2nd Draft: 7 Commandments My Child Should Know (after Tonya Ingram)

[tectak]

1. Honor the sea
for the sailor in your blood.
For the lack of anchor
in my ankles.
My body has been boat a boat
since divorce papers
taught me how to choke
the eternity out of a vow.
I am great at leaving
what I love. Good opening stanza but you are lost immediately in yourself. I must assume this is not veracity verse and so ask why can you not stick to your own remit? This is supposed to be advice to your child in the form of metaphorically formulated words from a superior being. It is self indulgent to a distracting extent.

2. Mental illness runs
in my mother's family
so leaving was more
like a race for sanity.
A relay to forget.
I am afraid that schizophrenia 
is what became of Liz Layman english. You do not become a schizophrenia...and I am just not interested in Liz enough to hear about her in this context...unless she is an alter-ego.... but you will not establish either way. Cut out all the rest, then. It is waffle. You asked.
because she stopped writing. 
I am afraid that I too
may get caught between
a rock and a hard place conversational cliches only work to establish character. Again, is this whole ramble about you, your character or the "poem"?
called depression.
When a poet stops
being a poet,
all that silence must leave
room for the walls
to start speaking in tongues.
And when those homeless
holy ghosts can't live
in your poems,[
they post themselves
in your dreams.
Love yourself out loud. Put this Iine FIRST in this stanza. In fact, make this line THE stanza.

3. On the days
when your body feels
more alley than alter,...or more harness than halter? What?
and you can't manage
to believe in any God
who could think
you are worth dying for,
go back to bed.
Scatter your sacred congregation
of bones beneath blankets.
Don't come out
til you feel whole again. There is something perceptive here but you bury it before birthing it. What you are writing may be intensely interesting but not in this piece. It gets in the way. It is just ramblingly undirected waffle. Some may say it is written in "converstional tone". Is that good? Do you think it is germane to your concept?

4. Love yourself to pieces.
Your muscles only grow
from being torn and rebuilt
so it makes sense for you
to crumble. Destruction
is a form of creation. A mantra to the manic depressed. Is this where we are now? Is this where we have always been? I feel that I am losing my grip on fantasy.
It is okay to be broken.
It is okay to dance
in the middle of your ruins.
Movement is a sign of life.
Show the world you're
still alive. Make this the first line of this stanza. In fact, make this line THE stanza

5. Love this magic called
life because you
are the child of magicians. 
We people of Black suits
and bow ties threaded
from braided chains.
We, wands for wrists,
perfect for reaching
for potions and people
and dreams.
We, top hats for teeth,
perfect for abracadabra speaking
things into existence. 
We, artists. 
We, storytellers. 
We, preachers and poets.
We who spit spells disguised
as spoken word.
Poems that work like prayers
birthed between pews.
We, walking sanctuaries
who birth life. Love, 
you are nothing short
of magic. This whole stanza is close to a summary...or as close to an explanation of what the whole thing could be about as the bemused reader could hope for. Put it last...it has inherent virtues, indeed, that could stand alone...as far away from this introverted, angst-wridden stuff as possible.

6. When my father moved out,
my mother stopped moving.
Became a southern shipwreck
of scriptures and beached
her hands across the crests
of my cheeks.
Looked at me to be
lighthouse during storm.
I read somewhere,
that as adults,
we try growing into the traits
that would've rescued our parents
but I'm hoping you never
feel the need to save me. Look. Forget the bloody poem. Just lay on the couch, relax, breath deeply....now, I want you to try to remember your childhood...tell me about your daddy...in your own words...off you go. Your poem, my interpretation...but I don't think you mean to come across like this. It is now conceptually hijacked by the me,me,me. Count. My,my,my, me, I, I'm, me. This is in one stanza! This child-object will need therapy...believe me.

7. These days,
my mother's hips
don't miss the chance
to kiss a beat
like Stevie Wonder
was just invented.
And my God,
isn't it lovely?
How she finally
learned to wear
her lonely in the sway
of her shoulders to keep
the shame of an empty
ring finger from spilling
over her children.
See Love, you come from a long
line of magicians who've
nearly died trying to pull off
a miracle like you,
but I don't need your rescue.
You are my final SOS.
You are the result
of prayers wrapped in
the silk of southern accents.
My plagiarized draft of a poem
called God.
You are the only
graven image our creator
has ever commissioned.
Treat yourself as such. Make this the first line of this stanza...in fact, make it the poem.

[b] Hi nicolette,
It irritates me. There. I have said it. There is so much wrapping paper you can only be playing pass-the-parcel with the reader.
Each layer of newspaper covered in text gets quickly and boringly irrelevent as I find myself tearing off the layers to get to the gift inside...but it is never there. Then it dawns on me...the gift is the wrapping paper. Lucky me.
Yes...cut it down and STRUCTURE it....or leave it for a while and write another poem about...about...well, anything except the me-character. Poets can do that.
Best,
tectak.
Try critting....it is therapy and required on this site.