Quote of the Day
Carcanet Press is our most courageous publisher. When you look at what they have brought out since their beginnings, it makes so many other houses seem timid or merely predictable.
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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
Podcast 3: Continental Shelf, Fred D'Aguiar (15:34 mins)Listen
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.
Poem of the Day
All night, the quiet countryside was ruined by the soundTaken from 'New Poetries V'...
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.
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