Creative Corner: ‘Pride’ Showcase

To mark the LGBT+ pride celebrations occurring across the UK in July, this month’s showcase explores pride, with poems submitted by a range of students. Whether inspired by current affairs or personal experience, calling out homophobia or exploring queer desire, the showcase celebrates pride and highlights the challenges faced by LGBT+ people. 

For Melania and Chris

Loving a woman is not a peep show at Friday lunchtime drinks

Where men in grey suits sip mimosas and ask the waitress to invite us over

Where they ask:

If we’re sisters or

Open to an FFM

If we actually have sex

And how does scissoring work

And they want us to kiss just to see what it looks like

Their PornHub subscriptions urging them on until

The mimosas start to look like stomach bile and suddenly the bar is empty


And you wonder why in a bar of all places

On payday of all days

With Her looking so beautiful and now you can really taste bile

You can feel an arm on your waist as one of them asks if you’re okay

Like you demand to be touched by men in suits


And you remember how it felt to fall the first time you went ice-skating

When nobody on the tables next to you will watch any longer

And one of the men throws his napkin down and calls Her

A frigid bitch for politely declining

Whilst they all laugh why did you abide and come over to the table like a couple


Why are we the ones that put ourselves in such danger for love

One of them tells us to come visit him later because

He’s never had a threesome with ‘real lesbians’

And throws his business card over when all you wanted was a life jacket

To stop you sinking


Her laugh rings out and she explains that we aren’t interested

And the feet between us

Mean we could be anywhere

A bar

A park

A supermarket

A bus


Where men and boys would beat us for not giving them their peep show

I am glad that I didn’t finish eating and afraid that I love another woman

And afraid for all gay women

For all women.

Emily Mae


Rusty Door Knockers

Find me in the corner of the room

curled up in dissatisfaction

hazed from clear spirits

brainwave rings around my skull

angry proposals and midnight kisses.


3 a.m. blurry music faded faces

pulling at my bony wrists

I’m not moving away from the comfort of this grandma armchair

glass in hand whispers in the other

they’re not looking at me

they’re looking at us teenage smelly intoxicated hoax brats.


You chuck me over your shoulder like I’m a sack of prized potatoes,

kind woman, you.

We’re socialist and together and lovely and sharing and trusting and, oh!

Have I mentioned how your pretty black hair glimmers under

the 3.15 a.m. moonlight and how your blemished skin looks

so good drenched in Miss Sporty highlighter and how

when you do that little giggle thing when you’re not really

supposed to laugh because old serious bore Joe is giving you

an in-depth analysis of the Irish border problem and its implications,

that really makes me twinkle up inside.


My stomach twiddles around two gallons of Glen’s

huddle back up inside myself

you always remain curious in silence

vom down your back, not your new tweed blazer!

Sad-eyed sunset face

apologies mere rusty door knockers.

Blackout mind weaving through defiant romantic episodes

chuck me on bed like sack of mouldy potatoes

smells of urine and pornstar martini

the dirty washing piling up

the sunlight creeping on me

the shards of tobacco stuck on my left big toe

the phone call in the morning.

Hannah Pickard


Don’t Expect Rainbows

I’m still searching

for elusive sunshine to lit up

my insides with pride


I’m still  scared


walking down the same highstreets

where we do our Saturday shop

past the bank, museum,

buildings from childhood memories


this time I didn’t tell my parents

where I was going, that I’d be in this parade,

more like a circus to my mind it seems

like everyone is loud and proud


aside from me, trying not to meet the eyes

of pensioners and the assorted public

trying to do their Saturday shop

and stopping to let us by,

banners, whistles and Nandos’ logo flags


Don’t expect rainbows

when you’ve grown up in a closet

you get used to seeing the world

through half shut eyes, in semi-darkness.

You get used to hiding.


To be out, on the street,

every shade of the rainbow

might look like a party,

but it’s a protest, still

battling personal internalised shame

how my voice cracked

when I spoke of such shame

and no one said anything


Don’t expect rainbows

emblazoned on every material item you could profit off

sign of the times now we’ve been recognised

as your rainbow demographic

whilst homophobic, biphobic, transphobic hate crime


the protest groups at the back of pride calling

for solidarity whilst the banks and big sponsors

are proudly at the front of London parades


yet you call it a millennial trend,

berate that everyone is gay nowadays

as if sexuality is a shirt to wear once or twice,

it’s a stained shirt on a bus

where boys are baiting for blood because

two women together wouldn’t kiss

for their pleasure


we’ve always been queer

yet there’s still reason to fear

so don’t expect rainbows

until we can all marry, love, be ourselves freely

until the sun shines on us all.

Lauren Winson

Next month’s poems will explore the theme of ‘discovery’. To have your poetry featured, send your submissions to by 31st July. 

Featured image courtesy of Georgia Butcher. 

Article image 1 courtesy of via Flickr, article image 2 courtesy of timquijano via Flickr and article image 3 courtesy of BluEyedA73 via Flickr.

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