Photograph: MaddMann
A Tamil teenager from Reading has been named one of the winners of the prestigious Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, triumphing over tens of thousands of entries from across the globe.
Ellanya Sivasubramaniam, 15, was selected as one of the Top 15 winners for her poem “The Girls Who Grow Antlers”, out of an extraordinary 28,344 poems submitted from 135 countries. The annual competition, organised by The Poetry Society and funded by The Foyle Foundation, is one of the most competitive literary awards for young writers aged 11 to 17.
Speaking after the announcement, Ellanya described her win as “surreal” and “affirming.”
“Winning the Foyle Young Poets competition feels both surreal and affirming,” she said. “I’ll never forget getting the call on my way back from school; I was completely star-struck and could hardly believe it was real.”
The ceremony took place at the British Library in London on Wednesday, where the winners were officially honoured. The young poet will now join a week-long residential writing course at The Hurst in Shropshire, alongside other awardees, and will have her poem published in a printed anthology distributed to schools and libraries across the UK next spring.
The competition drew entries from countries as far apart as Botswana, Fiji, Vietnam, Venezuela, and the UK, with poems exploring themes of politics, art, language, identity, and belonging.
Judge Colette Bryce said it was an “honour” to take part in the process, adding: “I commend everyone who entrusted us with their writing.”
Judith Palmer, director of The Poetry Society, praised the young writers for their originality and insight. “We feel privileged to be able to read their words and enjoy their skill and creativity,” she said.
Now in its 27th year, the Foyle Young Poets Award continues to be a launchpad for new literary voices, with past winners going on to become published poets and authors.
Read Ellanya’s award winning poem below.
_____
The Girls Who Grow Antlers
Ellanya Sivasubramaniam
In late August,
three girls in school sprout antlers.
Not metaphor. Bone.
First, a bud like a bruise
above the brow.
Then branching – silent, slow,
like trees deciding
where to reach.
By September,
they wear them like crowns
no one asked for.
We pretend not to notice
how they duck through doorways,
how their sweaters fray
where the velvet snags.
The teachers hold meetings.
The nurse takes photos “for records”.
One girl stops coming.
Another tries to saw hers off
with a bread knife.
Leaves maths early,
blood blooming through her fringe
like another kind of signal.
One lets them grow wild.
Loops fairy lights
through the tips in winter.
Laughs when they call her stag.
No one speaks of how it started.
Or if it hurts.
But in the toilets,
we check our foreheads
like clocks,
press our fingers to skin
for the start
of something sharp.