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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
Annie Kissack
Girl Awaits the Psychic Investigators They’re late. The table is laid with a clean cloth, all normal and neat. Our visitors, city men, may find it hard to navigate the path but we can wait. They hope to gather evidence of a haunting; whether he’ll...
Jim Murdoch
Love is… …inconvenient. Love is untidy. Love is relentless, ruthless and rapacious. Done well, it's hilarious, playful and redemptive – Gina Barreca (for Carrie) We don’t decide who we love. Who we hate, yes, who we’re jealous of, but never who we...
IS&T’s June 2026 Pick of the Month – Time to Choose Yours!
VOTING HAS NOW CLOSED. THE JUNE 2026 PICK OF THE MONTH WILL BE ANNOUNCED IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS. Six beautiful poems, one a Word & Image. All powerful and unique. Which is your Pick of the Month for June 2026? Khairina Anindya, ‘Khair’: a compelling re-entry into...
Alex Stolis
Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of...
Ashia Mirza
Heartbust: (Plato’s Allegory of the Cave) Someone is taking a photo at a wedding of their baby at a celebration. There’s a roar of a truck the hiss of a missile the boom of a dumb bomb. The prodigal sun casts shadows in your cave of someone taking...
Phil Vernon
Something (almost) understood Firle Beacon, South Downs These hills that look towards both weald and waves hold – in their homesteads, fenced and open land, trackways and contours – all that’s happened here, but hide their mysteries in riddles:...
Sandra Noel
Sandra Noel is from Jersey, Channel Islands. Her work appears online and in print. Her debut collection is Into The Under (2024) and she is part of Linger first in a three-poet series (2025), both published by Yaffle Press.
Mike Duggan
The Stirrups Of Genghis Khan A decapitated road sign Spears the yellow verge, Meaningless as a symbol Of progress. A vain strut. The bus driver’s hands are folded As the stop approaches. From the fields, An algorithm of hooves enters the ears Of...
Sue Spiers
Eels Anguilla anguilla I wrote a metaphor using eel for blue-light reflections in water on a flooded motorway and mentioned glittering scales. My writing group said skin which didn’t have the same feel for an ambulance’s race seen through...
Oenone Thomas
Because I don’t know any other way I replace my left hand with a hook, my feet with jackhammers, both my eyes with spangled mirror balls. I raise my right hand, and in its palm, I roll another’s choice of dice. I stud my scalp with stars, stripe...
Jean Atkin Reviews ‘The Dreaming of Hinkley Point’ by Graeme Ryan & artist Georgina King
A poem by Graeme Ryan Artwork by Georgina King This is such a generous book – the very first things the reader notices are its large square size, and its glowing colours. There is a palpable sense of successful collaboration between poet and artist going on here. The...
Adele Evershed
Some Things My Mother Forgot to Teach Me (Before She Died) A while ago I saw this prompt on Instagram though I added ‘before she died’ because mine did—long before anyway, I made a list How to think of rejection as a yellow brick one I could toss...
Sally Jenkins
The Biology Department Funny how Year 8 is doing bones now, of all the weeks. In the prep room we strip flesh off chicken wings, steep the bones in acid til they bend like rubber, and the girls shriek. Cardboard femur and tibia jointed with split...
Chris Hardy
Memento Vivere We lived here once. The rain we heard fell everywhere. Silence except the wind across the ground. It’s best to keep quiet. Words are like dead seeds, they vanish when they’re said. * New Year’s Eve without stars or...
Siobhan Logan
Misdiagnosis There’s something wrong with my head it’s too tight, it’s a round black shape on the pavement where the grand piano fell six storeys and flattened my skull There’s something wrong with the sky it’s the colour of a bruise and...
Alex Searle
Something started you to wake, leaving sockprints in the parquet, there was only the dark, until a hair sliver of light softly glowed on your feet asleep. Behind the closed door, he was there, your father, smoking quietly with himself...
Welcome Welcome Welcome Sabine Wilson-Patrick, our Newest IS&T Editing Intern
selection from Babysham (if read aloud, do so in a gentle, quiet voice of a girl who is still afraid of the dark) On loving You are concerned with being a monolith. With being a museum. Poster board, boy chested, nailed to a crucifix by water lilies....
Lauren K. Nixon
The D-Road We’ve come this way before and will again. On good days, we sing along to the radio, turned up to make the silence rattle. The packet sits in my lap until she asks. It’s a two-handed operation to fill the long vee, balance the filter. I...
Zakia Carpenter-Hall
Human Ecologies It had been such a long time... I was surprised by how gently my mother made my hair, asking if she should split the rows, my locs beginning to intertwine. She gently, as if using a miniature rake of a Japanese garden...
Hallie Oakwood
When You Must Stop a Wedding His phone pings; the morning sun glares. Kyle staggers to the bathroom mirror amidst empty bottles for inducing oblivion. Red-eyed and dishevelled, with stubble masking gray complexion and black hair in matted clumps;...