James Joyce, Ponte Rosso, Trieste
Thursday, 24th December 2015, 09:49
Taken with a Samsung Galaxy Note 3
Edited in Picasa
A version of this image first appeared on Instagram
At a trash ‘n’ treasure market,
in an average town,
an old radio
encased in bakelite.
Plugged in &
waiting for the valves to warm
I took to the dial with a frothing sense of urgency,
twisting past horse races & rock & roll,
past right wing commentary,
. searching for the frequency of God,
long lost in digital audio,
. sure to be found
in the silver soldered
magic of a romanticised time.
. & there
at the end
of the amplitude modulated band,
. megahertz away from any generic noise,
. a perfect silence.
Published in Windmills, Fifth Edition, November 2010
Published in Best Australian Poems 2011
Published in Notes for Translators 2012, December 2012
Published on robbiecoburn.com
. She fell
like a therm-
. the weight
of the fight
too much to
. i watched
her smile flat-
line and it
. the white sheets lay still
Published in Page Seventeen, Issue 8, November 2010
At the end of a life spent in utter pride
what questions linger in the dormant mind,
what life of chosen solitude led,
that would end in silence with no tears shed.
In ageing years when support is sought
from those whose love in frail arms caught,
what sorrow is absent from deathly bed
when a life could pass with no tears shed.
In distant home, in sufferance lied,
among strangers a woman gave up and died,
what hope of remorse when all prayers said,
when a family remains fractured, the mother is dead,
and a life passes in silence with no tears shed.
But though these stanzas have you crucified
it would be false to say that I never cried,
I hold onto tears for what I never had,
as your life passes by me one tear I shed.
Published in Underground, Issue 4, September 2010
Ensconced in the images.
Injections from the 40 inch
frame across the room.
Bourgeois buttocks comfortable
on a lounge cut from old growth
forest by third world underaged.
Watch the news for sports updates,
interspersed with messages of the
latest products, requirements for a
new and improved reduced fat life.
Abject images are quickly flicked.
Reality TV is an oxy moron.
Published in Popshot, Issue 4, September 2010
it was wednesday
& the wagtail blues
& bebop doos
fell like porcelain
from an angel’s wings
who clung to rags
like oxygen needles
danced on glass feet
stomping at the gin bar
& smoking leaves
of fortitude stripped
from a sandbox of lies
we waited for a taxi
while the moon bled jazz
over the new york sidewalk
at the show
mingling with saxophones
do you do do the new move
cloaked in ageless slipstreams
in the rat tat of hep cat culture
does your coffee pour whiskey
into your mind’s cool blue fixtures
when your pen punctures pages
& when will you rest?
& is this a test?
historic light unsheathed
like a blade
to cut your arms
spill the blood
like your blood
will be spilled by your sons
& what of your sons
do they float in spoons
in precious powder
crushed from the dragon’s bone
the flame licks the steel
orange blue lights appeal
flick flickering images
in rolled eyes of
when the spike pushes in
what does it take out?
Published in The Diamond & the Thief (Black Rider Press), September 2010
An audio recording of this poem (with The Minordian) can be found here…