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

Sonia Burns

      Stash Your spaces silently narrow - slowly clogging arteries, plaque formed out of photographs, boxes stacked and shelves furred up, records, CDs, DVDs. Kitchen stuffed with cookery books, spiralisers, coffee machines and avocado-half-holders; although you only eat shop-bought sandwiches. You just-in-case curator of paperclip collections, plastic bags in plastic bags, kooky cat-themed accessories, shrewd car boot sale bargains, teaspoon souvenirs, steaming pot plant jungles and perfume bottles just for show; although nobody visits you now. Your screams of anguish smothered, by piles of tea towels, never used, sheepskin rugs and blankets, new clothes with the tags still on, threadbare vintage jackets, jazzy earrings sifting dust, designer trainers for that trendy hip hop look; although you don’t go out these days. You stent the walls with vague talk of sorting out and getting rid but you are crushed beneath it all, your breathing becomes agonal. Only the stuff of...

Sarah Crowe

      mary anning, fossil hunter she wore her dead sister’s name as a cloak to ward off the sea’s icy wrath trawled stony beaches sought curiosities with cut calloused hands chiselled and hammered jurassic rocks to display ammon’s horns, snakestones, devil’s fingers, verteberries she sold fossils to survive a landslide buried her dog she discovered temnodontosaurus, dimorphodon and plesiosaurus dinosaurs georgian gentlemen covered her name with theirs at the british museum a bad reflection at the british museum georgian gentlemen covered her name with theirs dinosaurs she discovered plesiosaurus, dimorphodon and temnodontosaurus a landslide unburied the first ichthyosaur she sold fossils to survive ammon’s horns, snakestones, devil’s fingers, verteberries to display chiselled and hammered jurassic rocks sought curiosities with cut calloused hands trawled stony beaches to ward off the sea’s icy wrath she wore her dead sister’s name as a cloak.     Sarah Crowe...

Topher Allen

      The Gods Are Addicts It’s better to be cremated, the only way to heaven is as smoke. Burials are the devil’s idea to harvest bones, to set them ablaze and raise hell. Volcanic eruptions are his failed attempts to ascend. Kerosene-lamps know this, throw one into a cane field, strike a match and watch it erupt into a flock of frightened crows. The Gods are addicts and the moon is a crystal ashtray; craters are where they press the tips of spliffs. The stars aren’t shards of a shattered sun, think of them as cigarettes at invisible lips. Perhaps bush fires are the Gods committing arson for a high.   Topher Allen is a poet and fiction writer from Clarendon, Jamaica. His work explores Jamaican geography and the island’s cultural and historical experiences. He is an Obsidian Foundation Fellow whose work appears in Montreal Writes, Pree, Poetry London, Magma, Ambit and elsewhere. Allen won the Poet Laureate of Jamaica: Louise Bennett-Coverley Prize in 2019 and was...

Andrea Holland

    How Young Bodies Work Grace…in that light was a promise of balance – Joy Harjo O timeline drop us here the moment you step from the subway on 23rd the boy spinning on his back / popping air O body sharpening skin into spin solo show staged on asphalt deep boombox as gospel / as call and response O instigator of moving level with the street insistence of beats joy on his face crowd around the B-boy / to see the freeze O spilling out of song spilling out the body at angles out in the open without pause / downrock not ever astray O living as we live never ready to stop O the shape of that moment A boy not seeing what he begins thank you balance thank you lightness thank you grace O the sound of breath without vibration is saying something without words it is the body saying look at what I can do it is synapse, reflex-wise noise not knowing just doing things naturally that here look unnatural in the spin flip freeze drop pause and we marvel at the body sharpening angles to...

Clare M Coombe

      In love with You played Kylie Minogue and Lady Gaga on vinyl, because it was on trend again, and not just for our dads, and we thought it was cool to know all the words to Judas, because we’d studied theology and we had PhDs. And we danced together in a way that was definitely not queer while our boyfriends smoked in the garden. We pretended to be adults, feeling like we were children, but knowing that we were adults, and in the morning it would matter. And we didn’t know the words then, not the words we knew later, only the words to the song, so we just sang to each other still in love with Judas. Judas. It would be years before I kissed you, and by then it would all be far too late.     Clare M Coombe (she/her) is a queer feminist writer of poetry and fiction, with a particular interest in mythology and the body. She lives in Kent, UK, with two cats, two rabbits, and a miniature dachshund called Gatsby....

Previously featured

Andrea Holland

    How Young Bodies Work Grace…in that light was a promise of balance – Joy Harjo O timeline drop us here the moment you step from the subway on 23rd the boy spinning on his back / popping air O body sharpening skin into spin solo show staged on asphalt...

read more

Clare M Coombe

      In love with You played Kylie Minogue and Lady Gaga on vinyl, because it was on trend again, and not just for our dads, and we thought it was cool to know all the words to Judas, because we’d studied theology and we had PhDs. And we danced...

read more

Recent Prose

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...

Charlie Hill

      Pulling together Yasmin and Josef lived on Laburnum Avenue, an unremarkable suburban street where the bins were emptied on time. Yasmin and Josef felt at home but when the form from the Be a Better Neighbour! campaign arrived,...

Michael Bloor

      The Ominous Sweetie-Jar Ever since he was 17, Angus had been saving the tiny hairs shaved from his chin by a succession of electric razors. Now, aged 67, he had one of those old-fashioned, large, glass, sweetie-jars almost full...

Rachel Wild

      Zina I remember your laugh, a cackle, irrepressible and sometimes never ending, echoing down the stairs. Wooden stairs, or were they covered in lino, scuffed by hundreds of feet up and down in that damaged old house. There were...

Recent Haiku

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...

Richa Sharma

      cold saturday i thank him for nothing * mother's house where i was born still moonlit * anniversary the missing years in our collage * where wildflowers are caretakers unvisited house * childless spring in my parking space an...

Emily Jo Scalzo

      camera obscura peels back layers of fossil a quest for answers * tree buds blossom fragrance permeates the air wash away the gray * the blowhards posture hiding behind platitudes spewing vitriol * sole crime: running yet the...

Samo Kreutz

      Haiku morning fog still recognizable children's laughter * winter begins no place in my notebook for revised resolutions * first snow her hair shines in a new colour     Samo Kreutz lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia....

News

Word & Image

Kate Rigby

Kate Rigby

      Hyperhidrosis     ephemeral tides of a faulty sweat-tap bits of rubbish wastepaper with...

read more

Video Channel

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Sonia Burns

      Stash Your spaces silently narrow - slowly clogging arteries, plaque formed out of photographs, boxes stacked and shelves furred up, records, CDs, DVDs. Kitchen stuffed with cookery books, spiralisers, coffee machines and avocado-half-holders; although you only eat shop-bought sandwiches. You just-in-case curator of paperclip collections, plastic bags in plastic bags, kooky cat-themed accessories, shrewd car boot sale bargains, teaspoon souvenirs, steaming pot plant jungles and perfume bottles just for show; although nobody visits you now. Your screams of anguish smothered, by piles of tea towels, never used, sheepskin rugs and blankets, new clothes with the tags still on, threadbare vintage jackets, jazzy earrings sifting dust, designer trainers for that trendy hip hop look; although you don’t go out these days. You stent the walls with vague talk of sorting out and getting rid but you are crushed beneath it all, your breathing becomes agonal. Only the stuff of...

Sarah Crowe

      mary anning, fossil hunter she wore her dead sister’s name as a cloak to ward off the sea’s icy wrath trawled stony beaches sought curiosities with cut calloused hands chiselled and hammered jurassic rocks to display ammon’s horns, snakestones, devil’s fingers, verteberries she sold fossils to survive a landslide buried her dog she discovered temnodontosaurus, dimorphodon and plesiosaurus dinosaurs georgian gentlemen covered her name with theirs at the british museum a bad reflection at the british museum georgian gentlemen covered her name with theirs dinosaurs she discovered plesiosaurus, dimorphodon and temnodontosaurus a landslide unburied the first ichthyosaur she sold fossils to survive ammon’s horns, snakestones, devil’s fingers, verteberries to display chiselled and hammered jurassic rocks sought curiosities with cut calloused hands trawled stony beaches to ward off the sea’s icy wrath she wore her dead sister’s name as a cloak.     Sarah Crowe...

Topher Allen

      The Gods Are Addicts It’s better to be cremated, the only way to heaven is as smoke. Burials are the devil’s idea to harvest bones, to set them ablaze and raise hell. Volcanic eruptions are his failed attempts to ascend. Kerosene-lamps know this, throw one into a cane field, strike a match and watch it erupt into a flock of frightened crows. The Gods are addicts and the moon is a crystal ashtray; craters are where they press the tips of spliffs. The stars aren’t shards of a shattered sun, think of them as cigarettes at invisible lips. Perhaps bush fires are the Gods committing arson for a high.   Topher Allen is a poet and fiction writer from Clarendon, Jamaica. His work explores Jamaican geography and the island’s cultural and historical experiences. He is an Obsidian Foundation Fellow whose work appears in Montreal Writes, Pree, Poetry London, Magma, Ambit and elsewhere. Allen won the Poet Laureate of Jamaica: Louise Bennett-Coverley Prize in 2019 and was...

Andrea Holland

    How Young Bodies Work Grace…in that light was a promise of balance – Joy Harjo O timeline drop us here the moment you step from the subway on 23rd the boy spinning on his back / popping air O body sharpening skin into spin solo show staged on asphalt deep boombox as gospel / as call and response O instigator of moving level with the street insistence of beats joy on his face crowd around the B-boy / to see the freeze O spilling out of song spilling out the body at angles out in the open without pause / downrock not ever astray O living as we live never ready to stop O the shape of that moment A boy not seeing what he begins thank you balance thank you lightness thank you grace O the sound of breath without vibration is saying something without words it is the body saying look at what I can do it is synapse, reflex-wise noise not knowing just doing things naturally that here look unnatural in the spin flip freeze drop pause and we marvel at the body sharpening angles to...

Clare M Coombe

      In love with You played Kylie Minogue and Lady Gaga on vinyl, because it was on trend again, and not just for our dads, and we thought it was cool to know all the words to Judas, because we’d studied theology and we had PhDs. And we danced together in a way that was definitely not queer while our boyfriends smoked in the garden. We pretended to be adults, feeling like we were children, but knowing that we were adults, and in the morning it would matter. And we didn’t know the words then, not the words we knew later, only the words to the song, so we just sang to each other still in love with Judas. Judas. It would be years before I kissed you, and by then it would all be far too late.     Clare M Coombe (she/her) is a queer feminist writer of poetry and fiction, with a particular interest in mythology and the body. She lives in Kent, UK, with two cats, two rabbits, and a miniature dachshund called Gatsby....

News

Word & Image

Kate Rigby

Kate Rigby

      Hyperhidrosis     ephemeral tides of a faulty sweat-tap bits of rubbish wastepaper with...

read more

Video Channel

Previously featured

Andrea Holland

    How Young Bodies Work Grace…in that light was a promise of balance – Joy Harjo O timeline drop us here the moment you step from the subway on 23rd the boy spinning on his back / popping air O body sharpening skin into spin solo show staged on asphalt...

read more

Clare M Coombe

      In love with You played Kylie Minogue and Lady Gaga on vinyl, because it was on trend again, and not just for our dads, and we thought it was cool to know all the words to Judas, because we’d studied theology and we had PhDs. And we danced...

read more

Recent Prose

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...

Charlie Hill

      Pulling together Yasmin and Josef lived on Laburnum Avenue, an unremarkable suburban street where the bins were emptied on time. Yasmin and Josef felt at home but when the form from the Be a Better Neighbour! campaign arrived,...

Michael Bloor

      The Ominous Sweetie-Jar Ever since he was 17, Angus had been saving the tiny hairs shaved from his chin by a succession of electric razors. Now, aged 67, he had one of those old-fashioned, large, glass, sweetie-jars almost full...

Rachel Wild

      Zina I remember your laugh, a cackle, irrepressible and sometimes never ending, echoing down the stairs. Wooden stairs, or were they covered in lino, scuffed by hundreds of feet up and down in that damaged old house. There were...

Recent Haiku

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...

Richa Sharma

      cold saturday i thank him for nothing * mother's house where i was born still moonlit * anniversary the missing years in our collage * where wildflowers are caretakers unvisited house * childless spring in my parking space an...

Emily Jo Scalzo

      camera obscura peels back layers of fossil a quest for answers * tree buds blossom fragrance permeates the air wash away the gray * the blowhards posture hiding behind platitudes spewing vitriol * sole crime: running yet the...

Samo Kreutz

      Haiku morning fog still recognizable children's laughter * winter begins no place in my notebook for revised resolutions * first snow her hair shines in a new colour     Samo Kreutz lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia....

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