Polly Walshe is a poet and painter. In recent years her poems have appeared in Acumen, Pennine Platform, PN Review, The London Magazine, 14 Magazine, Shearsman, The High Window and The Spectator. She was longlisted three times in the National Poetry Competition, in 2019, 2020 and 2022. In 2019, a selection of her poetry featured alongside Melissa Ruben’s paintings in the exhibition Night Vision(s) at the Atlantic Gallery in New York City, and in the same year she won the Frogmore Prize. Her novel The Latecomer was published by Random House in 1997 and won a Betty Trask Award. Silver Fold is her first pamphlet of poems.
The pamphlet is published along with Graeme Richardson’s Last of the Coalmine Choirboys by New Walk Editions, which is co-edited by University of Leicester Associate Professor of American Literature and Creative Writing, Nick Everett. Register here for the free online launch reading by Polly Walshe and Graeme Richardson at 7pm on Wednesday 27 November.
About Silver Fold, by Polly Walshe
We are always starting out – from ourselves and our pasts, from our own words and ideas. The poems in Silver Fold are preoccupied with how far from ourselves we can ever get, and with our struggle to make words say the fresh things we constantly need them to say.
You can read more about Silver Fold on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection.
From Silver Fold
Bridge Building
The day they came to take the phones away
Was a revealing one. Some threw devices
Into hoppers happily, lobbing them high,
Watching them fall with a whoop. Others tried
To bury, cancel, download, go AWOL. All
Pointless. The signals were dying
And the servers had combusted. Myself?
Loved it, hoped all the long-ago winters might
Return to us, the looking-at-faces, the nothing-
To-do, the night in our horses’ manes,
The bright law of the morning. We’d be
Building a bridge into space as we were meant to,
We’d laugh as we laughed once, like a river
Rising for no reason, scarcely contained –
For a few seconds fearsome, then drawing back,
Earth different, small stones rearranged.
Moving to the Coast
Don’t think of moving to the coast
Since everything you need is here.
Cars rushing by make an evening tide
And there’s something of the wharf
About these traffic lights. Gulls swarm
Behind our bin lorries on collection day
Then politely disperse.
Gulls by the sea are known to be worse.
However far you go you’ll never feel,
Sufficiently, there. Why trouble yourself?
Rumours of a better place won’t stop
But every halt has empty shops
And dummkopf men in secret clubs
And the lonely women they fear.
The painful laughter of those women
Clatters forever everywhere. They yearn –
The women and the men – for gestures
From an unconventional god
Yet find it hard to think
That Being’s bird might sing
Along this landlocked street
In preference to Scarborough or Deal
Or any flaking crust shored up
Against the indecision of the sea.
Coast is the ravelled edge of time.
It’s where you are.