Poetic Justice: Swim Fast, Be Free Poetry Collection [Check Out: Amor Fati!]

Amor Fati Swim fast, Be free

Miss R.S Phillips, ma

[The Cunning Little Vixen]

Swim Fast, Be Free Contents 1. The Poppy Seed 2. L and H...

3. My Dear 4. Stay 5. Origami Heart 6. Nearby 7. Keep Me in Your Sights 8. Figment 9. A Week 10. The Invisible Man 11. Say a Thing 12. I am 13. Nice 14. I Believed You 15. A Shadow of Myself 16. You Never Once Wanted my Heart 17. Too Late 18. Swim Fast, Be Free

Dedicated to my extremely patient parents for their continued support and tea making facilities.

The Poppy Seed Listen to that frightening sound: the clicking of her heels.

She is smiling at you now, a seed between her teeth.

The photographer’s clicks lessen, conscious of her inopportune flaw.

Her mother is frowning from her pew hands twisting in her lap: eager to go and sort her out.

Your bride is closer now and the priest has seen the seed; Your Best Man is looking too, the ring gripped white in his hand.

He’s looking at you now as if to make sure that you aren’t mad.

But that seed, her preference for buns was sort of your first date and nothing would be more complete than that seed gracing her face.

The Bride smiled at her Bride, remembering a humiliating wait, a knocked over coffee and a twisted bun of fate.

L and H...

Today is your wedding day, the bells have tolled those foreboding knells and many whine that your end lies waiting...

Shut the mouths of all of those who have mocked you with those ill words, amend the prose of all those haters and say not that hardship has just begun.

There are those who wish to see the wedding day as a shackle upon an arm

but please ignore those who do not understand, or wish to see our point of view: that the greatest joy in marriage is attaching your life to hers, sharing in her joy and sharing in her despair too, knowing each other’s flaws, saying yes despite, keeping each other sane in this forever changing plight.

For if love is a shackle upon an arm and many say that is true, I wish you both to stay happily shackled until both your hands turn blue.

My Dear Money does not make the world revolve, I only have eyes for you.

My heart, my dear.

When the roses bloom and the skies are blue, I remember us, I remember you.

The dying lament and I too grieve.

Nor does love spin the Earth, fluttering hearts revelling in the dirt.

I only have eyes for you, my heart, my dear.

Stay Stay with me until I fall asleep, I don’t want to be by myself tonight.

Sing me a tune, hum it to me softly, I will give anything to hear it.

Speak and I’m warm and cosy, hug me and I’m sure I will die.

You are the moon behind the sun, my light under the bedroom door.

Take my hand and whisper, hum softly, hug me and I’m so happy I could die.

Keep me until you don’t want me, I don't think that I shall ever mind.

Origami Heart Today I bought a craft book that made me think of you: I sat down and held one piece of colourful paper, wondering what I should do and disregarding the instructions, like most women often do. I folded one side in half and creased, repeated on the plain side and folded...twice...thrice.

My hands fumbled and ripped

but I attempted this because I knew you would like it much more than a hello kiss.

So I tried and tried, putting many a coffee mug aside, like a crooked man resting on a stick,

hour after hour, coffee and gum became my side kick; At the stroke of three...just in time, I had a slightly scuffed and lopsided heart that had so many creases you’d have thought a child had bunched it into a ball.

You walk through the door, see the scatters of paper of what once was a book strewn across the sitting room floor.

I hand you my heart, torn and creased, you laugh then smile; “this is great but I’ve changed my mind, I much prefer the kiss.”

Nearby The Gods within me cannot speak, the Angel’s soft harps are still.

I cannot tell you of my love.

It is wrong to speak of such things; I shouldn’t love you

but like a bee to a flower, I linger nearby, waiting.

I shouldn’t love you.

So I sit and watch you, the soft curve of your lips.

I shouldn’t love you but like a bee to a flower, I’m instinctively drawn.

Always waiting,

always lingering, forever, on and on.

Figment Love me and make me sigh.

Kingdom of legends, myths, I have passed that land by.

The tall, sturdy oaken doors, those glittering, joyous halls, begged me to come inside;

I sighed and passed it by.

Now the only thing that I aspire is to be sitting next to you by the fire: with you my worries cease, my face unfolds, my wrinkles decrease.

A hug and my heart has left my chest, torn gently from my heaving breast.

You, cupping it, stare me down and without a doubt, it is yours now.

Blood runs down and upon the floor, a puddle of red and out my chest gore.

Transfixed, I give my life to you and so I ignore the kingdom that I once knew.

Just to see you dear, I will walk upon the sea; each time I leave our land, I try to function as best I can but when my daily tasks are complete, I seek your warm embrace to lull me to sleep.

Keep Me in Your Sights Keep me in your sights, never blow out the candle or turn off the light; come back to bed and kiss me goodnight, hold my hand and wish me well.

I have gone through Hell and come out smiling, well most of the time.

Stripped bare, flesh to bone, I stood before you all those years ago and cried: each time it gets harder to ignore...you would have thought it’d get easier; doubt and fear quickly running rampage through a nervous heart,

it wouldn’t take a lot to tear me completely apart but I told you that, didn’t I? Spewed like an ending to one of my Saturday nights’; you kept me in your sights, kept burning that candle, fixed on that light.

You held your breath, I’d have blown that flame years ago but you kept it alive so keep me in your sights, keep that candle burning, slam on that light; each time it gets harder to ignore but I’ll hold onto your hand: hope that someday I will let go but until then I am yours completely,

if not in body then in soul.

A Week It’s been a week and no text did I receive from you.

At times I thought of you: the thoughts weren’t very nice.

It’s mad, what is a week? I’ve gone longer not speaking to my parents and survived.

My phone has buzzed but it isn’t you;

weird how I feel sad when I think of you.

Do you think of me this way too?

Probably not or else my phone would buzz and you’d message me with your love.

Love...I never thought that you would be the one I’d adore and miss and kiss; phone, come on and buzz away.

Perhaps she doesn’t want me now?

Phone, please tell her to text me, no matter how she feels.

Isn’t it courtesy to not run away?

Phone, please buzz your little tune; at least send her a reminder that despite not reading her thoughts for a week I have missed wasting my credit on silly, smiley faces.

The Invisible Man

The invisible man hugs me, protects me from my pain.

Ensures I am happy, I miss him when he is away.

He never stays for very long, a sigh upon my soul.

The invisible man hugs me and never asks for more.

Say a Thing I know that I shouldn’t say a thing, but, my lips shudder and jerk against my chin and you have given me that look that quietens me and I know that I shouldn’t say a thing, but, it is exceedingly unlikely that my mind will win.

I Am I am a monkey to your human, a crow to your blackbird, a maggot to your earthworm;

the lowest form of life you see, copy and paste my face and that is me.

I am a snake to your Adam and I devour the cores as you toss them.

Nice I am not a very nice person, you can protest as much as you like.

You have been warned and lectured.

You better listen closely to my point, I do not pretend to be more than I am, why the confusion when I suddenly bite?

For it is not you who feeds me Dear and I am not a nice person, I fear.

I can try to change myself, for you, to make my blotched skin gleam but I cannot truly see the point, underneath I will still remain me.

I Believed You I believed you when you said that you’d never do that again; you did and then you did it again and again.

Smashed my heart as I gagged for you, my security and pride shattered in two.

All the while I cried for you, screamed out your name endlessly; you never came.

I believed you when you said that the last touch was, indeed, your last and that my discomfort would eventually pass, a temporary nuisance; it didn’t...the feeling only amplified with every betrayal.

So I decided not to think, to watch you through glazed eyes that no longer bore any resemblance to the ones that you once knew.

I believed you. In that trust nothing could be shaken, because every time you spoke, I longed to listen.

A Shadow of Myself I see a shadow of myself and watch it: a hand pretending to be a dog.

I see the shape transform into the flesh, bones cracking and reshaping, hairs growing, a pain in my back: a new spine, both stronger and weaker than the last, built to withstand pain,

humiliation, built for bowing on all fours but not for standing up straight, holding a body firm; the bones there are too pliable.

The hair on my back is much darker, coarser than the velveteen threads that have dropped away, mementos from when I had been human; a reminder that I could still be someone else.

It is a scent that clogs my nostrils; the smell of a bitch will send a dog insane, scratching at unyielding fences in a futile effort to consummate and belong to another.

I smell your heady perfume and wag my tail, it thumps on your the wooden floor.

As your shadow hides the sun and turns the key, black blood shall run like sweat down me.

You Never Once Wanted My Heart You can have my body, my mouth and soul, I thrust myself upon you, gladly giving all.

My sweat you licked while it was still steaming in your dead white smile,

smashing my convictions and mocking my pride.

Still I welcomed you to everything I had.

But you never once wanted my heart.

You never once wanted my heart.

Too Late There’s an age, a chasm between us.

That’s what you said.

The right words but in the wrong context, desperate mutterings on a forlorn day.

The quickening heart,

the struggling veins.

There is an age, a chasm between us.

Too late by a year, too late by a day.

Swim Fast, Be Free Men will never fear these things, you’re a woman and will not win.

I’m sorry that the truth can sting but that jack will not make a king.

Cast away those Hollywood lies, ditch your whirlpool romance, never get caught in relationship tiesthat suited devil will make you dance.

Apply your make-up with due care,

drink without the usual poison; Sand shields the gentleman, stay tight in your shoal, if alone, fear the cacodemon, he only collects to crew his sheol.

Do not shudder at his shadow, keep secure amongst the reeds, he will not appreciate bravado, and when you can: swim fast, be free.

Miss Rhea Seren Phillips, MA is a Welsh poetic forms and metre practitioner based in South Wales.

“Swim Fast, Be Free is a poetry collection that was written for all the individuals whom have decided to remain single. I have never been in a relationship, nor do I aspire to be in one but there is a universal understanding that happiness cannot be achieved without being in love with or having experienced loving another individual. This collection was written to challenge that ideology: you may note that A mor Fati includes the same poems but they have been arranged in a contrasting order. This has allowed me to redefine that narrative but to also show that love, be it platonic or sexual can achieve the same level of closure and that desired “happy ending”.

“I have entered into many destructive friendships in my attempt at finding love and companionship, so much so that in my early twenties I had began to feel something akin to driftwood. I am still battling with what I am: a lesbian with a struggling interest in sex. I am considered to be traumatised by my sexual experiences. I believe that my experiences have allowed me to understand myself better: I do not blame the individuals who have pressured me into romantic entanglements but I do resent them because I have lost good friendships to something that provides a superficial stimulation of intimacy.”

“This collection depicts an unhappy relationship where the protagonist finds her freedom through singleton. Although the collection is not a true celebration of asexuality as the protagonist begins her story with a wedding, it does provide an alternative narrative to other collections where closure is found within the band of a wedding ring.”

Miss Rhea Seren Phillips, MA

Copyright of Miss R.S Phillips [The Cunning Little Vixen] 2015

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