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We're overjoyed to share the news that Sinéad Morrissey has been honored with the Gdansk’s European Poet of Freedom Literary Award 2020 for the volume On Balance translated by Magda Heydel! read more
John McAuliffe Appointed as Carcanet's Associate Publisher
Carcanet Press announces the appointment of the Irish poet John McAuliffe to the role of Associate Publisher for a period of six months from 1 August. read more
McCarthy Woolf and Clarke on Laurel Prize Longlist
We're delighted to share the news that two Carcanet poets are included on the inaugural Laurel Prize longlist! 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.
Moving House Moving House Theophilus Kwek
Red Gloves Red Gloves Rebecca Watts
Lantern官方网站 Deformations Sasha Dugdale
The Long Beds The Long Beds Kate Miller
Tenderfoot Tenderfoot Chris Beckett
Centenary Selected Poems 蚂蚁vp(永久免费) 蚂蚁vp(永久免费) Ed. Hamish Whyte
FURY FURY David Morley
As Best We Can As Best We Can Jeffrey Wainwright
Growlery Growlery Katherine Horrex
Birdsong on Mars Birdsong on Mars Jon Glover
Poem of the Day

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Evan Jones

Some names are words for grief,
graceless words for failure.
Actaeon was a crowd, a lonely man,
and in the end nothing,
awaiting his descent into simple witlessness,
cold beside a river of fire, who,
the story goes, either wandered
into a grove sacred to Artemis
and saw her bathing naked
or boasted he was the greater hunter.

And so, enduring the deep wrath of god,
thinking, No way out of this,
about to surrender it came to him that,
like any hound or creature in this world,
he too had yearned and hunted.

Later on in the underworld, he began to wonder
about symmetry, his cousin, unborn heirs
to the throne of Cadmus and whether or not
he’d been forgiven: a crowd, a lonely man,
nothing, awaiting his descent into witlessness,
and so cold near Phlegethon,
boundless river of fire.

Some men have grief in place of dreams.
How cold and sad an end those men will come to:
white caps over the blue, no linden trees
or red acorns under which to find shade,
and not one god to pray for mercy to.
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The Carcanet Blog PNR 254: Editorial read more Hamish Whyte: On Edwin Morgan read more The Long Beds: Kate Miller read more Looking for Tenderfoot: Chris Beckett latern专业破解版安卓最新版 Hayden Murphy: On Edwin Morgan read more Rebecca Watts: Red Gloves Interview read more
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