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.

If you have come here looking for more information on our ‘Uprising & Resistance’ Project in conjunction with Spread the Word and Black Beyond Data, please go here.

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Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

On the first day of Christmas, we bring you Hannah Linden, John White and Stephen Keeler

. . . Now the villages is
en fête: dressed for a party in the dark,
across the fields, along uneven paths . . .

Anna Chorlton

She curled emerald
tights about the core of
an oak
slumbering with thick bare
limbs.

John Greening

On Stage in a home-made model theatre, c.1967 Glued to your block, in paint and ink you wait for Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life to stop. Smell of hardboard and hot bakelite. The lino curtain’s ready to go up. At which, the straightened coat hanger is shoved and on you slide. A human voice offstage is made to match the way your cardboard’s moved. Sometimes you jiggle, sometimes you must edge towards another cut-out, who may boast a gimmick – moving eyes, a jerky arm or legs that high-kick. But the best is when the scene’s transformed behind you from princess’s castle to a magic forest glade, with coloured cellophane for atmosphere – that wooden lighting bar above your head those in the dark will gasp at, thinking: Fire... But all is well. Your last soliloquy has come, and no one’s parents left their seat. Applause. You’re clattered on so they can see the workmanship. Then everything goes flat. John Greening is a Bridport, Arvon and Cholmondeley winner with collections from Bloodaxe,...

Anna Bowles

Nothing bad can happen on a plane.
Engine fires, earache, hijackers; but no new grief.

Kirsty Fox

Winged     Kirsty Fox is a writer and artist specialising in ecopoetics. She writes lyric essays and poetry, and has had work published by Apricot Press, Arachne Press, and Streetcake Magazine. She has a Masters in Creative Writing and is currently studying for a PhD.

Previously featured

Jason Ryberg

Sometimes I’d swear that
the ancient box fan I’ve hauled
     around with me for
     years is a receiver for
     the conversations of ghosts

read more

Peter Wallis

Dead in a chest,
 are folded matinee jackets, bonnets, bootees and mitts.

Tissue sighs like the sea at Lowestoft,
   always Third week in August

read more

Recent Prose

Cliff McNish

Heaven For starters, the standard works everyone gets: three trumpets blown in unison; your name acclaimed to the galactic hegemony of stars; plus assorted angels with ceramically smooth hands (the nail-work!) casting wholesale quantities of petals...

Jesse Keng Sum Lee

Lloyd is dressed like a candy bar in an all-too-bright gas station. Gleaming red tracksuit,
brand name under the sternum like a label.

Kapka Nilan

When she left, the winds picked up and the bloated sun filled the horizon with fire, the sky turning ochre. She hurried in the heat, leaving behind what she called a tribe, not a homeland.

Jude Mason

I have compiled an incomplete list of the small and many forms of sadness that can be experienced by humans. The sadness of cracking the spine of a new book. The sadness of odd socks. The sadness of attempting to pet a cat, but the cat does not wish to be petted.

Fokkina McDonnell

I begged my boss to let me do the interview with the fire historian. I have form, I told him.

Recent Haiku

R.C. Thomas

The Universe dreamed I’d come to its restaurant. I needed to pass the time before my train home.

Anthony Lusardi

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting.

Chen-ou Liu

snow crystals
on my neighbor’s windows …
Foreclosure askew

& more

Shasta Hatter

Empty Basket

Driving down the boulevard, I see large trees decorated with pink and white blossoms, evergreens tower over houses, trees flourish with spring greenery.

Jayant Kashyap

We are in the bath, your hands
around my back, mine around yours—
everything covered in a fog.

News

Word & Image

Giulio R.M. Maffii

Giulio R.M. Maffii

1 There is one wondering what he will do he asks himself after passing a sliding door the bus stop in the rush hour in...

read more

Filmpoems

Jessamine O’Connor

Jessamine O’Connor

Nerve Music

Sometimes I’m jittery
like this jittering
nervousness appears
as a tremor from somewhere
distant far away inside
and I’m on edge

read more

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

On the first day of Christmas, we bring you Hannah Linden, John White and Stephen Keeler

. . . Now the villages is
en fête: dressed for a party in the dark,
across the fields, along uneven paths . . .

Anna Chorlton

She curled emerald
tights about the core of
an oak
slumbering with thick bare
limbs.

John Greening

On Stage in a home-made model theatre, c.1967 Glued to your block, in paint and ink you wait for Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life to stop. Smell of hardboard and hot bakelite. The lino curtain’s ready to go up. At which, the straightened coat hanger is shoved and on you slide. A human voice offstage is made to match the way your cardboard’s moved. Sometimes you jiggle, sometimes you must edge towards another cut-out, who may boast a gimmick – moving eyes, a jerky arm or legs that high-kick. But the best is when the scene’s transformed behind you from princess’s castle to a magic forest glade, with coloured cellophane for atmosphere – that wooden lighting bar above your head those in the dark will gasp at, thinking: Fire... But all is well. Your last soliloquy has come, and no one’s parents left their seat. Applause. You’re clattered on so they can see the workmanship. Then everything goes flat. John Greening is a Bridport, Arvon and Cholmondeley winner with collections from Bloodaxe,...

Anna Bowles

Nothing bad can happen on a plane.
Engine fires, earache, hijackers; but no new grief.

Kirsty Fox

Winged     Kirsty Fox is a writer and artist specialising in ecopoetics. She writes lyric essays and poetry, and has had work published by Apricot Press, Arachne Press, and Streetcake Magazine. She has a Masters in Creative Writing and is currently studying for a PhD.

News

Word & Image

Giulio R.M. Maffii

Giulio R.M. Maffii

1 There is one wondering what he will do he asks himself after passing a sliding door the bus stop in the rush hour in...

read more

Filmpoems

Jessamine O’Connor

Jessamine O’Connor

Nerve Music

Sometimes I’m jittery
like this jittering
nervousness appears
as a tremor from somewhere
distant far away inside
and I’m on edge

read more

Previously featured

Jason Ryberg

Sometimes I’d swear that
the ancient box fan I’ve hauled
     around with me for
     years is a receiver for
     the conversations of ghosts

read more

Peter Wallis

Dead in a chest,
 are folded matinee jackets, bonnets, bootees and mitts.

Tissue sighs like the sea at Lowestoft,
   always Third week in August

read more

Recent Prose

Cliff McNish

Heaven For starters, the standard works everyone gets: three trumpets blown in unison; your name acclaimed to the galactic hegemony of stars; plus assorted angels with ceramically smooth hands (the nail-work!) casting wholesale quantities of petals...

Jesse Keng Sum Lee

Lloyd is dressed like a candy bar in an all-too-bright gas station. Gleaming red tracksuit,
brand name under the sternum like a label.

Kapka Nilan

When she left, the winds picked up and the bloated sun filled the horizon with fire, the sky turning ochre. She hurried in the heat, leaving behind what she called a tribe, not a homeland.

Jude Mason

I have compiled an incomplete list of the small and many forms of sadness that can be experienced by humans. The sadness of cracking the spine of a new book. The sadness of odd socks. The sadness of attempting to pet a cat, but the cat does not wish to be petted.

Fokkina McDonnell

I begged my boss to let me do the interview with the fire historian. I have form, I told him.

Recent Haiku

R.C. Thomas

The Universe dreamed I’d come to its restaurant. I needed to pass the time before my train home.

Anthony Lusardi

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting.

Chen-ou Liu

snow crystals
on my neighbor’s windows …
Foreclosure askew

& more

Shasta Hatter

Empty Basket

Driving down the boulevard, I see large trees decorated with pink and white blossoms, evergreens tower over houses, trees flourish with spring greenery.

Jayant Kashyap

We are in the bath, your hands
around my back, mine around yours—
everything covered in a fog.

Picks of the Month

Reviews