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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

Chris Cusack

      from: Seize i. I fear my poor old soul may be a fixer upper. I strive to find out – it’s that forensic streak I have, I suppose – by too often drinking on an empty stomach. There’s a view afoot, I think, that a proper soul needs proper seasoning....

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A Poem from Fahad Al-Amoudi, IS&T’s Next Editing Intern

  6am in Bole airport (after eight years) The inevitability of currency changing hands; multiples of six just momentarily effervescent, reprise! reprise! reprise! Everyone’s face looks like a clock at a certain hour; delirious in mid-applause when you hear your...

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Mick Gidley

      Home Front For days after the children leave for their homes in the South we discover unexcavated battlefields, nonsensical as Towton. Small formations of infantrymen guard the lower book-case shelves, lone snipers lurk behind the curtains, and...

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Alison Cohen

      Roses The postman was my friend, rang the bell, wouldn’t leave until he’d reached me, handed me broken stems of roses — thorny with their heads at crooked angles, buds that tried but only turned to rusty paper. They’d found you by the postbox...

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Isolation by Richard C. Bower

Isolation by Richard C. Bower Settle me With a restive hand of congregation One that makes me sit back and think again Offer me a chink of light As opposed to the consumer society With its dreams that end in ruined plight ... As I walk on/I realize How subordinated...

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Paul Stephenson

      Voicemail Sarah is away next week so would like to speak to me today if it’s convenient and not too much trouble. She wants to go over some of the finer details and explain how things will generally go from here. Sarah needs to check she’s...

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Zoë Wells reviews Mither Tongue by Jidi Majia

Mither Tongue – A love letter to translation Parallel translations always bring a certain kind of joy. I have fond memories of reading Pablo Neruda for the first time, original text on the left, English translation on the right. Feeling out the Spanish sounds out loud...

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Olga Dermott

      Seagulls They would shred morning open from 3 a.m, jangling keys in their beaks, an hour after the last scatter of drunks had sung their way home. Every layer of black plastic flayed, pavements strewn with rot, the week split open like the belly...

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Adrian Slatcher

      Miss Blackbird Good morning bird I hear a blackbird in the morning I hear a blackbird in the morning Sat out eating my breakfast I see a blackbird in the morning I see a blackbird in the morning Gathering sticks and twigs I smile at a blackbird in...

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March 2021 Pick of the Month

VOTING HAS CLOSED AND OUR PICK FOR MARCH 2021 WILL BE ANNOUNCED ON MONDAY 19th APRIL at 5PM BST. You might call our choices for March 2021, a shortlist of two halves. Subtle delicate poems that celebrate the minutiae of life in all its wonder as we find in the warmth...

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Emily Wilkinson

      Coffin Road Boots and minds pound heavy up the steep grassy track. We speak of how many men it would take to shoulder grief’s weight, pale with effort and the thought of body within box hauled high over stone, ground and mud. It is hard enough to...

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Josie Moon

      from Ache After the world ended A rain of fire woke the night. Under blazing umbrellas a rat-like scurry ensued. Dawn rose bleak; the sun eclipsed by a black ring, a circle of surprise. From the sky came a red mare riding the clouds, descending on...

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Sam Wilson Fletcher

    Kingley Vale Down the chalk track slick as soap. Wade the long grass in the meadow, bludgeon swinging, bag of stoats. Rabbit in my fingers squealing, into the grove of the gods I go. Old gods. Half-dead and never dying. Sucking needles, spitting berries....

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Dominic Fisher

      Thumbnail sketches Look how it all goes pale when you pinch, and floods with rose as you let go. That dot is probably not a planet though, too big the curved sky too foggy. Possibly a snowy evening a chalky moon has risen east of a cold mauve...

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Helen Sheppard

      Hair Growing up in small towns hairdressers offer crew cuts, curlers, wigs in severe bobs. In cities my fuzz is flat ironed, acid straight, topiary trimmed. In cosy bars, strangers clink pints on our table. Sweep sweaty palms across tips of my...

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Dan Stathers

      Escape of Harold ‘Rubber Bones’ Webb Chaplain asked me if I’d renounced my criminal ways, Depends on my girl, I confessed rattling the concrete flinders in my pocket. I’d sprung by midnight, slipped down my chiselled rabbit hole following hot...

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Richard Williams

    Dreamer Set the sat-nav for home but drive in the opposite direction without any sense of where or why you are going or where this will end or who you really are or might become each junction passed is a single recalculation of opportunities missed of...

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Jon Miller

    West Beach, Berneray You want your days to spread along the bay, a coat of gold light wind harvesting machair tuned to a sky littered with geese, sanderlings skittering in every direction a ferry waltzing the low tides of the Sound where you walk on sand...

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Celestine Stilwell

    Little boy dream  My brother used to burn ants with a magnifying glass. I blamed the sun for tempting his half-talking, grazed knees to kneel on hot tarmac. He’d run his pink-licked fingers through the slab’s trenches, collecting worm eggs beneath...

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