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an admirable concern to keep lines open to writing in Ireland, Scotland, Wales and America.
Seamus Heaney
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Carcanet Shortlisted for Northern Small Press of the Year
We're over the moon to share the news that we've been shortlisted for Northern Small Press of the Year in the British book Awards! read more
Isabel Galleymore Shortlisted for the 2020 John Pollard Foundation International Poetry Prize
We're delighted to announce the news that Isabel Galleymore ’s debut collection Significant Other has been shortlisted for the 2020 John Pollard Foundation International Poetry Prize! read more
Sinéad Morrissey Shortlisted for European Poet of Freedom Prize
We're delighted to announce the news that Sinéad Morrissey 's Forward Prize winning collection On Balance has been shortlisted for European Poet of Freedom 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.

Browse Carcanet's Jubilee Bundles here - five bundles each for £50!
Fifty Fifty Fifty Fifty Ed. Robyn Marsack
Art of Escape Art of Escape Mina Gorji
Heaven Heaven Manuel Vilas Tr. James Womack
Forgetting Forgetting Gabriel Josipovici
The Air Year The Air Year Caroline Bird
Sky Burial Sky Burial Peter Gizzi
Later Emperors Later Emperors Evan Jones
Prose Prose Yves Bonnefoy Ed. Stephen Romer, Anthony Rudolf and John Naughton
New Selected Poems New Selected Poems Christina Rossetti Ed. Rachel Mann
Angular Desire Angular Desire Srinivas Rayaprol Ed. Graziano Krätli and Vidyan Ravinthiran
Poem of the Day

That song that goes

Sheri Benning

For no reason I can name
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.
Taken from 'New Poetries V'...
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