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I'm filled with admiration for what you've achieved, and particularly for the hard work and the 'cottage industry' aspect of it.
Fleur Adcock
Caroline Bird & David Morley shortlisted for Forward Prize!
Congratulations are in order for two of our poets - Caroline Bird and David Morley - whose collections have been nominated for the Forward Prize for Best Collection 2020! read more
Laura Scott & Isabel Galleymore shortlisted for Seamus Heaney First Collection Prize 2020
Massive congratulations to Laura Scott and Isabel Galleymore, who have both been shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney First Collection Poetry Prize 2020! read more
Songs We Learn from Trees: Virtual Launch Tour
Wednesday 10th June: Meet the Contributor: Makonnen Wodajeneh Zewdu Milikit Friday 12th June: Meet the Contributor: 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.

Browse Carcanet's Jubilee Bundles here - five bundles each for £50!
Moving House Moving House Theophilus Kwek
Red Gloves Red Gloves Rebecca Watts
Sweet Nothings Sweet Nothings Rory Waterman
The Culture of My Stuff The Culture of My Stuff Adam Crothers
Songs We Learn from Trees Songs We Learn from Trees Ed. Chris Beckett and Alemu Tebeje
The Gifts of Fortune The Gifts of Fortune Peter McDonald
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
Poem of the Day

That song that goes

Sheri Benning

For no reason I can name
I look away from the book and see
the moon deepen into golds and reds.
Eastern sky a sodden blue. Spring
dusk is something to breathe deeply –
wet dirt, stubble, last year’s leaves.
And like a dream that comes back
only when unasked for, I recall
his hands from when I was a child –
rough wood, tobacco, metal of earth.
A friend tells me of early grey mornings
at his kitchen table. There was tea,
the beginnings of a wood-fire, his wife,
bread. And the winter river bed, the long,
slow ache I carry inside, briefly fills
with the singing of spring melt.
Memory is that song the heart hums
along with. The one without
thinking, beneath breath.
Taken from 'New Poetries V'...
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