold in a jeweller’s window, not a man’s taut muscled arm or a woman’s long neck, but to imagine in their place the myths that pull these things into my thoughts: myths of masculinity and femininity, money guns and ownership— I tell them, I cancel all myths. And then I laugh to myself, thinking that complete freedom is just another myth. Leafy branches wave above my head while I read a magazine, turning the flimsy pages with fingers stained and sticky with butter and honey. I see through the...

Holly Conant

      The Slip Hold on tight to my writing hand, darling boy. Who knows how many words I have left. Don’t let me give them all to the page.   Holly Conant is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems ‘Suspicion’ and ‘A Door’ will be published later this year.  

Previously featured

Anna Saunders

    Telling the Bees Little vials into which the sun has poured I tell you all I know about the failing crop, a marriage party, a stricken cow. Last summer I tied a ribbon to the top of your home, whispered with a sweet tongue that a new master had come....

read more

Andrew Nightingale

    How it feels to be a bat There are the headaches, then the feverish sense of darkness. Taste, none but the crackly limbs of gnats. Hate is a constant on the radar and immense blank surfaces block the call by which I come to belong in the shape of a...

read more

Recent Prose

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to...

Harry Wilding

    DIY with Biscuits The sound of the drill was not enough to completely drown out his voice. ‘Sure that’s in the right place?’ Gerry asked. I focussed on the screw disappearing into the wall. ‘Mary? You hear me? You sure that’s not too...

Michael Bloor

WITNESS STATEMENT Case No. 1991/203 Witness – Full Name: Ianthe Jane Frobisher-Forbes Address: 1 Priory Lane, Old Basing, Basingstoke I first met Jason on Johnny Antrobus's yacht at St. Tropez  in July, 1990. I didn't know at first that he was from...

Hanne Larsson

    When this is all over... We will hug. There’re two types. A proper one starts off gentle, a soft caress as two people’s arms find a way through each other’s limbs, as chests start to touch, as each pulls the other tighter to them, as...

Chaucer Cameron

      Cellar Stories: Ash & Elder Sunday afternoon there’s always roast dinner. Then mum and dad go to church. The twins stay and wash dishes. Elder-twin picks up a plastic bag with unused Brussels sprouts inside. The cellar door...

Recent Haiku

Helen May Williams

    Winter solstice 2020   13/12/2020 dream haiku small hours of Sunday morning family’s little strength guarded for mourning   17/12/2020 still growing on old apple tree— mistletoe   21/12/2020 the peanut feeder disappears...

Kashiana Singh

5 Haiku Origami cradle songs on the drive home… my empty womb * my mother’s knitted sweaters- I unravel knots * tears- water raining into an empty cup * drifting snowflakes- I restore the fragile lace of my wedding veil * encounters- his world is...

Xan Nichols

Haiku in the hope of an easing of lockdown   Sunrise early May all flame and pale duck egg blue; Clouds of lilac grey Just before sunrise - a muted bloom of russet On the chilly ground Above the skyline blazing - the risen sun like a young god Tree...

Yvonne Amey

      * you gone I dream I’m chasing darkness through our castle * souvenir scarf in ocean-green I wrap Australia around my neck * alone on a foreign shore silver gulls dine with me     Yvonne Amey received her MFA from the...

Gopal Lahiri

      * sparrows at work on the skylight * laptops sending handshakes from kitchen table * edges of dawn.. goodbyes litter sidewalks * internet dooms day scrolling in lockdown     Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based bilingual...

News

Word & Image

Video Channel

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Sally Michaelson on Holocaust Memorial Day

      from The Lorch Family Magic Trick Adolf Althoff is used to riding tigers so when Gestapo soldiers come looking for Irene he plies them with Schnapps while Irene squeezes into a passage tight as a magician’s box – contracting in size until she is thin as bone if they slash a knife through it will probably miss her.     Mohammed Sahraoui Though he creaks like a tree bending under the aajej Mohammed still backflips back to his circus years when raising the alarm he whispers « go fishing » as Irene spirits herself away to the caravan hide-out while he prowls to and fro sniffing out Gestapo– a lynx in a leotard leaving no trace in the snow.     In the Heyday of the Circus tigers ripped apart their rations of raw meat before it grew icicles, stallions kicked at their stalls wired by the moon not to gallop in circles, elephant dung froze rolled off the dustpans like giant hailstones, the circus compound is now a makeshift enclosure of petting animals...

Anna Saunders

    Telling the Bees Little vials into which the sun has poured I tell you all I know about the failing crop, a marriage party, a stricken cow. Last summer I tied a ribbon to the top of your home, whispered with a sweet tongue that a new master had come. Winged engineers you shape hexagon from wax, craft perfect tessellations – there is little I could teach you but much I can share. Gold furred confidents today we speak like pelted sisters. I whisper of when I licked the sweat of his back as he slept how love leaves a bitter taste to the mouth, how men bring salt, not honey. It will seem that the night has come early as I cover you in black silk, knock on each hive to spill my message. I will sing as I dress you, a doleful tune of death and desertion my words a soft drone Little bee, our lord is dead Leave me not in my distress.       Anna Saunders' most recent collection is Feverfew.  She is the author of Communion, (Wild Conversations Press), Struck,...

Andrew Nightingale

    How it feels to be a bat There are the headaches, then the feverish sense of darkness. Taste, none but the crackly limbs of gnats. Hate is a constant on the radar and immense blank surfaces block the call by which I come to belong in the shape of a response. I tell you so you don't use that weapon empathy. In thinking into me you penetrate to take possession. I believe you believe you are alone in having that privilege, while all the while you're slowly being re-encompassed by black wings.       Andrew Nightingale (@andrenothingale) is currently working on a group of poems about the "Anatomical Venus". His previous work has included visual, concrete and prose poetry. He lives in St Leonards-on-Sea and works in the charity sector.

David Belcher

    A defence against all sabotage I shake out the creases from my coat, and climb the hundred steps leading to the feet of a bronze giant, its right hand raised, welcoming. I’m meant to lift my eyes, to take in its magnificence, to be stirred up into believing a myth— I tell it, No. It finds nothing to say. In the early morning, the city feels large and spacious. I watch the few people I encounter. I am training my mind to perceive, not the flash and bang of a pistol, not the white gold in a jeweller’s window, not a man’s taut muscled arm or a woman’s long neck, but to imagine in their place the myths that pull these things into my thoughts: myths of masculinity and femininity, money guns and ownership— I tell them, I cancel all myths. And then I laugh to myself, thinking that complete freedom is just another myth. Leafy branches wave above my head while I read a magazine, turning the flimsy pages with fingers stained and sticky with butter and honey. I see through the...

Holly Conant

      The Slip Hold on tight to my writing hand, darling boy. Who knows how many words I have left. Don’t let me give them all to the page.   Holly Conant is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems ‘Suspicion’ and ‘A Door’ will be published later this year.  

News

Word & Image

Video Channel

Previously featured

Anna Saunders

    Telling the Bees Little vials into which the sun has poured I tell you all I know about the failing crop, a marriage party, a stricken cow. Last summer I tied a ribbon to the top of your home, whispered with a sweet tongue that a new master had come....

read more

Andrew Nightingale

    How it feels to be a bat There are the headaches, then the feverish sense of darkness. Taste, none but the crackly limbs of gnats. Hate is a constant on the radar and immense blank surfaces block the call by which I come to belong in the shape of a...

read more

Recent Prose

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to...

Harry Wilding

    DIY with Biscuits The sound of the drill was not enough to completely drown out his voice. ‘Sure that’s in the right place?’ Gerry asked. I focussed on the screw disappearing into the wall. ‘Mary? You hear me? You sure that’s not too...

Michael Bloor

WITNESS STATEMENT Case No. 1991/203 Witness – Full Name: Ianthe Jane Frobisher-Forbes Address: 1 Priory Lane, Old Basing, Basingstoke I first met Jason on Johnny Antrobus's yacht at St. Tropez  in July, 1990. I didn't know at first that he was from...

Hanne Larsson

    When this is all over... We will hug. There’re two types. A proper one starts off gentle, a soft caress as two people’s arms find a way through each other’s limbs, as chests start to touch, as each pulls the other tighter to them, as...

Chaucer Cameron

      Cellar Stories: Ash & Elder Sunday afternoon there’s always roast dinner. Then mum and dad go to church. The twins stay and wash dishes. Elder-twin picks up a plastic bag with unused Brussels sprouts inside. The cellar door...

Recent Haiku

Helen May Williams

    Winter solstice 2020   13/12/2020 dream haiku small hours of Sunday morning family’s little strength guarded for mourning   17/12/2020 still growing on old apple tree— mistletoe   21/12/2020 the peanut feeder disappears...

Kashiana Singh

5 Haiku Origami cradle songs on the drive home… my empty womb * my mother’s knitted sweaters- I unravel knots * tears- water raining into an empty cup * drifting snowflakes- I restore the fragile lace of my wedding veil * encounters- his world is...

Xan Nichols

Haiku in the hope of an easing of lockdown   Sunrise early May all flame and pale duck egg blue; Clouds of lilac grey Just before sunrise - a muted bloom of russet On the chilly ground Above the skyline blazing - the risen sun like a young god Tree...

Yvonne Amey

      * you gone I dream I’m chasing darkness through our castle * souvenir scarf in ocean-green I wrap Australia around my neck * alone on a foreign shore silver gulls dine with me     Yvonne Amey received her MFA from the...

Gopal Lahiri

      * sparrows at work on the skylight * laptops sending handshakes from kitchen table * edges of dawn.. goodbyes litter sidewalks * internet dooms day scrolling in lockdown     Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based bilingual...

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