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British publishing always needs the supplement of such enterprises as Carcanet -- beautifully independent, skilfully managed, and by people with exceptional literary taste. It gives one heart that there are such people and such a press, and that they are too resourceful to succumb to the climate.
Sir Frank Kermode
News
Celebrating LGBT Pride Month and the US Supreme Court Ruling
We're celebrating #LGBTPrideMonth and the historic US supreme court ruling on same-sex marriage by taking a look at some of America's finest gay poets. read more
Poetry at the Portico
In collaboration with the Portico Library and other local poetry presses we've set up a Thursday night literary salon called Poetry at the Portico and we’re bringing talented poets from as far away as Dublin, Canada and New Zealand to read in the Rainy City. 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.
Steep Tea Steep Tea Jee Leong Koh
Selected Verse Selected Verse Algernon Charles Swinburne Ed. Alex Wong
New Poetries VI New Poetries VI Nic Aubury, Vahni Capildeo, J Kates, Claudine Toutoungi, John Clegg, Joey Connolly, Brandon Courtney, Adam Crothers, Tom Docherty, Caoilinn Hughes, Eric Langley, Nyla Matuk, Duncan Montgomery, André Naffis-Sahely, Ben Rogers, Lesley Saunders, David Troupes, Molly Vogel, Rebecca Watts, Judith Willson, Alex Wong Ed. Michael Schmidt and Helen Tookey
Mexico in my Heart Mexico in my Heart Willis Barnstone
A Doctor's Dictionary A Doctor's Dictionary Iain Bamforth
Breezeway Breezeway John Ashbery
Poem of the Day

Hotel Room, 1931

Ernest Farrs (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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