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.

IS&T Shop

Buy Ink Sweat & Tears Publishing books and pamphlets here.

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Helen Frances

Grief I wasn’t in, so she left me a note. Each word a tangle of broken ends, some oddly linked to the next with a ghost trail of ink from her rose-gold marbled fountain pen, a rare indulgence she’d bought herself.   I think I’m about finished, the note began. Typical of her, that - starting at the end, I mean. As if no-one could be interested in what went before.   You’ll find I’ve left a heap of roots in the barrow bindweed and ground elder, mostly. You’ll want to burn them, I expect, but whatever you do, don’t put them in the compost. I nail her words to the garden fence and grief unmoors me.   Writing has always been part of Helen’s life, mostly on nature and philosophical themes. She lives in Somerset on the side of a hill, with views across aeons of geological history where small villages squat like tents at a festival.

Suzanne Scarfone

truth be told
part of me has lived
in this box of disquiet
for years and years
let’s see

 Julia Webb

Because a woman woke up
and her head had become a flower.

 Freyr Thorvaldsson

A candle eats away at air
At the same rate that we do

Konstandinos (Dino) Mahoney 

A teacher guides his pupils past headless marble torsos,
dusty cabinets of tiny Attic coins, pockmarked stylobates,
to a large clay pithos . . .

Previously featured

Maggie Brookes-Butt

For you, with your toddler bendiness,
the squat is a natural, easy position
while I hurt-strain, thinking of miners
crouched outside their front doors

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

Debbie Strange

Debbie Strange

Debbie Strange (Canada) is a chronically ill short-form poet and visual artist whose creative passions connect her more closely to the world and to herself. Thousands of her poems and artworks have been published internationally.

read more

Filmpoems

Janet Lees

Janet Lees

https://youtu.be/q0nStafY1GI Nine Moons  Physic The moon changes size Tonight it is small and high white and hard as a...

read more

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Helen Frances

Grief I wasn’t in, so she left me a note. Each word a tangle of broken ends, some oddly linked to the next with a ghost trail of ink from her rose-gold marbled fountain pen, a rare indulgence she’d bought herself.   I think I’m about finished, the note began. Typical of her, that - starting at the end, I mean. As if no-one could be interested in what went before.   You’ll find I’ve left a heap of roots in the barrow bindweed and ground elder, mostly. You’ll want to burn them, I expect, but whatever you do, don’t put them in the compost. I nail her words to the garden fence and grief unmoors me.   Writing has always been part of Helen’s life, mostly on nature and philosophical themes. She lives in Somerset on the side of a hill, with views across aeons of geological history where small villages squat like tents at a festival.

Suzanne Scarfone

truth be told
part of me has lived
in this box of disquiet
for years and years
let’s see

 Julia Webb

Because a woman woke up
and her head had become a flower.

 Freyr Thorvaldsson

A candle eats away at air
At the same rate that we do

Konstandinos (Dino) Mahoney 

A teacher guides his pupils past headless marble torsos,
dusty cabinets of tiny Attic coins, pockmarked stylobates,
to a large clay pithos . . .

News

Word & Image

Debbie Strange

Debbie Strange

Debbie Strange (Canada) is a chronically ill short-form poet and visual artist whose creative passions connect her more closely to the world and to herself. Thousands of her poems and artworks have been published internationally.

read more

Filmpoems

Janet Lees

Janet Lees

https://youtu.be/q0nStafY1GI Nine Moons  Physic The moon changes size Tonight it is small and high white and hard as a...

read more

Previously featured

Maggie Brookes-Butt

For you, with your toddler bendiness,
the squat is a natural, easy position
while I hurt-strain, thinking of miners
crouched outside their front doors

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