Rachel Coventry writes poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared in Skylight 47, Burning Bush 2, Boyne Berries, Bare Hands, The First Cut, The Misty Mountain Review and is forthcoming in Poeticdiversity and The Poetry Bus. She was short listed for the 2012 Over The Edge New Writer of the Year Competition.
Three years in and your head brim
filled with imperfect description
so much white noise
that you cannot tune in
but in Dangan
you are stopped.
Defeated by a rain wet hawthorn
in a momentary gilding
of autumn sun.
On The Death of Lou Reed
Now that the singer is dead
his songs become voiceless,
the world I made for myself
out of them slips its moorings
lifts gently off the earth,
the imprint of jagged ground
swelling back to a perfect round
that started as a marble
rolling about in his head
as he retold what Candy said.
Today we are processed with more aplomb.
The corridors we walk are clean and white,
there are no crannies for the dust to hide.
We glide like ghosts forgetting we’re from
a wild place the other side of the wall.
We are grateful, remembering we might
have been dropped into a darker night.
Where our dreams of comfort are met with scorn.
Some listlessness is inevitable,
but we’ve come so far this way together
and are, for the most part, reasonable.
We can dispense now with the windswept field,
there’s no need to hide behind leather shields.
No need to beg God for softer weather.
We went outside, you
could no longer bear
to be held static
in the buzzing flicker
of strip lighting.
But once out there
words slunk away
like warm animals
through dry leaves.
flat on the air
with just discernable rhythms,
poems waiting be written.