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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
William Bedford
The News is in The news is in. Grey fears can go away now. These flames are black and green, the colours of disease. It isn’t true! But only because I keep my eyes closed. If I open them, the wall offers an Arctic ferment of blues, the ceiling is...
Stuart Ross
Join us for a live zoom reading from Stuart Ross and Bloodaxe poet Clare Shaw in our new occasional 'Live from the Butchery' series, hosted by Helen Ivory and Martin Figura from their home. The reading will take place on Sunday 28th June, 4pm GMT, 11am EDT. Please...
Phil Vernon
Fin The first bars are the seeds from which the music grows, but even the music’s surprised when it flowers; by what it knows. The first snow lands; each further flake that falls is laid on the flake before, and turns the world to white and shade:...
Mbizo Chirasha
Country Train of My Country I see from a distance, its metal backbones disappearing into the blue haze of our day. It moans and vomit its human snort into the silent heat. Kacha kuchu ka……cha Kuchu……uuu Kachaaa Kuchuuu. Kweeeeeeeeee. The sound steps...
Priya Subberwal
how to lose your mind at the end of the world (an instruction manual) step one: stare out the window for hours on end. pretend you’re making eye contact with someone. step two: envision a post-apocalyptic future, where you only eat canned beans,...
Zach Murphy
Why the river? Shannon sat in her tattered recliner chair and scowled at the cheesy infomercials on the television. It’d been exactly four years since the Mississippi River took her son Gus away. Gus was a freshman at the state university where he...
Jonah Corren
Unravelling Fields like tapestry Fields like patchwork quilt Fields like ripples over water Fields like sunspots on lens Fields floating clouds shifting with wind shapes always changing an old stone wall diced onion in a frying pan ...
Gail McConnell on Father’s Day
Untitled / Villanelle I have often longed to see my mother in the doorway.’- Grace Paley Because having a father made me want a father. - Sandra Newman I have often longed to see my mother tap-dance in a top hat like she did before he died –...
Claire Booker reviews ‘John Dust’: poems by Louise Warren, ink drawings by John Duffin
Poetry comes from a deeply personal inner landscape. But what happens when external geographies bring their own emotional and social clout to the party? Enter John Dust – the riveting personification of Louise Warren’s native Somerset. Dust feels...
Izzy Lamb
Void It was before dawn when I saw him hurtle behind an asteroid illuminating my telescope with the flash of a cheap bathroom bulb too hot and burst under stress. And you can flip the switch but the cosmos told him to hide so he’ll nick himself...
David Olsen
Blue Light A pain in my leg wakes me at 4. I stand to stretch out the cramp. Blue light pulses on the ceiling. I part the drapes. Across the street an ambulance ticks. In a pool of light from a street lamp, an old man is trundled out, an oxygen...
Mark A. Murphy
If You / Then We If you are leaving Mohr and Mohme for Brighton then we are iron and steam and if you are walking alone at night then we are moon and Dog Star and if you are suffering with first-night nerves then we are Hamlet and Ophelia and if...
Mary Ford Neal is the IS&T Pick of the Month poet for May 2020
One of our voters when asked 'Tell us why this gets your vote' after selecting Mary Ford Neal's poem simply replied 'Jane' and that really sums up this poem of the same name being chosen as May 2020's Pick of the Month. We all know Janes; we might be a little in awe...
Julian Brasington
Home to the Hebrides Where are you running to what are you looking for rooting in other people’s abandonments scraping time off the earth into spoil for stone some sign of burning a flicker of bone someone’s life to ponder their gut to digest...
Joseph Cooper
medusa the narcissist self-preservation is really something ongoing and terminal they loved taxes they loved death certain things create an emotional reaction self-contemplation is coldly detached apparently the inevitable end of introspection led...
#GreenforGrenfell
Finola Scott
Tell me again in this ragged midnight that intimacy will endure waters aren't rising and tomorrow the fritillary butterfly will graze my garden tell me that passion is not merely nocturnal but a tsunami of connection no stormy tea-cup but the...
Word & Image by Helen Pletts and Romit Berger
shopdown blue-harbour azure-surety a single box of old cotswold legbar sterile jewels in the fragile heart of the fluttering-gloved hands and butterfly-face masks Helen Pletts (www.helenpletts.com) (Instagram @helen.pletts) Working...
Gary Jude
Birds Everyone held a bird, except you. A policeman eyed you suspiciously. You followed the crowd into the square. When the clock struck noon, everyone lifted their bird aloft. Some snapped necks and wings, or let their bird fly. A wife watched...
Fiona Theokritoff
Smickling I am as useless as a coronet, have lost a shoal of bloodied runts. Who shall assist me? Perhaps a ripe and red-faced peasant with more brats than she can raise. I need her shoes, I need a charm to stick what quickens to its cage. Perhaps...