Ink Sweat & Tears is a UK based webzine which publishes and reviews poetry, prose, prose-poetry, word & image pieces and everything in between. Our tastes are eclectic and magpie-like and we aim to publish something new every day.

We try to keep waiting-time short, but because of increased submissions, the current waiting time between submission and publication is around twelve weeks.

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Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Frank Dullaghan

      Giraffes It’s the way the dark between stars is filled with light that may never reach us. It’s the way our local Running Man is accompanied by his imaginary friend who keeps up a lively conversation. It’s the way my one-year-old grandson looks at me sometimes, as if he knows more than he will ever remember. It’s the way a vivid dream can take me over, so that on waking I must find a quiet place to stay within its landscape. It’s the way a poem will sometimes write itself, leave me wondering where it came from. It’s the way, before rain, there’s a moment of silence that shushes the world for the coming downpour. It’s the way, after rain, my sense of smell is enhanced, and I get to know the earth, cement, grass, in a more intimate manner. It’s the way walking in a wood will heal, will slow the rush of the body to its end. It’s the way giraffes are silent creatures until left to the night, when they will hum secretly to each other. Mostly, it’s the way I don’t know...

Gemma Harland

      Déjà Vu   Once more I'm caught on the sly hook of your voice and hauled out gasping into a toxic world. Lifetimes billow and vanish like haunted clouds: I race through the woods, but your word-arrows find me; I soar overhead, you shoot me down with a glance. The end is always the same. Gutted, cooked and carved, I'm served up steaming on your table. The inexhaustible banquet, your cut-and-come-again daughter.     Gemma Harland lives with her family in the lost Yorkshire town of Cheswich. She is currently working with singer-songwriter Alistair Cumberford (of the band Real PD) and Texan artist-animator Joseph Devens to bring her poems to life in different media.   https://www.facebook.com/Gemma-Harland-poems-319189402106183

Harlan Yarbrough

      An Orphan’s Progress               Geoffroy, no longer young and a man of importance, could have ridden in a luxurious coach.  He chose to walk, because he enjoyed walking.  If Zarafa was going to walk he would walk with her.  No strolling, though—her long legs would require his most vigorous stride.             Fond of Zarafa, Geoffroy fancied she had grown fond of him, too.  He walked a lot, often in exotic and uninhabited places, but five hundred miles would test his stamina.  He and his beautiful companion, accompanied by a well-supplied retinue, would be cosseted.  She had already walked farther than they would walk together, and he looked forward to sharing this last part of her journey.             They made landfall on Tuesday, the 31st of October.  All passengers went ashore for their first night back on terra firma.  After the shortest possible obligatory ceremony, Geoffroy and Zarafa retired to their respective quarters and avoided the public...

Hassan Melehy

      Doctrinal Shuffle In the nakedness of civic planning a few secular aims overwhelm whatever any god could have deemed the key components of human subsistence— none of us knew what was coming next, not being privy to the lofty paper-pushing that informs such distilled machinations. But a sense of brotherhood issued an imprint of unity and so kept enough of us content and out of the way. The next step wasn’t clear but conditions were ripe—since it didn’t completely crush anyone the ground was laid for proceeding into thicknesses none had the basic skills to sift through, so we decided to just leave it on its own.   Hassan Melehy lived all over the United States before settling in North Carolina in 2004. His poems have appeared in The Hat, nthposition, and Prelude, among other journals. His first collection, A Modest Apocalypse, was published by Eyewear in 2017.

Neil Fulwood

      PHEW! WHAT A SCORCHER Headlines regurgitate last year’s “hottest since whenever” claims, two-page spreads bulked out with photos of lolly-guzzling toddlers, sun-worshippers already reddened and some TikTok wannabe in a string bikini. Meanwhile, back in the real world, most of us are squashed into nuclear reactors cunningly disguised as family hatchbacks, sweating through the commute to our own cubicle-sized portions of the ninth circle of hell: Dilbert as the wicked witch of the workplace, melting … melting … what a world!     Neil Fulwood has published three collections with Shoestring Press, No Avoiding It, Can’t Take Me Anywhere and Service Cancelled. His new collection, Mad Parade, published by Smokestack Books, is a volume of political satires. Neil lives and works in Nottingham.

Previously featured

Hassan Melehy

      Doctrinal Shuffle In the nakedness of civic planning a few secular aims overwhelm whatever any god could have deemed the key components of human subsistence— none of us knew what was coming next, not being privy to the lofty paper-pushing that...

read more

Neil Fulwood

      PHEW! WHAT A SCORCHER Headlines regurgitate last year’s “hottest since whenever” claims, two-page spreads bulked out with photos of lolly-guzzling toddlers, sun-worshippers already reddened and some TikTok wannabe in a string bikini. Meanwhile,...

read more

Recent Prose

Harlan Yarbrough

      An Orphan’s Progress               Geoffroy, no longer young and a man of importance, could have ridden in a luxurious coach.  He chose to walk, because he enjoyed walking.  If Zarafa was going to walk he would walk with...

Michael Forester for National Flash Fiction Day

      Fallen Hero   First furloughed, then declared redundant by the Justice League, he is asked to hand back his cape and boots. His instinct is to seek immediate solace in the Fortress of Solitude, but it has floated away on a...

Meg Pokrass 

      The Forest This has something to do with the adoption of that unwanted animal, right there in the living room. Her husband watching telly, drinking beer, not looking at the animal dancing around. The animal gazing into her...

Kate Rigby

      You’ve got a pop belly, mama. Like when you had that baby. It’s a pot belly, she said. And there was no baby. I thought it was pop, because babies just pop out. She didn’t say any more, though when I was very little she said I...

Sufia Hayat

      The List In The Brain   This was a special day, Rabia knew it. She had to wake at least an hour earlier than usual. It was special for her too, because today, Saleema had promised to give her salary along with arrears. She...

Recent Haiku

Chen-ou Liu

      sky, sea and sand ... in light and palm shadow old dog and me * a face in the care home window sliver of moon * obituaries circled in his week-old newspaper ... deep winter * dipping in the mountain lake me and spring moon *...

Christine Eales

      shallow breathing the pulse of the moon haunts me still * how heavy the scent of rain longing for home * between clouds the blue notes of a skylark * past midnight she rocks her new doll to sleep     Christine Eales...

Meg Arnot

      * her black eye . . . red scarf muffles the sting of the north wind * muddy gaiters – Coniston Water in my wardrobe * lamb in the talons of a white-tailed eagle time of the tide     Meg Arnot’s haiku/senryu and tanka...

Anthony Lusardi

      winter sunset— how he says “young” after telling his long age     Anthony Lusardi lives in Rockaway, NJ, where he works with the night crew at a Costco store. His poetry has been published in various prints, including...

Daya Bhat

      * first rain- puddling up to gather the sky * midnight parade on my wall, insomniac car lights * still holding her own among the who’s who - crescent moon     Daya Bhat from Bangalore, India enjoys writing free verse...

News

Word & Image

Debbie Strange

Debbie Strange

        "Goodbye" - An original photograph, overpainted and embellished with natural and digital...

read more

Video Channel

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Frank Dullaghan

      Giraffes It’s the way the dark between stars is filled with light that may never reach us. It’s the way our local Running Man is accompanied by his imaginary friend who keeps up a lively conversation. It’s the way my one-year-old grandson looks at me sometimes, as if he knows more than he will ever remember. It’s the way a vivid dream can take me over, so that on waking I must find a quiet place to stay within its landscape. It’s the way a poem will sometimes write itself, leave me wondering where it came from. It’s the way, before rain, there’s a moment of silence that shushes the world for the coming downpour. It’s the way, after rain, my sense of smell is enhanced, and I get to know the earth, cement, grass, in a more intimate manner. It’s the way walking in a wood will heal, will slow the rush of the body to its end. It’s the way giraffes are silent creatures until left to the night, when they will hum secretly to each other. Mostly, it’s the way I don’t know...

Gemma Harland

      Déjà Vu   Once more I'm caught on the sly hook of your voice and hauled out gasping into a toxic world. Lifetimes billow and vanish like haunted clouds: I race through the woods, but your word-arrows find me; I soar overhead, you shoot me down with a glance. The end is always the same. Gutted, cooked and carved, I'm served up steaming on your table. The inexhaustible banquet, your cut-and-come-again daughter.     Gemma Harland lives with her family in the lost Yorkshire town of Cheswich. She is currently working with singer-songwriter Alistair Cumberford (of the band Real PD) and Texan artist-animator Joseph Devens to bring her poems to life in different media.   https://www.facebook.com/Gemma-Harland-poems-319189402106183

Harlan Yarbrough

      An Orphan’s Progress               Geoffroy, no longer young and a man of importance, could have ridden in a luxurious coach.  He chose to walk, because he enjoyed walking.  If Zarafa was going to walk he would walk with her.  No strolling, though—her long legs would require his most vigorous stride.             Fond of Zarafa, Geoffroy fancied she had grown fond of him, too.  He walked a lot, often in exotic and uninhabited places, but five hundred miles would test his stamina.  He and his beautiful companion, accompanied by a well-supplied retinue, would be cosseted.  She had already walked farther than they would walk together, and he looked forward to sharing this last part of her journey.             They made landfall on Tuesday, the 31st of October.  All passengers went ashore for their first night back on terra firma.  After the shortest possible obligatory ceremony, Geoffroy and Zarafa retired to their respective quarters and avoided the public...

Hassan Melehy

      Doctrinal Shuffle In the nakedness of civic planning a few secular aims overwhelm whatever any god could have deemed the key components of human subsistence— none of us knew what was coming next, not being privy to the lofty paper-pushing that informs such distilled machinations. But a sense of brotherhood issued an imprint of unity and so kept enough of us content and out of the way. The next step wasn’t clear but conditions were ripe—since it didn’t completely crush anyone the ground was laid for proceeding into thicknesses none had the basic skills to sift through, so we decided to just leave it on its own.   Hassan Melehy lived all over the United States before settling in North Carolina in 2004. His poems have appeared in The Hat, nthposition, and Prelude, among other journals. His first collection, A Modest Apocalypse, was published by Eyewear in 2017.

Neil Fulwood

      PHEW! WHAT A SCORCHER Headlines regurgitate last year’s “hottest since whenever” claims, two-page spreads bulked out with photos of lolly-guzzling toddlers, sun-worshippers already reddened and some TikTok wannabe in a string bikini. Meanwhile, back in the real world, most of us are squashed into nuclear reactors cunningly disguised as family hatchbacks, sweating through the commute to our own cubicle-sized portions of the ninth circle of hell: Dilbert as the wicked witch of the workplace, melting … melting … what a world!     Neil Fulwood has published three collections with Shoestring Press, No Avoiding It, Can’t Take Me Anywhere and Service Cancelled. His new collection, Mad Parade, published by Smokestack Books, is a volume of political satires. Neil lives and works in Nottingham.

News

Word & Image

Debbie Strange

Debbie Strange

        "Goodbye" - An original photograph, overpainted and embellished with natural and digital...

read more

Video Channel

Previously featured

Hassan Melehy

      Doctrinal Shuffle In the nakedness of civic planning a few secular aims overwhelm whatever any god could have deemed the key components of human subsistence— none of us knew what was coming next, not being privy to the lofty paper-pushing that...

read more

Neil Fulwood

      PHEW! WHAT A SCORCHER Headlines regurgitate last year’s “hottest since whenever” claims, two-page spreads bulked out with photos of lolly-guzzling toddlers, sun-worshippers already reddened and some TikTok wannabe in a string bikini. Meanwhile,...

read more

Recent Prose

Harlan Yarbrough

      An Orphan’s Progress               Geoffroy, no longer young and a man of importance, could have ridden in a luxurious coach.  He chose to walk, because he enjoyed walking.  If Zarafa was going to walk he would walk with...

Michael Forester for National Flash Fiction Day

      Fallen Hero   First furloughed, then declared redundant by the Justice League, he is asked to hand back his cape and boots. His instinct is to seek immediate solace in the Fortress of Solitude, but it has floated away on a...

Meg Pokrass 

      The Forest This has something to do with the adoption of that unwanted animal, right there in the living room. Her husband watching telly, drinking beer, not looking at the animal dancing around. The animal gazing into her...

Kate Rigby

      You’ve got a pop belly, mama. Like when you had that baby. It’s a pot belly, she said. And there was no baby. I thought it was pop, because babies just pop out. She didn’t say any more, though when I was very little she said I...

Sufia Hayat

      The List In The Brain   This was a special day, Rabia knew it. She had to wake at least an hour earlier than usual. It was special for her too, because today, Saleema had promised to give her salary along with arrears. She...

Recent Haiku

Chen-ou Liu

      sky, sea and sand ... in light and palm shadow old dog and me * a face in the care home window sliver of moon * obituaries circled in his week-old newspaper ... deep winter * dipping in the mountain lake me and spring moon *...

Christine Eales

      shallow breathing the pulse of the moon haunts me still * how heavy the scent of rain longing for home * between clouds the blue notes of a skylark * past midnight she rocks her new doll to sleep     Christine Eales...

Meg Arnot

      * her black eye . . . red scarf muffles the sting of the north wind * muddy gaiters – Coniston Water in my wardrobe * lamb in the talons of a white-tailed eagle time of the tide     Meg Arnot’s haiku/senryu and tanka...

Anthony Lusardi

      winter sunset— how he says “young” after telling his long age     Anthony Lusardi lives in Rockaway, NJ, where he works with the night crew at a Costco store. His poetry has been published in various prints, including...

Daya Bhat

      * first rain- puddling up to gather the sky * midnight parade on my wall, insomniac car lights * still holding her own among the who’s who - crescent moon     Daya Bhat from Bangalore, India enjoys writing free verse...

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