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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
‘Beginner’s Italian’ by James Mason is the IS&T Pick of the Month for July 2026. Read and Hear it Now!
I love it. It so accurately demonstrates the painfulness of those early days when your language competency is so limited that your personality feels suppressed! A spare, straightforward poem utilising what editing intern Sabine Wilson-Patrick called a 'blunting of...
Aardhra Chandran
Chavittu Nadakam Canvas boots, pig-iron tacks. At midnight, the wooden platform groans like a hull. The raw earth shakes below the planks, cardboard stage-sets buckling under the stride. The Emperor wears a crown of tinsel, his beard fixed with...
Jason Lovell
Roberto - Market Bird While children kneel at your cage in awe edge offerings of cashew nuts, chopped fruit, curse words into your magnificent beak, mums settle carrier bags at tired wet feet delay for flashes of Hulk Hogan yellow beneath that...
Elijah MacBean
My Name is My Name Ami never let anyone call my sister Sam – it always had to be Samina. She said she’d rather be waterboarded than let her daughter be whitewashed by whites too conservative to spare the extra syllables. Ami never let anyone call...
Damen O’Brien
Driving on Old Roads The coastline’s smile is sharp with blackened teeth, seabird shelters, scarps, cutaways, broken reefs: the bloody mouth of a boxer who can’t be dropped, punch drunk with the brain’s purple pounding; stopped glaciers, slipped...
Gwil James Thomas
The Art of Walking Nowhere Terrestrial locomotion across concrete, the inverted pendulum, moving flesh and boot – the touchdown softened by slightly worn inner soles. Fascinated by gum stained slabs, I sidestep snails and ants and cut through the...
Royal Rhodes
Miles of Memory The passenger train along the Connecticut shoreline moves as if in a river of wooden ties and steel rails. It travels through the old industrial towns like Bridgeport, long ago a manufacturer of brass, and places settled in New...
Neil Elder
High Hopes There are blackbirds singing beautifully at dawn, Mozart and Shakespeare existed and that’s fine, but each morning, I pray a new miracle will find its way into existence; elephant birds discovered deep in Madagascar, a cure for six...
Jess Mookherjee Reviews ‘Pain Songs’ by Daniel Sluman
Maybe it is happiness / mistranslated. This book quietly rearranged what I thought poetry was for. What I initially mistook for simplicity in Sluman’s clear and rhythmic verse I later realised was an embodiment of endurance. Pain Songs (Nine Arches Press) is a...
Abegail Morley
Houseplant daughter (Non-melancholic depression) Tonight, my houseplant child asks about sunlight, brushes my arm as she stutters on the word, photosynthesis, raises her eyes to the bulb as if to say, Will that do? I keep the curtains shut all day...
Kathleen Gray
Liberty When she asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my mother laughed when I said ‘free’ She’s been dead for more than thirty years – not much freedom in her kitchen-sink life She settled for snatching time out, pausing with that dreamy...
Viv Fogel
At the End of the Class The young woman in a hijab thanked/praised/appreciated me For all I had shown/ encouraged/ inspired in her Asked whether I observed/ took part in/ celebrated Rosh Hashanah? How did she find out/ realise/ discover...
David Bernard
Bison I wrote the title of the lesson on the board and underlined it with a flourish. The class listened to my introduction. I could see that even Rachel’s eyes were waiting for what I would say next. I felt calm. The pile of marking on the desk...
Tracey Pearson
My bucket doesn’t have a list and it’s never been kicked Even on the really bad days when the mocking shine of its metal body has tempted my foot to make contact, something about this ambivalence carrier makes me take a beat and reconsider. Its...
Colin Pink
Masquerade I keep thinking I see you across the street, hurrying along, you’re too busy to see me. Strange, to think of the dead being busy, people to see, places to go, so many appointments in the calendar of eternity. I used to ‘see’ you when...
Lottie McCrindell
Daughters of Rain after Mijoda Dajomi’s Rain-harvesting Hats All summer the sun scorched the city and the sky held back its tears. Yesterday, in East London, a wildfire devoured nineteen homes, while the capital’s parks burnt to dust. Adrift in...
Helen Pletts and Romit Berger, Translated by Ma Yongbo
i chose the cat I placed my cold, white, thin fingers in the warm folds of catskin and hair but the cat spat and spoke dicer’s oaths, projecting catspittle through a small red toothless space, keeping one yellow pirate eye fixed on the hem of my...
Roz Doe
28th April 2015 The night before, I paced London’s streets sparkling and fizzing with ideas the pills used to dull and destroy. I felt awake, alive. Thoughts popped like fireworks, I couldn’t sleep for flashes and Bang! I solved a Pure Maths...
Iris Anne Lewis
Blodeuwedd ensorcelled by Gwydion And so I went into the owl. Eyes, green as moss, darken to black. Oak tassels spell-woven to feathers. A blossom-soft body wrath-scorches to brown. Broom flowers harden to bone, curve into beak, curl into talons....
Nairn Kennedy
Portrait You notice the nose: webbed veins spritzed with little flicks of red, purple blotches daubed with a palette-knife, broken ends where blood-vessels gave up the ghost. You see the waistcoat bristling Harris Tweed, the label peeking out just...