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It is impossible to imagine literary life in Britain without Carcanet.
William Boyd
Two Carcanet poets, Charles Tomlinson and Stephen Rodefer pass away
We are deeply saddened by the news of the deaths of two former Carcanet poets - Charles Tomlinson and Stephen Rodefer , who both died on Saturday 22nd August 2015. read more
C.K. Stead new Poet Laureate of New Zealand
Carcanet is delighted to announce that C.K. 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.
Keats Lives Keats Lives Moya Cannon
Complete Poems Complete Poems R.F. Langley Ed. Jeremy Noel-Tod
Posthumous Cantos Posthumous Cantos Ezra Pound Ed. Massimo Bacigalupo
New Selected Poems New Selected Poems Shuntaro Tanikawa Ed. Kazuo Kawamura Tr. William I. Elliott
Collected Poems Collected Poems Muriel Spark
A Doctor's Dictionary A Doctor's Dictionary Iain Bamforth
Mexico in my Heart Mexico in my Heart Willis Barnstone
Poem of the Day


Sinead Morrissey

There is no kindness in me here. I ache to be kind, but the weather
Makes me worse. I burrow and sneer. I stay small, low, cheap, squander

All signs of the thaw by screwing my eyes. It's easier in the dark.
Defeat is the colour of morning, the grey that engenders the honeymoon flats

And the chess-board of rice-fields between this block and that.
Each field is marked

For the administering of cement, this month or the next.
I am living in boom, before the door-frames are in or the drive-ways drawn.

The new exit from the station to the South
Makes Nagoya spread, calls it out further than one city's insatiable mouth

Could dream. Factories chew through a mountain beyond my window
And each time I look at it it's less. In the world before the war

This place was famous: a stopping-house for the tired and sore.
There was one road only in Japan, and all who walked it walked through

This town. There are photographs of women in an amber light
Stopped dead in their surprise at being captured as the image of a time.

Behind them all, the mountain rises white.
They say it stayed so all Winter long, a shut door to the North.

The snow scatters now without it. When all the fields are town,
The mountain, stones, it will be Spring, and I'll be called on

To be generous. There will be days when fruit-trees, like veterans
Left standing here and there in pools of shade, will forget about use and bloom.
Taken from 'New Poetries II'...
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