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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

Samuel A. Adeyemi

    Without Blood I used to think that suffering, although injurious, makes a good story. You know how it goes. The more tortured the artist, the closer the body is to brilliance. I still do not know if this is a myth. But mostly, I do not care now. I still...

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Mofiyinfoluwa O.

    palm trees on the edge of farewell they are gathering seashells. the boy is shirtless and the girl is wearing a black dress that exposes broad shoulders soaking up the morning light. her hair tumbles a fiery orange down the length of her back. the same...

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Jonathan Edis

O What That Hand Could Tell       Jonathan Edis is a dad, international lecturer & osteopath in London. He’s a rep for Forest Hill Stanza, published by Ink Sweat & Tears, Green Ink Poetry & the AUB Poetry Prize. He loves cinema, history,...

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Chris Emery

    Truer Knowing nothing of him now except this: a log of sickness upon sickness embarrassing to dream. The boatyards west of reasonable shipping. The wars guessed at out beside the jetty – he abstains from something, shining buttons. But the rains keep...

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T. N. Kennedy

    Creators Where your ancestor collected bottles amber dark as bog-steeped river water swaddling them in peachy doll flesh putty studding them with countless periwinkles gorse yellow, sorrel orange, figwort brown lamp stands to cast a circle of low light...

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Mariah Whelan

      St Ann’s Square Manchester, 23rd May 2017 Because I cannot show you what is at the centre of all this I will lay language up to its edge, walk its edges the way I moved through the back of the crowd too afraid to go in. I had to shade my eyes from...

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Marissa Glover

    What Might Have Been There is a small white house high on a green hill just south of Scotland, an office bright with books and a window overlooking Magdalene, and somewhere on a dirt road between endless pastures of strong red fescue, is a man on a...

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Cherry Doyle

      / on the days / blood rushes at the corner of a nail / you cannot keep your jumper off the door handle / table tackles leg / expect the bruise in two days’ time / pansies nodding in speckles of rain / dish en route from dishwasher to shelf thinks...

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Jennie E. Owen

      Then tragedy makes children of us all and in that last moment the dead shrug, shake off their boots, shuffle off jackets and shirts, watch astounded as their dresses grow and drop to their feet. Their bags, their glasses, car keys and phones...

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Martin Figura for Mental Health Awareness Week

  This poem was sparked by my own care experience and more recent indirect involvement. The poem itself does not require analysis, beyond what lay behind me writing it. Two years ago I was invited by Lemn Sissay to be part of a feature in The Observer at the...

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Julie Stevens for Mental Health Awareness Week

      You Ask Me if I’ve Had a Nice Day Are these the words you want me to say about how my day became a raging river crashing through my bones? Its giant stones thumped my body like the fall of a hammer. Does that terrify you? Have you managed a day...

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Deborah Nash

                                 Wish Cycle     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’...

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Anna Brook

      on accident (for Adrienne Rich) I want to borrow gods (as Adrienne does, though she knew better) their sad logic their templates but there’s always a tell, no? a too close accuracy not confidently misremembered studied would you be disappointed...

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Nigel King

      Coal House Fort Turn the mud. Bo Peep’s head tumbles out, wide-eyed, mouth a little open. There’s no sign of her body, her crook, her flock. Perhaps they’re deeper in the riverbed, or washed down to Tilbury by the tide. Drop her into the wooden...

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