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Your list has always been interesting, idiosyncratic, imaginative and your translations [...] have been a source of pleasure to me.
Al Alvarez
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News
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
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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. ![]()
Poem of the Day
That song that goes
For no reason I can name
Taken 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. |
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