After struggles with mental health and addiction, Max Wallis launched a poetry magazine – and it has transformed his life
O
ne morning in February last year, I received an urgent call from the journalist Paul Burston, alerting me to alarming recent social media posts by a mutual friend, the poet and former model Max Wallis.
It seemed he had left his London flat in deep distress and was headed to a bridge. Our best guess was the Millennium footbridge by St Paul’s Cathedral. Then we heard that Max might have taken refuge inside the cathedral. While I scanned gaggles of tourists in the nave, he was intercepted and removed by ambulance. I was relieved to get a message later that evening that he was safe.
We’d met more than a decade before at an event on the South Bank for the Polari prize, set up by Burston to showcase new LGBTQ+ writers. I and the other judges had shortlisted Wallis’s collection Modern Love. Though the eventual winner was John McCullough, we stayed in touch, going on regular excursions: to Wilderness festival, to readings, to a rooftop art installation in Shoreditch. And always talking about poetry – writing it, reading it, thinking about it, critiquing it.
