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Sinéad Morrissey wins European Poet of Freedom 2020
We're overjoyed to share the news that Sinéad Morrissey has been honored with the Gdansk’s European Poet of Freedom Literary Award 2020 for the volume On Balance translated by Magda Heydel! read more
John McAuliffe Appointed as Carcanet's Associate Publisher
Carcanet Press announces the appointment of the Irish poet John McAuliffe to the role of Associate Publisher for a period of six months from 1 August. read more
McCarthy Woolf and Clarke on Laurel Prize Longlist
We're delighted to share the news that two Carcanet poets are included on the inaugural Laurel Prize longlist! read more
Welcome to Carcanet Press, one of the outstanding independent literary publishers of our time. Now in its fifth decade, Carcanet publishes the most comprehensive and diverse list available of modern and classic poetry in English and in translation, as well as a range of inventive fiction, Lives and Letters and literary criticism.
Moving House Moving House Theophilus Kwek
Red Gloves Red Gloves Rebecca Watts
Deformations Deformations Sasha Dugdale
The Long Beds The Long Beds Kate Miller
Tenderfoot Tenderfoot Chris Beckett
Centenary Selected Poems Centenary Selected Poems Edwin Morgan Ed. Hamish Whyte
FURY FURY David Morley
As Best We Can As Best We Can Jeffrey Wainwright
Growlery Growlery Katherine Horrex
Birdsong on Mars Birdsong on Mars Jon Glover
Poem of the Day

Kolya's Nails

Katharine Kilalea

All night, the quiet countryside was ruined by the sound
            of Kolya’s nails
to-ing and fro-ing from her water bowl on the melamine floor.

You’re much too sensitive, said Jo, I slept like a log.
And so what? There’s more comfort in a dog than sleep.

Early the next morning we went walking, just Kolya and I.
I walked slowly as though the air was thick.

I opened a stile at the fence and Kolya wriggled through
and ran ahead, scattering cows, gobbled up

almost immediately by the long, dewy grass, the mist.
If there was a short cut, it was not the route she discovered

but what came over me in her absence. I saw it in the cows,
how they came down to the fence where I was standing

– confused and crying for her in the howling way
we call to dogs – and stared. They looked at me

with their caviar eyes and chewed sideways,
as though I were something spectacular,

or something that didn’t add up. She would come back,
the fool, she always did, like a springy branch.
Taken from 'New Poetries V'...
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