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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
Sarah Thorne
Collateral Damage The darkening sky skids past at sixty miles an hour. My eyes are keeping a vigil over the dead fringes of tarmac either side of the road as I drive, flicking from the cars in front of me to the next unidentified something lying...
Philip Gross
Charm Enough of scorch, scald, sore- and rawness. Sometimes flesh longs for eclipse. Mesh over mesh, compact me with cool plaster. Swaddling clothes. Dry crust. Sarcophagus. A scratch, a bramble rip... a mere sly snick from a page of your book...
Chen-ou Liu on International Haiku Poetry Day
end-of-day catch our wicker basket full of salmon sunset * hospice garden the wishing fountain fills with fallen leaves * breezy sunshine my blind date and I slow-dance to subway's sway * churchyard shadows a bent woman speaking in tongues * I...
Nick Allen
some fall (inspired by a Radio 4 Tweet of the Day) she told me about the still hours spent at the coast watching the east until finally a spume of feather blood and effort rises and approaches blackbirds and fieldfares a gaunt line starving...
Phil Vernon
After the forest fire Because we were four and I only had strength to carry one and knew no other way I carried the one who called out loudest; threatened us most. You two were left to walk behind in the dust of hot, dry summer and the heavy mud...
Patrick Deeley
The Inspiring As you rummage of a morning among dust-furred personal effects jumbled in an old wooden suitcase under a bed and seeming to belong to no-one, you find a woman about whom the world, if it ever supposed at all, supposed only...
Deborah Nash
Cross Hot Burns Deborah Nash lives in Brighton, S.E. England. She studied visual art in Nanjing, China and Bourges, France, and now works as a freelance journalist. Her short stories appear in Litro, The Mechanic Institutes’...
Terry Jones
Lines Written in Early Spring The Lake District Tourist Board has had no input into what you are now reading, but I so miss Cumbria in Holy Week; late March or early April; snow on the tops or a cold sun vying with a cold wind; congregations of chaotic...
Mary Mulholland
Red as a fairytale Who will pick the apples now she's gone? Orchards of eaters, cookers, some red-fleshed that she’d harvest and lay on racks, then gather those on the ground, struggle down with bag-loads to dump on my doorstep. No note. As if...
Samantha Carr
The Girl with Goldfish Under Her Skin She has few secrets with her translucent map skin of blue underground rivers visible to scale. Contours of overlapping knots oblivious to each other and to you – mesmerised by the girl with goldfish under her...
Alison Patrick
Cepaea nemoralis A dozen snail shells exposed on dry soil in the archangel’s cut brown stalks. Banded like fairground sweets and helter-skelters, but forget all those frivolous stripey things. These are brittle, open-mouthed vacancies, void of the...
Arlene Jackson
I Can but Try Hello Tamara, it’s lovely to hear your voice stretching out across the Atlantic, from your eco pod of wellness into my quiet space, where things are not so well today. But it is today. New and fresh. I have made it through from...
Julie Egdell
Notes from the Constanta train station At the shore of impossibility last moments come to nothing all our plans die in the salt air of another new day on the black sea. There is a sadness in the way we leave the ocean in summer that no cocaine...
Elena Chamberlain
My trans friends and I just want to go swimming in cold water without a thousand eyes watching. to dunk our very own heads under and feel as the breathing world is wiped out. to get an ice cream from a van in the park and watch it drip down the...
Our 2025 Forward Prize Submissions!
We are pleased to announce the following poems as our nominations for the 2025 Forward Prize for Best Single Poem (Written). Good Luck to all; our fingers are firmly crossed. Skins My mother had a handbag made from the skin of a female cobra her brother killed...
Regina Weinert
Nothing much It was the snatch of a dream, someone said this is not what you do in the desert, it was one precise thing, not a list, and I had to find my way back to it. They always ask you now, don’t they, to remember how it felt. I only heard...
Deborah Karl-Brandt
The Peace of Winter With every book I sell, with every piece of clothing I give away, with every one of my old toys I bury deep into the trash bin, I feel a bone deep tiredness creeping into my soul. I know, I know, I have to let go. But please...
Philip Dunkerley
Everything Changes Goiás Velho, Brazil (for Terezinha Pereira da Silva) We leave early, drive for two and a half hours, park, find the church where you were married. Later, in town, an information officer listens, searches assiduously through the...
Marc Janssen
Salem January IV The sky opens Blinking its single slackened eye. It grumbly gets up. Before shuttering again and whatever blue was there Is gone. It’s gone again. What is there left to say about Marc Janssen? Maybe, his verse is...
Sigune Schnabel tr. Simon Lèbe
Mother She cut letters out of me, which quietly and unnoticed danced red poems. In the autumn wind, they fell at her feet and rustled decay. Since then, my name wears holes. I counted myself off on five fingers and planted my remains in the...