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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

Rosie Hadden

      The sisters of stone wend their way in a line one after another the sisters of stone walk across the hollow lake quieten their legs on the dry drowned bridge listening they prayer their fingertips around the cupped whim stones that hold neither...

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John Grey

      Proposal Oh yes, I can still rise with the best of them, sink with the worst. I can play my violin outside your door as easily as spit on your roses. How would you like your jazz? Perfectly syncopated or horribly atonal? I got the sun in the...

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Helen Moore reviews ‘Federal Gods’ by Clare Saponia

Federal Gods by Clare Saponia Palewell Press (112 pages of poetry) Clare Saponia’s reputation for radically engaged poetry, characterised by a boldly provocative and satirical style, was already established with The Oranges of Revolution (Smokestack Books, 2015),...

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Jeff Friedman

      Breaking Bread with Strangers When the stranger came to my house, he brought bread. “Here,” he said, “You take it.” And then he sat down at the dinner table, waiting to be served. I placed the bread on a board. My wife brought in the brisket and...

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Susan Castillo Street

      Arpeggio I lie awake. Night presses down my eyes. A blackbird’s song scythes through the gloom, its silver corkscrew ripple reminding me the days are longer now.     Susan Castillo Street is Harriet Beecher Stowe Professor Emerita,...

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Jennifer A. McGowan

      The Fisherman King A man who lived alone worked in the city. One day, as he left the building, he heard a kkss underfoot. He looked down. He’d stepped on a crisp.. He sniffed. Cheese and onion. He ignored it and walked on. As he left the coffee...

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Salil Chaturvedi

      Pink Legs I want to be a bird she says Which one? I don’t know A small one With a strong voice One that likes to sing on summer afternoons Long nostalgic notes No, a single long nostalgic note, like sweeeeeeeeeeee That ends in a question...

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William Doreski

      Getting Away with It In the hardware store you tuck a chainsaw under your shirt and walk out grinning like a grill. In the pharmacy you glom handfuls of expensive pills and pocket them. In the bookstore you stand and read a book right through and...

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Robert Nisbet

      The Gamekeeper’s Son Unfortunately, Julian, you’ve missed the First World War. His history teacher, Mr. Perks, owlish, gentle, self-contained, welcomes him back from his illness. The boy’s attention has to leap from Sarajevo to the armistice. But...

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Ken Evans

      Climbing the Cage We climb the wire, one leg over the flash of a ‘Hazard’ sign, hide nothing but mums’ words: ‘If police get you, don’t call us.’ Portakabin opens with a chisel. The scatter of drill-bits by the on- switch, squeals of laughter,...

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David Colodney

    Pleasant Valley Sunday She’s a breeze beyond my white fence pastel-colored kite tailing behind, a blur of pinks & peaches & as she & her mom pass: we wave like neighbors who don’t know each other’s names. This little girl is six, maybe seven,...

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Rachael Smart

      The Holding The mute manager at the call centre where the operators sell lies sees a woman on Talbot Street sleeping on her tiptoes. She is arabesque, alert. He tells her all about the missold PPI, how she reminds him of the music box heroine from...

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Laura Strickland

      The Anniversary Every February I remember. I have it marked in my diary and sometimes I take annual leave but that’s not to say I don’t remember at other times - like when a song comes on or I’m buying magazines in the Co op and I’m back in that...

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Lucia Sellars

      Lucia Sellars plays with text, fine art and film. Her videopoems have been screened in Europe, UK, USA, Australia and Russia. The State of Moving is her recent poetry collection. Her artwork can be seen at www.luciasellars.org.

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Nick Browne

      The single woman’s toolbox It began with a claw hammer, for removing lingering doubt and to bludgeon home the point that Yes, I know my own mind and No is my final answer. I don’t need to ask a friend. The pliers came soon after, along with the...

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Penny Blackburn

    When the Saints Came We waited for them to heal us. Took them gifts of honey, a rabbit-skin bag. Showed them how to till and plant crops with foresight. How to sweeten bitter leaves by boiling. We helped them quarry rock, carve the blocks, stack them fit...

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John Tustin

      A Chapel in the Woods There is a chapel in the woods. We should have been married there. The vines and the growth overcoming the building Except for the doors that would open to welcome us. There is a cabin in the woods. We should have lived there...

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Sally St Clair

      'Once Upon a May Day Morning, a Father Takes His Three Daughters on a Greenline Bus Deep Into the Green Rolling Countryside of Kent.' He packs a picnic, hard boiled eggs with the shell still on to protect them, tomatoes, crisps, ham sandwiches....

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Robin Lindsay Wilson

      Basic Anthropology You liked to break trees, one dry branch at a time, and test your full weight against the centuries inside. When the tree was gone, you longed for witnesses to understand your regret. You liked to burn books in a random sequence...

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Peter Eustace

      Eight hundred and four full moons I do not – cannot – quite recall How many full moons I actually have or haven’t seen, How many I have missed, So intent on the business of this world, Its instants and circumstances. Put it like this: I only...

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