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Fleur Adcock
David Morley and Peter Sansom receive Society of Authors Cholmondeley Award
Carcanet is delighted to announce that David Morley and Peter Sansom have both received the Society of Authors Cholmondeley Award ! read more
Read Europe Promotion
To tie in with the Read Europe Tour, which was launched in Manchester last night, we're celebrating some of Carcanet's finest European poets. read more
John Dennison awarded Louis Johnson New Writer's Bursary
New Zealand poet and author of Otherwise John Dennison has been awarded the Louis Johnson New Writer’s Bursary by Creative New Zealand towards a new poetry manuscript. 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.
Visible Voices Visible Voices Nicolas Barker
The Windows of Graceland The Windows of Graceland Martina Evans
Holy Toledo! Holy Toledo! John Clegg
John Masefield John Masefield Muriel Spark
Winter Migrants Winter Migrants Tom Pickard
Beyond the Barbed Wire Beyond the Barbed Wire Abdellatif Laabi Ed. André Naffis-Sahely Tr. André Naffis-Sahely
Quennets Quennets Philip Terry
Through Through David Herd
Muddy River Muddy River Sergey Stratanovsky Tr. J Kates
Poem of the Day


Greg Delanty

    We drove down what seemed the curve
    of the earth, sandwiched in our Ford Anglia.
    We were happy as the colours of our beachball,
    a careless car full of mirth and singalong songs,
    songs that were mostly as sappy
    as the soppy tomato sandwiches sprinkled with sand,
    which is why they're called sandwiches our father said,
    sandwiched himself now in the ground between his mother
    and ours. What's the meaning of the dead?
    Which one of us children asked that as we passed
    the spot with the lit steel cross on Carr's Hill,
    putting the kibosh on the next song,
    our mother about to break into Beautiful City?
    She crossed herself, saying that's the place they bury
    those whose lives somehow went wrong, betrayed
    in one way or other, without a song to their names,
    or a name, everyone buried together
    and alone without a headstone.
    The crepuscular loneliness of the field
    shrouded our bright time. Our world,
    the city below, shimmered like the silver pieces
    scattered on the dark floor of the temple.
Taken from 'Collected Poems 1986 - 2006'...
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