Read the wonderful poems of our poet-in-residence, John Berkavitch

29th June 2025

We’re pleased to announce that Glastonbury’s official poet-in-residence for 2025 is John Berkavitch. The former UK Slam Poetry Champion is a neurodivergent artist, acclaimed for his spoken word-dance theatre shows, slick delivery and thought-provoking performances: “I have always strived to make work that challenges perceptions of what live literature can be,” he says.

Having first performed here 20 years ago, John is no stranger to the Festival, and we are thrilled to welcome him back to the fields. “I am incredibly excited to be returning to the farm this year with a personal mission to bring poetry to as many people as possible,” he says.

Below you’ll find “Here’s To You, Glastonbury” John’s excellent first poem for the Festival. 

Catch him in the Poetry & Words tent in Threatre & Circus on Sunday at 4.18pm. And to find out more about John Berkavitch, click here.

The Writing On The Wall
 
There will come a time,
When everyone will say
We were always against this.
 
We didn’t see the signs,
Did not realise it was rooted in.
Or notice it was always here.
 
There will come a time,
When there will not be enough time left
To read the writing on the wall.

Ode To The Rave Crew

Oh band of travellers,
My steadfast vanguard,
Battle hardened warriors,
Oh you beautiful monsters,
Follow me and let’s hopscotch
Through a hodgepodge of obstacles,
Oh you fosterers of the preposterous,
Obtuse, uncouth, loose cannon of nonsenses,
You brutes, you lose screws, you impossible ostriches,
Bury your heads in my sand, take my hand and expand in my cervices,
Hold my soul tight until forever while we party together,
Fold me into your pocket, shield me from the weather,
Oh you wondrous thunderstorms of adventure,
You majestic monoliths, miracles of nature,
Waterfalls, you harmonised vibration,
You beaming light of kindness,
Oh you wonderful humans
Thank you for last night

Let’s put it behind us.

Choices

Doechii on West Holts
If you watch her you’ll miss
Charli xcx on the Other Stage

(Now read from the bottom)

Come find me

Come find me on the dancefloor
Stomping circles with strangers.
All lasers, spot-lit like we’re famous,
Displaced and uncaged
Shameless, graceful and dangerous,

Or come find me in all the soft corners,
Face down in a puddle of people,
Befuddled and peaceful,
Cuddled so close it’s like I’m smothered in treacle,
In love with the feeling that everyone’s equal,

Or come find me outside on the benches,
Expounding at length about historic adventures,
Cigarette at arms’ length, fireflies for attention,

Or come find me in the crowd,
Front left by the speaker,
Where the music’s so loud
It drowns out the bad feelings,
And we’re singing along
And we’re breathing as one,
And when the band stops playing, we shout,
‘One more song!’

Or find me in the woods, when it’s late,
Walking wild through the treetops,
Like Ewoks in space suits and moon boots
Or green neon tree frogs all lost
In an epoch of time,

Come find me realigned,
In the liminal spaces,
In the excitement of strangers
And the smiles on their faces,

Come find me in explosions
And fireworks and moments
In all the dark corners
And in minds when they open,

Come find me in the sunrise
The morning after a night that never ended,
Find me finding myself,
Come find me transcended.

Just
Come find me

If It Rains

If it rains.

We can lie still,
Listening to the sound
In our tents.
Ten thousand tiny drumrolls
To build the suspense,

If it rains.

We can stand outside,
chatting gibberish,
shouting up at the clouds.
Tasting oceans of sky
in the backs of our mouths.

We can strip naked
and run
with fingers spread wide.
Feel its sting on our skin
where the raindrops collide

If it rains.

We can watch light
splinter through it.
Split spectrums of colour.
We can stare through the rain
as we can stare at each other,

Wrap up in mountains
of rain-macs and canvas,
make our bodies enormous.
Pull our boots up, strap in
and try to walk to the corners.

If it rains we’ll be fine,
We’ll make it,
No probs
Just imagine
How good it’ll be
When the rain stops.

Feeling It Out

Can you feel it? That feeling, that amazing feeling, that beautiful gorgeous, sexy feeling can you feel it? That feeling, that ‘this is going to feel so good!’ kind of feeling, that feeling like you’re feeling on top of the world but the world is a world made of feelings, kind of feeling, can you feel it? Do you feel me? That feeling that I’m feeling so free and alive, type of feeling that lives rent free in my mind kind of feeling, can you feel it? Building, like a building made of feelings, sky scrapers of emotion, 44 stories, shaking in an earthquake of feelings type of feeling, I’m starting to feel it, what about you? Can you feel it?

Here’s to You, Glastonbury

Here’s to anyone who’s been wearing Hi Viz for the last few weeks.
And here’s to all those who never stop doing those final few tweaks
Here’s to the builders, and the chippies and the scaffs and all the crew,
To the unskilled and the hippies and the grafters here’s to you.

Here’s to the plant drivers and the tractors and those guys on cherry pickers
And anyone that works at heights that’d make you wet your knickers,

Here’s to the sewers and the makers
And the crafters and the painters
And the fencers and the traders
And the ones who just work later
And the kitchen staff and caterers
The washers-up and bakers,
Steady-handed masking tapers
And that gang that hangs that apparatus.
Here’s to the teams that cladded all the bars
And the ones that put in the big steels
Here’s to those two people who made 
those massive leaves in that one kids’ field.

Here’s to the sparks and electricians who did all the cables and the wiring,
Here’s to the late night lighting teams, whose work is so inspiring,
To the people that make the massive sculptures and the team that did the DJ tree,
Anyone who worked extra late to get things done behind the scenes,
To all the folks who painted fronts, hung things up or tied things down,
The projectionists and stage designers who helped to build this crazy town.

To the trades people with traditional tools carving weighty wooded mushrooms,
To the man who makes the windchimes and the windmills and the wood looms,
To the wicked willow weavers with their wonderful dexterity
To the helping hands from holy lands who span holistic therapies,
To all the roadies moving cases, all of the stage managers,
To the sound techs on the open mics who are making pros of amateurs,
To the person who put in all those poles, to the one who built that stage,
To the heroes who hung a hundred streamers, bits of bunting, lights and braids,
To anyone who has stretched a tent, to achieve optimum tension,
To anyone who hung hessian over all that heras fencing,

To the people who put the hammocks up, my god you are angels,
To anyone who set up chairs, built a bench, put up tables,
To anyone that laid the track, turned a screw or hammered a nail,
Tied a rope, hammered a peg, held a board or stretched a sail,
Hung a light, sewed a flag, used a brush or power tool,
The buggy drivers, toilet painters, security and campsite crews,

To all the bar staff, all the sculptors, and the guys who made that massive head,
Or the giant robot insects, or the seaside pier or pyramid,
To the what must be 200 people who painted every single bin,
To the clean-up crews who do the loos, you really put the effort in,
To the food vendors and recycling collectors,
Stewards and the litter pickers,
To anyone who brought their sequins, brought their face-paint, brought their glitter.

To all of you who gave your time to really make this party,
The fire-breathing, manic pixie, yogurt-weaving, planet-fixing,
Total dream of magic stitching, Tofu-eating wokerati,
Thanks to all these people. For all they did and do
And thanks to those who stay behind to be part of the clean-up crew,

See this is a festival that was built from actions,
And every action is an act of love,
It would be for nothing if not for you,
So here’s to you, for showing up.