´óÏó´«Ã½

Ciaran Carson says:

‘…if there was a riot in the shipyard they would assemble the collective nuts and bolts, iron bits for this and that and the other thing… ‘For we’ll throw some Belfast Confetti on them and see how they will be getting on with that.’…and the accent comes across…‘Belfast Confetti’…it’s not nice.’

‘…I see those poems as being very much just as if I were an eye on the scene. As if I were alert to the sounds of the time and what was going on at the exact time.’

Belfast Confetti

Suddenly as the riot squad moved in, it was raining
ÌýÌýÌýÌýexclamation marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the
ÌýÌýÌýÌý±ð³æ±è±ô´Ç²õ¾±´Ç²Ô.
Itself - an askerisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst
of rapid fire...
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head but it kept
ÌýÌýÌýÌý²õ³Ù³Ü³Ù³Ù±ð°ù¾±²Ô²µ,
All the alleyways and side streets blocked with stops and
ÌýÌýÌýÌý³¦´Ç±ô´Ç²Ô²õ.

I know this labyrinth so well - Balaclava, Raglan, Inkerman,
ÌýÌýÌýÌýOdessa Street -
Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea
Street. Dead end again.
A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon face-shields. Walkie-
ÌýÌýÌýÌýtalkies. What is
My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going? A
ÌýÌýÌýÌýfusillade of question- marks.