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Praise for 'The Waney Edge'
'Deft descriptions of fearless, talented women. A strong narrative line with a natural rhythm and musicality. I like the loose formality of her stanzas and while much of her poetry deals with loss and deep feeling, some of it is also very funny. Chloe reads her work exceptionally well, bringing her characters to life.' Jennifer Grigg - Editor, Green Bottle Press
‘There is no one else writing like Chloe Balcomb, no one else who can render huge themes – feminism, death, our life with other animals – into such finely observed and delicately wrought vignettes, vibrant with original diction and vocabulary. Here are poems of tender insight, of quirky circus women, luminous poems of death, its approach and its aftermath, poems that weave the narrator into the life of heron-as-suitor. Whether she’s writing about the last days of a cat, walking into darkness, or a specific piece of timber, Chloe’s attention to detail and her intimate observations of what it means to be alive will surprise and delight.’ Roselle Angwin, Poet and Author
‘Women finding their way in the world, surpassing stereotypes, walking their particular tightropes, navigating relationships with family, friends and lovers. These are some of the voices that populate ‘The Waney Edge’, Chloe Balcomb’s exquisite debut pamphlet. Grounded and gritty with a refreshing edge of humour and no trace of easy sentimentality, these poems will lift you off the page and into other lives.’ Seni Seneviratne, Poet and Artist
'This collection presents some elegiac poems of loss, leavened with others possessing a sharp mix of humour and cruel wit. It is one of the most striking I have read this year.' Rennie Halstead
Read full review www.sphinxreview.co.uk/index.php/opoi-reviews-2019/889-chloe-balcombe-the-waney-edge
The Backcomb Beauties
Blonde Marie had perfect skin, porcelain pale,
she spoke six languages and knew her way
around a comb, taught me how to scaffle roots
and strands into a nest, to transform waves
into four inch spikes. Each Friday night
we’d lacquer up in my room, slick on lipstick,
eyeliner, oversized coats. So there we were,
myself, Mad Clare and the Backcomb Beauties,
Chrissie in her astrakhan, Tall Jo, Little Dawn
and the rest of the flock, a charm of rare birds,
crowned and crested, winging our way down
West Street, sipping from hipflasks, alighting
on the dance floor, all feather, foot and attitude,
Sheffield’s boldest barnets flying in formation.