Quote of the Day
Your list has always been interesting, idiosyncratic, imaginative and your translations [...] have been a source of pleasure to me.
Subscribe to our mailing list
Victoria Kennefick Shortlisted for Dalkey Literary Festival Emerging Writer of the Year
We're delighted to announce that Victoria Kennefick has been shortlisted for the Emerging Writer Award at the Dalkey Literary Awards for her collection Eat or We Both Starve! read more
Vahni Capildeo Shortlisted for Jhalak Prize 2022
We're delighted to see Vahni Anthony Ezekiel Capildeo' s recent collection Like a Tree, Walking shortlisted for the 2022 Jhalak Prize! read more
Sheri Benning Shortlisted for Pat Lowther Memorial Prize
We're delighted to share that Sheri Benning has been shortlisted for the Pat Lowther Memorial Award with her collection Field Requiem! read more
John Ashbery reads 'The Instruction Manual' (6:11 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.
Our shipping to customers in the EU now includes additional customs and duty fees. This has resulted in higher shipping costs to the EU. We apologise for this increase and we suggest that EU customers may find it more economical to source Carcanet books from your bookshops or preferred on-line retailer. We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience.
100 Poems Ed. Patrick Worsnip Tr. Patrick Worsnip
The Lascaux Notebooks Ed. Philip Terry Tr. Philip Terry
PN Review 264 Ed. Andrew Latimer, John McAuliffe and Michael Schmidt
Grand Larcenies Ed. P.C. Evans Tr. P.C. Evans
Poem of the Day
That song that goes
For no reason I can nameTaken from 'New Poetries V'...
I look away from the book and see
the moon deepen into golds and reds.
Eastern sky a sodden blue. Spring
dusk is something to breathe deeply –
wet dirt, stubble, last year’s leaves.
And like a dream that comes back
only when unasked for, I recall
his hands from when I was a child –
rough wood, tobacco, metal of earth.
A friend tells me of early grey mornings
at his kitchen table. There was tea,
the beginnings of a wood-fire, his wife,
bread. And the winter river bed, the long,
slow ache I carry inside, briefly fills
with the singing of spring melt.
Memory is that song the heart hums
along with. The one without
thinking, beneath breath.
We thank the Arts Council England for their support and assistance in this interactive Project.
This website ©2000-2022 Carcanet Press Ltd