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

John Chinaka Onyeche

      Portrait of a country   What is your country in a definition? When the first ship anchored on the shore of the Atlantic. My country became an experiment of - forced marriage. As with guns, plough and religious wars, they wedded three adults without their consent. For the interests of the king; queen and her cabinets - Marriage was initiated by the crown over the subjects. In another version of my country, we were never ready, To govern ourselves but the sceptre was thrown out; Those who are qualified thought it was a trap and They withdraw from going for the thrown out power - And those who are not fit grabbed it in tyranny. In my country, we know the truth but we are baptised with lies and we better be born again to know the truth. We are sugar coaters; coating our bad leaders with praises; For the evil that they do each day, we loved them because, We have been submerged into the deep seas of suffering. - Looking back is considered cowardice instead of...

Sapphire Allard

      Memory of Water  When you told me once that grief comes in waves, were you referring to your own death? All of us still living trying to dissect our own meaning as if it were pooled in our hands, slipping through the cracks of our fingers. Perhaps you meant to suggest that memories are waves crashing into each other. But have you ever tried to disentangle water from water?  Lives are like that too. The writer in me wants to narrate a full circle, create it neatly, preserve its meaning in certainty. But I will not be the colonizer of your life. How ridiculous to fabricate         borders in the ocean. Yes, if I can curate anything it will be my own trust in this wild unknown. Anyway, all this to say let the waves take me. I am strong enough to swim.   Sapphire Allard is a creative writing tutor living in sunny Eastbourne. Her work has been published in The Kent Review, Lucent Dreaming and Ambit and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. She can be found at...

Jake Wild Hall

      Alanis Morissette small dark speck on the window looks at me says you are lonely small dark speck on the window laughs says you are surrounded by joy small dark speck on the window stares at me how it stares small dark speck on the window refuses to go away although i scrub yes i scrub tell my hands bleed small dark speck becomes smudge small dark smudge on the window small dark smudge becomes smear small dark smear on the window small dark smear becomes window small dark window small dark window becomes house small dark house small dark house becomes me small dark me in the corner tea goes cold on the window sill i ask Alanis Morissette the meaning of irony haha she says and disappears i turn my phone on and immediately hate myself i turn it off no thats a lie i have fallen down the hole like Alice i am drink me size in my stomach     Jake Wild Hall is one half of Bad Betty Press, the founder of OOIPP fest, one fifth of Boomerang Club and winner of the...

Anne East

      Golden Shovel after Gwendolyn Brooks ‘We real cool’ A tribute to Khadija Saye 1992 – 2017 Gambian-British artist and photographer She bubbles laughter and we are captivated, caught by real joy in her happiness. So cool – I’m an artist! Rock my blessings. We watch images emerge, rituals left behind, corn-row crowns at school. Dwelling in this space we breathe. Shadows lurk in liquid and form too late for us to understand. We cannot ask her now. From strike to blaze the fire burned straight through twenty floors. We watch destruction. Sing our sadness, talk of sin and retribution: thin lipped councillors who drink their gin and give no answers when we ask, Why did Khadija die? Jazz notes echo in a blackened June Pray for me, it’s in my room. We watch her promise die too soon.     Anne Symons began writing poetry in 2015 at the age of 70. Her work has appeared in a range of poetry publications, both online and print. She has recently completed an MA in...

Andrew Blair

      I want/do not want my daddy He is screaming and crying and wants Me and doesn’t Want me And is not sore and does not want medicine But does not want to stay In bed or get out of bed or go Downstairs or to the window And wants me to go away and come back And doesn’t want carried but doesn’t want down but wants To wriggle free and I sing I sing increasingly tenuous verses Of Wheels on the bus And try to keep my voice calm Unbroken And I sing And list things we can see And he tells mummy to go away And I sing And his cries feel less like failing and we know He could shatter at any minute And our hearts race And we will never ever know the reasons he was screaming     Andrew Blair is a writer and performer based in Edinburgh. He co-produced Poetry Shows and podcasts with Ross McCleary under the name ‘Poetry as Fuck’. His pamphlet ’The R-Pattz Fact 2020’ was published by Speculative Books.

Previously featured

Jaden Pierce

      Bath Soak me in an acid bath As I seek to test my limits For pain I do not fear And want to conquer Like the great warriors who have Come before me Performing magnificent feats Showing mind over muscle Sitting in the midst of a blaze Yet calm and...

read more

Jamie Woods

      PTSD / IET Guidance Notes for Registered Electricians Too many residual memory devices Trip again, over and over Breaking circuits with synaptic transmission Neurons activating Molotov cocktails She says:             Love yourself Be kind to...

read more

Recent Prose

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...

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,...

Recent Haiku

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...

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...

News

Word & Image

Video Channel

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

John Chinaka Onyeche

      Portrait of a country   What is your country in a definition? When the first ship anchored on the shore of the Atlantic. My country became an experiment of - forced marriage. As with guns, plough and religious wars, they wedded three adults without their consent. For the interests of the king; queen and her cabinets - Marriage was initiated by the crown over the subjects. In another version of my country, we were never ready, To govern ourselves but the sceptre was thrown out; Those who are qualified thought it was a trap and They withdraw from going for the thrown out power - And those who are not fit grabbed it in tyranny. In my country, we know the truth but we are baptised with lies and we better be born again to know the truth. We are sugar coaters; coating our bad leaders with praises; For the evil that they do each day, we loved them because, We have been submerged into the deep seas of suffering. - Looking back is considered cowardice instead of...

Sapphire Allard

      Memory of Water  When you told me once that grief comes in waves, were you referring to your own death? All of us still living trying to dissect our own meaning as if it were pooled in our hands, slipping through the cracks of our fingers. Perhaps you meant to suggest that memories are waves crashing into each other. But have you ever tried to disentangle water from water?  Lives are like that too. The writer in me wants to narrate a full circle, create it neatly, preserve its meaning in certainty. But I will not be the colonizer of your life. How ridiculous to fabricate         borders in the ocean. Yes, if I can curate anything it will be my own trust in this wild unknown. Anyway, all this to say let the waves take me. I am strong enough to swim.   Sapphire Allard is a creative writing tutor living in sunny Eastbourne. Her work has been published in The Kent Review, Lucent Dreaming and Ambit and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. She can be found at...

Jake Wild Hall

      Alanis Morissette small dark speck on the window looks at me says you are lonely small dark speck on the window laughs says you are surrounded by joy small dark speck on the window stares at me how it stares small dark speck on the window refuses to go away although i scrub yes i scrub tell my hands bleed small dark speck becomes smudge small dark smudge on the window small dark smudge becomes smear small dark smear on the window small dark smear becomes window small dark window small dark window becomes house small dark house small dark house becomes me small dark me in the corner tea goes cold on the window sill i ask Alanis Morissette the meaning of irony haha she says and disappears i turn my phone on and immediately hate myself i turn it off no thats a lie i have fallen down the hole like Alice i am drink me size in my stomach     Jake Wild Hall is one half of Bad Betty Press, the founder of OOIPP fest, one fifth of Boomerang Club and winner of the...

Anne East

      Golden Shovel after Gwendolyn Brooks ‘We real cool’ A tribute to Khadija Saye 1992 – 2017 Gambian-British artist and photographer She bubbles laughter and we are captivated, caught by real joy in her happiness. So cool – I’m an artist! Rock my blessings. We watch images emerge, rituals left behind, corn-row crowns at school. Dwelling in this space we breathe. Shadows lurk in liquid and form too late for us to understand. We cannot ask her now. From strike to blaze the fire burned straight through twenty floors. We watch destruction. Sing our sadness, talk of sin and retribution: thin lipped councillors who drink their gin and give no answers when we ask, Why did Khadija die? Jazz notes echo in a blackened June Pray for me, it’s in my room. We watch her promise die too soon.     Anne Symons began writing poetry in 2015 at the age of 70. Her work has appeared in a range of poetry publications, both online and print. She has recently completed an MA in...

Andrew Blair

      I want/do not want my daddy He is screaming and crying and wants Me and doesn’t Want me And is not sore and does not want medicine But does not want to stay In bed or get out of bed or go Downstairs or to the window And wants me to go away and come back And doesn’t want carried but doesn’t want down but wants To wriggle free and I sing I sing increasingly tenuous verses Of Wheels on the bus And try to keep my voice calm Unbroken And I sing And list things we can see And he tells mummy to go away And I sing And his cries feel less like failing and we know He could shatter at any minute And our hearts race And we will never ever know the reasons he was screaming     Andrew Blair is a writer and performer based in Edinburgh. He co-produced Poetry Shows and podcasts with Ross McCleary under the name ‘Poetry as Fuck’. His pamphlet ’The R-Pattz Fact 2020’ was published by Speculative Books.

News

Word & Image

Video Channel

Previously featured

Jaden Pierce

      Bath Soak me in an acid bath As I seek to test my limits For pain I do not fear And want to conquer Like the great warriors who have Come before me Performing magnificent feats Showing mind over muscle Sitting in the midst of a blaze Yet calm and...

read more

Jamie Woods

      PTSD / IET Guidance Notes for Registered Electricians Too many residual memory devices Trip again, over and over Breaking circuits with synaptic transmission Neurons activating Molotov cocktails She says:             Love yourself Be kind to...

read more

Recent Prose

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...

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,...

Recent Haiku

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...

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...

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