Winning Poem 2025
Phoenix Theorem
by Nnamdi Ndiolo
God wipes us from heaven’s board,
scattering us into the wind like a curse.
Because we are unsolvable equations.
Because we are the rainbow’s coefficient.
& the moon sketches a rhombus:
boys unbuttoning boys like brackets,
moans multiplying in a piano’s throat,
keys dissolving into Pi’s endless cry.
& my country cleaves in protest,
mobs neck-lacing them with tyres,
& the fire flares with a swansong.
The preachers swear boys in love
are born to burn, calls it gospel.
Yet flames cannot claim us.
& on my windowsill, swans sing
a Pythagorean elegy for burnt boys.
& they rise, a theorem of wings
daring God: Solve us! Solve us!
Ashes are not burnt boys—
they are seeds of the Amazon,
a wildfire of freedom.
Dawn dissects the sky with rain.
& I hurl prayers at heaven like larks,
daring X to equal happiness.
& the larks return with a scroll:
‘‘Your body is the hypotenuse of sin.’’
But despair is dust beneath my feet.
Boys in love are gods,
& no formula can solve us.
Other shortlisted poems are:
Khasiyawaala
by Stuti Sinha
A jingle of rickshaw bells
drowns the clamouring cry
of a khasiyawaala. I dreamt
of the ancestral home in Purnea
this morning. She stretches her arms
to draw my arteries.
Paanch packet please.
A grin hisses through his uneven teeth,
paan-stained. He rattles the chana around,
like pea-gravel crunching
under laboured feet.
Thoda aur masala, I point to the spice blend,
pulling on the memories of Purnea
Ji, as he scoops up the spice blend
and swirls the earthy pebbles swirl
a few final times
before he portions everything
into five newspaper cones.
I beat the early shadows of nightfall
to my door and offer a cone to my nephew.
Kya hai yeh? He stares at the pearls of gram
he has never seen before.
Bored, he pops a handful into his mouth.
I silently lament
the soft demise of the custodians
of moribund traditions, and wonder
how many more faded
into clumps of dust over time.
My Father Lived by Regent’s Park
by Maxine Sinclair
I found myself in Regents Park tube station today.
Unintentionally. I’ve avoided it for years in case he’s still here
hands in his pockets guarding his Carlton filter tips
rocking on his heels smacking his lips laughing
with loose change rattling like old bones
his skin leathered from that one day of sun
his strong nose – the beautiful centrepiece of his face
gap toothed smelling of Brut and unwashed socks
saying ‘that’s marvellous’
full of jokes until he’s not
whistling a tune nobody knows
gazing at somewhere further down the line.
The Victorian wall tiles domino like diary pages.
And as the departing train’s gust leaves my lungs
I’m half relieved he isn’t here.
I still wouldn’t know what to say.
Idea of Spring
by Juliet Humphreys
is nice enough – the quiet of bare branches
giving way to an explosion of blossom
as if the day itself has woken
after a bout of flu just wanting to dance –
but you need to remember
(and this is what I always forget)
spring is also wind and rain.
It’s like moving in with someone new —
for all the loveliness to come
those first few nights
when they’re asleep and you’re not
aren’t ideal and now you’re expected
to fill your days, to be out there,
parading about town
like you’ve won gold, and waving
to the crowds of singletons and widows,
all hailing you as their heroine,
everyone wanting autographs
and selfies and now there’s to be
a book and a film and a Barbie.
You drop your arm and stifle a yawn.
Winter was so easy.
The Octopus Remembers the Fisherman’s Wife
after Hokusai
– by Ian McClure
I tasted her with suction
in a hundred places
her skin blind and smooth
here and there slippery
milder than the sea
so cryptic and so pale
just one pulse, buried deep
but still warming everything
dark hair streaming
seagrass in the swell
so different to this self
of shifting iridescence
patterned jet and pearl
liquid muscle movements
reaching out to touch
she opened like a bivalve
in a soft, spring tide
dilating curiosity
currents of internal blush
capillaries in flood
she welcomed every probing tip
each absurd embrace
between the land and sea
she coiled, shut her eyes
pulled us down together
I am old, dying now
my nine brains dissolving
three hearts arrhythmic
copper gloss of my blood
clouding into grey
so I remember her
returned to the shore
astonished by a creature
summoned from the rich abyss
of her private sea
Helen Cox
Competition Judge : Writer and Coach
Helen Cox is a Yorkshire-born novelist and poet with an MA in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of York St John. Helen has produced two poetry pamphlets and has had individual poems published in Popshot Magazine, Riggwelter, Visual Verse, Pop the Culture Pill and the TL;DR Women’s Anthology, among many others. She frequently runs online poetry workshops that are free to no income and low income poets and runs an annual masterclass for advanced writers in the craft. Helen also hosts The Poetrygram Podcast.
