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an admirable concern to keep lines open to writing in Ireland, Scotland, Wales and America.
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Two Carcanet poets shortlisted for Michael Murphy Poetry Prize
We're delighted to announce that Kate Miller 's The Observances and John Dennison 's Otherwise have both been shortlisted for the 2017 Michael Murphy Poetry Prize! read more
Jeffrey Wainwright finalist for Arnold Bennett Book Prize
We're delighted to announce that Jeffrey Wainwright 's What Must Happen is a finalist for the 2017 Arnold Bennett Book Prize ! 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.
Zoology Zoology Gillian Clarke
In Search of Dustie-Fute In Search of Dustie-Fute David Kinloch
Farm by the Shore Farm by the Shore Thomas A. Clark
stack stack James Davies
Collected Poems Collected Poems Dennis O'Driscoll
Smoothie Smoothie Claudine Toutoungi
Sarajevo Roses Sarajevo Roses Rory Waterman
A Michael Hamburger Reader A Michael Hamburger Reader Michael Hamburger Ed. Dennis O'Driscoll
Poems Poems Yves Bonnefoy Ed. Anthony Rudolf, John Naughton and Stephen Romer Tr. Anthony Rudolf, John Naughton and Stephen Romer
Seasonal Disturbances Seasonal Disturbances Karen McCarthy Woolf
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Poem of the Day

Hotel Room, 1931

Ernest Farrés (translated by Lawrence Venuti)

It was as the snow started falling again
that she blurted it out, so they were all
just standing there gazing up, knee-deep
in snow, the little one thigh-deep,
when they heard it, the news that slipped
out like a necklace from a sleeve,
not meant for the kids, not meant for here,
for the snowwoman with her pink hat
and old carrot nose, for the creaking
pines, the cracked plastic sled, the neat
rabbit tracks that shied all over the white
field. So they stood there, the little one
lost in any case in this too white world,
his too cold hands stiff in his wet wool
gloves, his feet stuck somewhere
miles down below. And once it was out
she wished she could call it back in,
like a dog you could whistle to,
but it wouldn’t, you couldn’t,
so they stood there in the snow,
and the big one asked, of course,
‘what’s that?’ and his dad just looked
straight back at her, his clove-brown eyes
soft with fear, the hound’s sour breath
hot on the nape of his neck.
Taken from 'Edward Hopper'...
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