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The archive is a separate site formed from all the posts from that original Ink Sweat & Tears website, it consists of everything we have published up to the end of 2019.
Recent posts
Edward Alport
Too High to Reach The tree will not let go. High up, out of reach, on a branch, no, more a twig, a little wizened, shrunken face leers down. It clings to the tree and the tree clings back. The apple of its eye. Not a healthy embrace, then. More...
Colin Pink
Fork not the kind you eat with but useful to turn the soil root out potatoes or carrots or anything that likes to lurk beneath the earth schlupp sturdy tines slide into soil its wooden handle heats up in your hand, swopping kinetic energy...
Linda Ford
My Father Bought a Signal Box dismantled it piece by piece then sold the wood, as a job lot. He found railway station drawings a monogrammed letter opener and a gold-nibbed ink pen which contained a withered bladder with the remnants of midnight...
Ryan O’Neill
at the drop-and-go we hug and i act cool as the american fridge ice shattering on kitchen tiles lift my case from the boot practice my cold show face drain emotion like wine from the christmas market we bought crepes at dropped a claw over a...
David Thompson
I no longer prioritise, I choose who to disappoint that day I’m a cardboard loo roll with one sheet left wet grounds scraped from the coffee pot a biro tip scratching at paper in circles. Scrolling through my inbox I hold down the shift key, select all...
Marcelle Newbold
Hope lies like the edge of a teaspoon, upward facing, a thickness perhaps enough solidness to knife through a banana or other soft fruit for safety for a baby or to get under the edge of the surface tension of the skin of a grape to start a peel....
Britta Giersche
3am a wooden door slams shut in my brain a man perishes in a space the size of his grave from malnutrition eighty years ago (I travel on my mother’s electric waves that held their spoken words’ shape) I am sorry that the thud left a hole in your...
Maxine Flasher-Düzgüneş
4.21.21 my friend sends me, Brooklyn a reminder uncounted she guides me softly through many-miles forever towards nothing the hedges grow in-between metal gates but pictures bridge the rivers they spread over March like Tama Impala, lost in it and grates that...
Abby Crawford
Stonevale When I was born the house was full of stones, an old blacksmiths shed. Rubble became walls, became home. I used a brush as tall as me to brush debris, dust, oyster shells. In my blue gingham dress and boots. We lived down from the...
Rachael Clyne
Homeland And if a land loses its people and they are exiled will a land feel their absence will it dream of their calloused feet on its warm skin will it grieve the touch of hands familiar with the ways of its...
Tom Nutting
We Were Seeds Found poem from trans rights protest and counter-protest on College Green, Bristol, Saturdays 19th & 26th April 2025. The counter protest was quickly drowned out. I. God created man and woman — Let us piss in peace! Only a man...
Emily A. Taylor
We turned a corner Still I notice the white mole above your lip. Shallow we breathe in leather yew leaves. Branches slackened by tomorrow’s dew. Like Cross Street is a steam room and we are clean white shrouding towels shawled around each others’...
Steph Morris
Tag He arrived with a Christian name stitched in place, forwards and backwards down each folded-back end. On the first day the other boys and girls tore it off, taking the surrounding cloth along. No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw...
Steve Akinkuolie
Cataclysm from the Cup The morning was a treacherous thing. It had arrived in the slow, reluctant way of unpaid debts, carrying the full weight of harmattan’s mischief. The air was dry, brittle, waiting to crack at the first sign of movement. Outside,...
Eryn McDonald
Ancient Rocks After Jon Robinson Like ancient rocks lying where they please I find myself prone amongst chilly grass Wrapped in a red windbreaker Bike discarded at my side The sky an invite to breathe in its expanse It is here that the day breaks apart...
In Praise Of…: Annie Brechin reviews ‘Divorcee Disco Music’ by Christopher Crawford
Neither divorcees nor discos make much of an appearance in Christopher Crawford’s magnetic debut, but music – 'thunder or something/ that sounds like a woman’s laugh' runs through it. Albeit a strange music, weird echoes of weeping and passion and 'a whistling sound...
Gordan Struić
In Transit The carriage hums — rows of bowed heads, fingers scrolling, eyes tethered to small glowing screens. Outside, the city slides by, blurred lines of glass and rain. I watch my own reflection — half-face, half-shadow, and behind me, someone lifts...
Stephen Keeler
Broken biscuits for H and PB The days were huge and kind and sometimes after school we’d buy a bag of broken biscuits for the long walk home across the heavy heat of afternoon on lucky days she wouldn’t take the pennies offered up in supplication for the...
Éloïse O’Dwyer-Armary
Leeks Éloïse O’Dwyer-Armary is a bilingual poet born in France and based in Sussex, UK. They are a PhD researcher in ecopoetry at the University of...
Joseph Blythe
Wallpaper I swear I felt the swirly patterned paper rip from the walls of my childhood bedroom. It was the same stained cream shade as my skin – pockmarked, cut and scabbed, dry and peeling – and I felt it tearing, dragging pieces of my grey flesh with...