Chloe Balcomb: Poet, Storyteller
  • Home
  • Upstart Jugglers
    • The Waney Edge
    • Shop - Upstart Jugglers
  • Shop - The Waney Edge
  • Writing Poetry
  • Manchester Cathedral Poetry Prize
  • FEMALE FUNAMBULISTS
  • Fiction
  • Contact
  • Blog
  • Home
  • Upstart Jugglers
    • The Waney Edge
    • Shop - Upstart Jugglers
  • Shop - The Waney Edge
  • Writing Poetry
  • Manchester Cathedral Poetry Prize
  • FEMALE FUNAMBULISTS
  • Fiction
  • Contact
  • Blog

Manchester 



CATHEDRAL



​pOETRY cOMPETITION 2019

     
       Manchester Cathedral Poetry Prize - Judged by Anthony Wilson

"As I read through the hundreds of entries, these were the ones whose language, direct and not at all abstract, their emotion displayed through concrete detail, which snagged me in unexpected ways."

The above photo features a detail from the beautiful stained glass window of Manchester Cathedral, where this event was held.

Poet in residence Andrew Rudd made these comments:

 "George Herbert wrote about his own calling to be a 'window'- to communicate  something of the 'glorious and transcendent grace'.  I suppose that's also the task of writing poetry, to express something of the complexity and beauty of our human condition in words.  Each one of the poets (chosen) is in the business of transforming their common human experience.
​Each one lifts us out of the ordinary and the everyday and takes us into a new place."


Winners: 1st Ailsa Holland, 2nd John Maguire, 3rd Iora Dawes.

Highly Commended: Chloe Balcomb, Mary Lee, Michael Brown, Diane Mulholland, Noel King,
Paul Tomes, Robbie Burton.


sisters_of_st._hilaire_.m4a
File Size: 551 kb
File Type: m4a
Download File

Picture

"Chloe Balcomb's nuns live surrounded by  a beauty which exists because of their attention."
Andrew Rudd, Poet-in -Residence
www.manchestercathedral.org
Picture

The Sisters of St Hilaire
 
Three French nuns, Marguerite, 
Guerite and Isobel, are partial 
to a glass of Côte de Beaune.
 
On mountain jaunts they 
confess to lying supine 
in clouds of Edelweiss.
 
Cradle to grave, in the shelter 
of the old house, they sleep
in cots of cherry wood.
 
They know about struggle,  
sigh as we describe our battles
Guerite raising a knobbly finger. 
 
'Listen, there were dragons here.
They came for the virgins but
the convent walls were too high.'

In the courtyard, orange trees
in tubs,  a little mâche 
sprouting in wine crates. 
 
Hens peck between cobbles, 
lay eggs on windowsills,
wobble their pretty behinds.

Day ends when darkness falls,
​the street echoes with the trill of bells, 
the last children pedalling by.
                                           
    Everything is as it should be, 
a quiet read, embroidery,
a little radio before bed.
Proudly powered by Weebly