W. H. Auden Prize 2025: winners announced

The prize commemorates the celebrated poet W. H. Auden (1907–73), who studied at Christ Church before becoming one of the most influential voices in 20th-century poetry. Known for his technical brilliance, moral insight and distinctive modernist style, Auden’s work continues to inspire readers and writers alike.

The W. H. Auden Prize was established in 2006 through a generous bequest from Dr Luke – Official Student and Tutor in German (1960–88), a renowned translator of German prose and poetry, and a friend of Auden. It is awarded each Michaelmas term by the Governing Body of Christ Church for a piece of creative writing in English. The competition, advertised in the preceding Trinity term, is open to any undergraduate reading for any Final Honour School and judged by the Tutors in English.

This year’s W. H. Auden Prize was awarded to English Language and Literature student Ruby McCallion and Sarah Liu, who reads BA Japanese. The joint winners impressed the judges with their original and compelling pieces, which stood out for their lyrical precision and imaginative range. Responding to news of the award, Ruby said: ‘I am very excited to have won the W.H. Auden Prize, and grateful for the opportunity that the competition gave me to explore the more creative side of my English Degree.’ Sarah said: ‘I am truly honoured to have received the W.H. Auden Prize from Christ Church. Thank you.’

Both students have kindly given permission for their entries to be shared.

Sarah Liu, ‘gentle interim’

one day, when the only thing that remains is a soft liquid that seeps
into my pen inks and ramen bowls—

when every bruised lunchtime fruit contemplated in my hands and then eaten
teaches me that i am now a persimmon further away from you, an orange, a sunny handful of grapes, a whole pineapple—

when it’s been almost a year
and my body starts allowing itself to break down in small ways,
while rainy nights carry yours, molecule by molecule, into the sodden, swirling earth—

when my shoulderblades know the cold relief of floorboards and ceiling lights burn memory holes
against the dark of my eyelids—
when something has rubbed the skins away from marigolds and piano ballads and sighing curtains,
leaving them all thinner and exposed in the newness of the next morning—

when you leave this earth on a quiet weekday afternoon—i will make myself soup
and prematurely devote life to finding peace—my hands will age faster than they should,
learning and relearning love on empty, arthritic nights.

but for now,
you still recognise my cutting-board sounds and you come

running into the kitchen,
where we crunch on juicy slices of cucumber. no foreign ache reopens
when i run my fingers over old scars
from when we knocked each other to the ground. for now,

we have limitless summers, and the fridge
refills with cucumbers faster than we can eat them. i haven’t become a different person.
you haven’t become everything else in the world. for now, we’re half-asleep on the couch
and as sunlight refracts your eyes
into a thousand warm and sparkling truths—
in this momentary eternity, the only thought in my mind is how beautiful we are,

and nothing else.

Ruby McCallion, ‘A Sherry for the Lady Di’

I could tell a lie, and pretend that I
Was the Saint of the Romford Goose.
That I never did bite, nor get into a fight 
With a tongue that was all too loose.
But I won’t tell a lie, cause the good Lady Di,
Well she isn’t a fan of my sins. 
I know that it’s such, for she told me as much
When I met her out back by the bins.

A pint of your cheapest dry, 
And a sherry for the Lady Di.

And from that day on, I knew every song
Was for me and my Lady Bored.
Heaven on earth, Las Vegas, birth
Of a barmaid, birth of a lord.
A lingering sigh in the wallowing eye.
A vision of the knocking door.
‘Til at last, she spoke, in a distant choke:

Vauxhall.

A pint of your cheapest dry, 
And a sherry for the Lady Di.

I’ll be feeling the sting of the day of the king
‘Til The Ash turns to ash and the clocks fall.
I imparted the news, with the bins as my pews:
‘Heaven is an offie in Vauxhall!
I found it! I found it! I shot, gagged, and bound it!
It’s sitting there waiting for you!’
But just as I spoke, she gave up on the smoke,
As, I suppose, Ladies do. 

A pint of your cheapest dry,
And
         A pint.

I’ve heard men say (more or less) that
The stairway to heaven 
Is lit with halogen bulbs.

And I realise that the keys to my Vauxhall
Were in my pocket all along.