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

Brian Kirk

That was the time you caught
the mumps and I was half
afraid I’d catch it too.

Dawn Sands

Walking home from the lecture on Frankenstein
through the November mizzle, small breaths of exhaust
sighing in the twilight headlights, particles of wet air commingling.

Ken Evans

    Octopus I am one Like short of being beautiful. Five hundred more Followers, I’m away to fight culture wars. I Block two for lies Quora does not verify. Counter-factuals are ok, there’s simmering wastelands to make out of vague, but someone sent a shroom Emoji I do not understand the meaning of, though all Emojis are cuckoo spit on new pasture. I love the chaste, hard summaries of AI, all-knowing and naive as the christchild, a friend, reading headlines in bathwater we share and if viewed from beyond the bathroom door, it’s hard to say where one green, suckering leg ends and another begins. We are like octopus in small crevices the oceans flow through to gyrate, moil us.     Ken Evans’ collection, 'A Full-on Basso Profundo' (Salt) published 2025. He won the Kent & Sussex; runner-up, Daily Telegraph and AUB; commended, Cafe Writer's. Poems in Magma, Poetry Scotland, Acumen, UtR.

Mary Mulholland

It doesn’t trust paper. It writes itself
in my head where no one can reach it,
laugh, tear it to shreds, or
call it a waste of space, a disgrace.

Afolabi Ezra 

It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.

Previously featured

Robert Hirschfield

      Water & Mud   The water in its lonely bowl beneath your bed, drawn from where? You were drawn from the mud in January. From the mud.     Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based poet and writer about poetry. He has been widely...

read more

Anne Symons

      Building a fire My mother is kneeling by the hearth tearing strips from the West Briton rolling them round her fingers. I see the Penroses had their Silver Wedding. She lays the twisted paper criss-cross in the grate, newspaper ink smudges her...

read more

Recent Prose

Layla Sabourian

We were happy people once. Not naïve, just animated, social, alive. We gathered constantly. We danced at weddings, at birthdays, at no occasion at all.

Joel Shelley

Dr Summers presses the ignition and the machine whirs to life.

Surmaya Talyarkhan

I first heard of aphantasia in a writing workshop – a poet told us she didn’t see visual images in her head. I had always thought everyone didn’t.

Louella Lester

When Mom flew off with the Canada geese you made me promise that we would never leave one another.

Jo Bardsley

The little piece of newspaper, crisp and dark with age, flutters out of the gritty space between the fridge and the cabinet. I am cleaning the house while my wife is at school and at first I don’t understand.

Recent Haiku

Roger Robinson

We walk from cane fields,
cotton in our nightshirts, sweet

Wayne F. Burke

faces on a school bus:
petals of flowers
unopened

Debbie Strange

midnight sun
a polar bear’s breath
catches fire

Debbie Strange

winterberry
the first holiday
alone

On the Fifth Day of Christmas we bring you John Greening, Finola Scott, Philip Dunkerley

today, Christmas Eve,
my granddaughter visiting
her bright eyes – her faith

News

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Word & Image

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Filmpoems

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Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

Brian Kirk

That was the time you caught
the mumps and I was half
afraid I’d catch it too.

Dawn Sands

Walking home from the lecture on Frankenstein
through the November mizzle, small breaths of exhaust
sighing in the twilight headlights, particles of wet air commingling.

Ken Evans

    Octopus I am one Like short of being beautiful. Five hundred more Followers, I’m away to fight culture wars. I Block two for lies Quora does not verify. Counter-factuals are ok, there’s simmering wastelands to make out of vague, but someone sent a shroom Emoji I do not understand the meaning of, though all Emojis are cuckoo spit on new pasture. I love the chaste, hard summaries of AI, all-knowing and naive as the christchild, a friend, reading headlines in bathwater we share and if viewed from beyond the bathroom door, it’s hard to say where one green, suckering leg ends and another begins. We are like octopus in small crevices the oceans flow through to gyrate, moil us.     Ken Evans’ collection, 'A Full-on Basso Profundo' (Salt) published 2025. He won the Kent & Sussex; runner-up, Daily Telegraph and AUB; commended, Cafe Writer's. Poems in Magma, Poetry Scotland, Acumen, UtR.

Mary Mulholland

It doesn’t trust paper. It writes itself
in my head where no one can reach it,
laugh, tear it to shreds, or
call it a waste of space, a disgrace.

Afolabi Ezra 

It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.

News

No Results Found

The page you requested could not be found. Try refining your search, or use the navigation above to locate the post.

Word & Image

No Results Found

The page you requested could not be found. Try refining your search, or use the navigation above to locate the post.

Filmpoems

No Results Found

The page you requested could not be found. Try refining your search, or use the navigation above to locate the post.

Previously featured

Robert Hirschfield

      Water & Mud   The water in its lonely bowl beneath your bed, drawn from where? You were drawn from the mud in January. From the mud.     Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based poet and writer about poetry. He has been widely...

read more

Anne Symons

      Building a fire My mother is kneeling by the hearth tearing strips from the West Briton rolling them round her fingers. I see the Penroses had their Silver Wedding. She lays the twisted paper criss-cross in the grate, newspaper ink smudges her...

read more

Recent Prose

Layla Sabourian

We were happy people once. Not naïve, just animated, social, alive. We gathered constantly. We danced at weddings, at birthdays, at no occasion at all.

Joel Shelley

Dr Summers presses the ignition and the machine whirs to life.

Surmaya Talyarkhan

I first heard of aphantasia in a writing workshop – a poet told us she didn’t see visual images in her head. I had always thought everyone didn’t.

Louella Lester

When Mom flew off with the Canada geese you made me promise that we would never leave one another.

Jo Bardsley

The little piece of newspaper, crisp and dark with age, flutters out of the gritty space between the fridge and the cabinet. I am cleaning the house while my wife is at school and at first I don’t understand.

Recent Haiku

Roger Robinson

We walk from cane fields,
cotton in our nightshirts, sweet

Wayne F. Burke

faces on a school bus:
petals of flowers
unopened

Debbie Strange

midnight sun
a polar bear’s breath
catches fire

Debbie Strange

winterberry
the first holiday
alone

On the Fifth Day of Christmas we bring you John Greening, Finola Scott, Philip Dunkerley

today, Christmas Eve,
my granddaughter visiting
her bright eyes – her faith

Picks of the Month

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Reviews

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