The Tangled Branch Discussion Forums

The barren whitewashed walls don’t talk in the absence of graffiti; no scripture scrawled in paint or chalk, no importunate entreaty   pleading meet me at The Nail Bar on Saturday at half past two – we’ll promenade the boulevard like gentlefolk are wont to do.   I’d write messages on buses with my ...

I walk like a clock.
Contact, escape, contact, escape;
in predetermined perambulation.

That's the best part by far, I think. I can see the Contact, escape.... as a line for the times, but also quite OCD and anxiety ridden. 

Enjoyed the poem, recognisable characters. I just felt the ending slightly disappointing, a bit too vague. 

So reduced, the sheets barely registered her presence,
yet so obdurate. 
You don't need that 2nd line, you've already said she's desperately clinging. 
Other world events  - you could specify

Hello, my name is Ray. I live in Malvern, UK. I used to be a Mental Health Nurse but I'm pretty much recovered now. I'm married and have 8 children, 4 of whom we've adopted in a cynical attempt to neutralise the carbon footprint created by our 4 biologicals, because you never know who's watching. 

Lovely. There's something very satisfying about poems with end rhymes that are all the same. 
Fie! sez I,    - just a suggestion
you effing fly.

I’m crankier than Captain Bligh,   - best line


 

Thanks very much for the comments. It's meant to be about sleeplessness, how we torment ourselves.

So un-asleep, the sheet’s a beach of footprints  waiting for the tide.   Her shape is question-marked, crucified, an inquisition scales her eyes.   Wincing at infinities, she stares a spot and picks at it.   Each star a prick, a javelin thrown across the centuries   makes waves just deep enough to ...

~ Steaming Vittle Bits Imagine reading a book while eating stew by the fireplace. Flames dance in propane splendor, ceramic logs glow while wind roils, ricochets through high rise canyons. Wrapped in faux-flannel micro-fluff, you feel cradled nurtured, ensconced by the fire in your blonde glider.  ...

A woman peals apples,              - peels? setting them so as not to bruise, into her mother’s wooden bowl— one is heart-shaped, juice drops like temperature before a rain.    - the kind of phrase that doesn't really make sense but is lovely anyway Near her, a pitcher of ice         - I'd suggest ...

Hello Colm. Makes me glad I'm a vegan, not to mention the feeling of moral superiority. I think the poem would be improved without the 2nd and 3rd stanzas. The stuff about the Chinese and Nazis threatens to turn it into just another rant about how awful mankind is. The last 2 stanzas rescue the work...