Poem
Ciaran Carson
Belfast Confetti
Belfast Confetti
Belfast Confetti
Suddenly as the riot squad moved in it was raining exclamation marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion
Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire . . .
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion
Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire . . .
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering,
All the alleyways and side-streets blocked with stops and colons.
I know this labyrinth so well – Balaklava, Raglan, Inkerman, Odessa Street –
Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street. Dead end again.
A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon fae-shield. Walkie-talkies. What is
My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going? A fusillade of question-marks.
© 1987, Ciaran Carson
From: The Irish for No
Publisher: Gallery Press, Old Castle; Wake Forest University Press, Winston-Salem, NC
From: The Irish for No
Publisher: Gallery Press, Old Castle; Wake Forest University Press, Winston-Salem, NC
Ciaran Carson
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1948)
Ciaran Carson was born and grew up in Belfast, where Irish was the first language of the family home; Carson learnt English playing on the streets. From an early age, he was ‘always aware of language, how it operates. How if you say it in one language it’s not the same as saying it in another’ (as stated in a Guardian interview). Carson’s poetry is interested in the profound interdependence of ...
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Poems of Ciaran Carson
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Belfast Confetti
Suddenly as the riot squad moved in it was raining exclamation marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion
Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire . . .
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion
Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire . . .
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering,
All the alleyways and side-streets blocked with stops and colons.
I know this labyrinth so well – Balaklava, Raglan, Inkerman, Odessa Street –
Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street. Dead end again.
A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon fae-shield. Walkie-talkies. What is
My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going? A fusillade of question-marks.
From: The Irish for No
Belfast Confetti
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