A place at the table

Leo Boix: I actually only found out about TCW through Nathalie Teitler, one of its co-directors. At the time, I was just beginning to write in English (I had only written poems in Spanish before), and Nathalie was involved with the Latinx community I was part of. She told me I should apply because of its mentorship opportunities — and when she mentioned that no Latinx or Latin American poet had ever been part of the scheme, I thought, well, it’s about time. That gave me the push to put together an application — which, by the way, took me months — and the rest is history.

Becoming a TCW Fellow changed everything for me. My mentor was Michael Schmidt, an editor, publisher, scholar, and incredibly generous teacher. With him, I explored questions of craft and form, and he introduced me to entire new shelves of poetry: Robert Frost, Louis MacNeice, John Ashbery, James K. Baxter — as well as poets closer to home, like Anthony Vahni Capildeo and Kei Miller. He even helped me see Octavio Paz’s Sunstone in a new light. Together, we refined a set of Bosch-inspired poems that later formed the backbone of my first collection, Ballad of a Happy Immigrant. That book was eventually published by Chatto & Windus — and my editor at the time, Parisa Ebrahimi, admitted she first heard of me through TCW, which she followed keenly because of the programme’s remarkable range of poets, often multilingual, often crossing multiple traditions.

But what I treasure most about TCW isn’t just the mentoring or the breakthroughs on the page — it’s the sense of belonging. Over those two years and beyond, I learned from brilliant poets like Mimi Khalvati, Pascale Petit, Nick Makoha, Roger Robinson, Jane Commane, as well as from many of the TWC fellows… but more than that, I became part of a large, extended family of poets. Across all three cohorts, we came from vastly different backgrounds, yet many of our stories rhymed. That family still stays with me today in one way or another— a source of advice, solidarity, and encouragement I deeply value.

IH: TCW definitely gave me a sense of belonging. I became a fellow fresh out of completing an MA in creative writing that put me in touch with poets, like me, who were starting out on their writing

journeys. The Complete Works community was different – a few of us had similar backgrounds and life experiences. Importantly, I began learning about contemporary poets of colour for the first time. I gained insight into the British poetry scene too – the status quo – and started to see how things could do with a bit of a shake-up. On the MA, for example, I don’t think we read or studied a single poem written by a published poet of colour. Don’t get me wrong, the course was brilliant and mind-expanding, but TCW opened my eyes a little, and also brought something new to my own writing, fresh ways of thinking about language and themes, and a kind of permission to explore ideas around identity.

I was mentored by Mona Arshi for a year which was fantastic and really helped develop my craft and voice. As you mentioned, I’m based in semi-rural West Yorkshire and TCW is quite London-centric, so attending a few of the industry events proved difficult, and I wasn’t able to network as much as poets based in the capital. In my cohort, there were two other northern poets – Degna Stone in Newcastle and Jennifer Lee Tsai in Liverpool. In terms of journey times, we’re basically as far away from each other as we are from London. But overall, the support and opportunities provided by TCW fellowship were invaluable in those early stages.

You mentioned Jane Commane – I published my first two collections with Nine Arches Press after working with Jane, who saw me read at a Complete Works event. Living in the North certainly influenced what I wrote about in those books. Quite a few of the poems in my first collection Zebra were set in Manchester, where I came out as a teenager in the early eighties. In Tormentil, my second collection, the West Yorkshire moors where I’ve lived for the past twelve years forms the backdrop to most of the book. I’ve definitely become more a poet of place, and particularly of nature, over the last few years as I’ve settled into country living.

LB: Yes, I am — deeply. The political climate we’re living through, not only in the UK but across the Atlantic, is increasingly hostile to the ideals of diversity and equality that TCW helped to champion. TCW did something extraordinary: it flung open doors that had long been bolted shut, allowing poets from marginalised and historically invisible backgrounds to step into the light and reshape what British poetry could sound like.

But I do sense a backlash gathering pace — subtle at times, overt at others. Recently, at a prize-giving ceremony, I overheard an audience member lament that the shortlist had become ‘too diverse,’ longing for what he called the ‘old days of poetry.’ That casual remark revealed a nostalgia for exclusion — a yearning for a narrower, whiter, more “comfortable” past. It reminded me why I remain so committed to mentoring and developing new voices through schemes like Un Nuevo Sol, which nurtures young Latin American and Latinx poets. When I visit schools with large Latinx populations, I tell students that their stories are not marginal — they are part of the larger narrative of British history. They should not only feel proud of their heritage, but recognise that through poetry and fiction they can articulate experiences that expand and redefine what Britishness means.

Bernardine Evaristo is right: the doors we’ve opened can just as easily be closed again. Anti-diversity sentiment, often wrapped in the language of ‘meritocracy’ or ‘tradition,’ is gaining confidence. That’s why vigilance and creativity must go hand in hand. At the recent Forward Prizes, I said: ‘At a time when immigrants from Latin America are being dehumanised, facing violence and vilification by politicians across the globe, I wanted to bring a message that we can tell our own stories — to humanise ourselves in the eyes of others.’ That’s what poetry does best: it insists on our humanity. It speaks against erasure.

TCW taught us that change is possible — that with mentorship, community, and persistence, the literary landscape can be transformed. And it has inspired a wave of successor programmes, from the Young Barbican Poets led by Jacob Sam-LaRose to the New Poets Collective run by Vanessa Kisule and Will Harris, himself a TCW fellow. Yet we cannot rest on what we’ve achieved. The struggle for visibility and equality is ongoing — it must be renewed with every generation.

That’s partly why I’m editing the first Latinx issue of Wasafiri, titled Presencia and Resistencia — a historic first for any UK literary journal. In our editorial, we write: ‘We are here, and both Britain and the world should take note.’ This issue draws a line in the sand, asserting our presence, celebrating our heterogeneity, and honouring the resilience of those who have resisted exclusion and invisibility. The writers we featured in its pages craft new narratives that don’t just enrich British literature — they redefine it.

Our work, as I see it, is only just beginning.

IH: Quite simply, these days decision-makers tend to at least think about inclusivity in terms of publishing mix, event line-ups and other poetry opportunities. Ten years ago, that just wasn’t the case. Alongside global majority writers, queer, working class, deaf, disabled and neurodivergent voices are also starting to be recognised and published. TCW was the first initiative of its kind to be taken seriously by the literary establishment. Some of the people who were excluded and sidelined in the old days are themselves now part of a new, hopefully less cosy, establishment.

I agree with your point about viewing global majority poets as part of a larger narrative rather than voices speaking from the margins. Trying to shift the mindset away from other to just another perspective is key I think. It’s a responsibility shared by the poets themselves as well as an industry that often exotisizes difference.

TCW’s success paved the way for several much-needed publishing initiatives, like Ledbury Poetry Critics for example, which together have helped change the face of poetry in the UK by striving for fair-mindedness and innovation. Of course, the global push-back against diversity and the political surge to the right is emboldening a few disgruntled poets and some media to peddle the ‘woke gone mad’ theory. Who knows if this will set a trend, hopefully not, although we shouldn’t be complacent. Prevailing winds in politics and the arts can change quickly. You ask what shape any new TCW-esque initiative might take. First off, I think it should be less London-centric. I would say that, of course, because I live in Yorkshire! But yes – more wide-reaching, less big city, more balanced.