JUNE Poems of the Month
These poems confess the burning immediacy of love and bow deeply to those who dare to live outside the rules; non-conformity as devotion, as praise, as force.
These poems, like most poems, are praises. They guide their creators back to honesty, deliberately confess the urgency of love, worship and thank the queer minded with all manifestations of non-conformist living. They fall in love with language in the eloquence of French jokes, ache (alot!) at the precipice of anticipation, and rearrange expressions of self against body shame with body first adoration. These poems run into refuge to save themselves, to witness the hatred of tyrants with their lives, reclaiming life and love that will not perish in a burning city, but love it with a love that will never forget.
Our winning poem for Poem of the Month is Thinking of how many elevators by Max Wallis which was the most loud and unapologetic entry. Beginning with thinking about intimate opportunities in private spaces of public spaces, the poem stops itself mid judgmental-thought to remind the poet and reader that their judgement is also their behaviour. This poem calls out shame and owns its need to feel alive with touch, and in so doing, elevates life and a love for life - choosing to live loudly on our knees or with our backs against the wall.
Our shortlisted poems include;
Here’s to you by Rachael Clyne in praise of the queer minded.
Refugee Handbook by Chiwenite Onyekwelu in praise of rain, and running to live.
First Time by Amy King in praise of anticipation.
Spring Clean by Kate Howlett in praise of jewellery, joyous clothing and curved bodies.
Cet automne-là, j’habitais au Gateau by Tina Selderholm in praise of cake and language.
Thank you to everyone who took the risk to submit.
Thank you for your craft, your loudness, you unapologetic ways of being, and your honesty. We’re grateful you’re writing. Keep going.
The Winning Poem.
Max Wallis
Shortlisted Poems.
Here’s to you
oh queer of mind, with your strut and tut
and fuck-me music, with your salty laughter,
chiselled front and panna cotta wobble of a heart.
Here’s to the hot chilli women, the comfort-stew lasses,
the noodle-brained, the self-sustained who live in a van in Wales.
Here’s to you who donned monocles and Brylcreem shine.
Here’s to you maids, who copped off in broom cupboards
and warmed each other’s cockles in narrow beds.
Here’s to you aristos who galloped and romped, rode camels through deserts.
Here’s to you spinsters who lived quietly in bliss, collecting fossils and shells.
Here’s to you nuns who confessed with lips pressed and fingers
that slipped into each other’s pockets. How you sang, Hallelujah!
Here’s to you with your tatts and piercings, your theyness twinkle.
Here’s to the Groucho Marx Club whose members never belong –
except to themselves. Praise be the dykedom of heaven,
amen to the campery of hell. In the words of Bob Marley,
Queer it up, Queer it up, my people.
Rachael Clyne
Chiwenite Onyekwelu
Cet automne-là, j’habitais au Gateau
I am nineteen and live in a place called Cake.
Each morning I rise at six to feed the horses,
catch one word in ten from Monsieur Raskin’s
mumbled rapid fire sentences;
Avoine (Oats) Balle (Chaff) Foins (Hay).
Other words - Putain, Bâtarde, Merde - I dodge.
Hide in the tackroom, fold blankets, scrub buckets
until the storm has passed.
When we ride through the forest, needled
by the wind, my horse baulks at every imagined
monster. Flings me left and right. Monsieur Raskin
rides ahead. Whatever nonsense his horse tries,
the Gauloise hung between his lips never moves.
One morning, a stallion kicks out the back wall
of his loosebox. Squeezes his muzzle through the gap.
Ce cheval, I say, est un criminel professionnel.
Monsieur Raskin hoists up his eyebrows, bares
his yellow bricks. Tu es drôle, he says,
and goes in search of planks.
All day I carry that phrase tucked
into my chest. I have made a joke in French.
It is better than falling in love.
That evening, he tells me to let his dogs out.
They have been shut in the office all day.
Two Bouviers des Flandres, broad as shaggy ponies
bound out, followed by the nostril-singeing bouquet
of merde. I peer inside. Vos chiens vous ont laissé
un gâteau au chocolat.
Monsieur Raskin lights another Gauloise.
Throws the match on the ground.
I will take a coffee.
You, pick up that shit.
Tina Selderholm
Amy King
Kate Howlett
VERVE POEM OF THE MONTH COMPETITION
Huge thanks to everyone who submitted
Submissions open July 1st.
Theme? "Somewhere Only We Know". (Optional, always.)
£100 prize
£3 per poem | £6 for 3 poems
Submissions open: 1st of the month
Deadline: 20th of the month
Judged by: Stuart Bartholomew & Hayley Frances
Submission details and how the money supports our free community poetry projects: vervepoetryfestival.com/poem-of-the-month
VERVE WORKSHOPS
We’d love for you to join us for future sessions. The next instalment of VERVE’s Workshop Series features the likes of Jane Yeh, The Emma Press, Jennifer Wong, Isabelle Baafi, Tim Tim Cheng, Hannah Copley, and Clare Pollard. Book your spot here, or keep an eye on vervepoetryfestival.com and our socials for updates on upcoming events, competitions, 2026 festival programme and workshops.
Upcoming:
Hayley Frances
Co-Director, VERVE Poetry Festival
vervepoetryfestival.com