From The New Yorker
Like the work of many of his Irish contemporaries, Carson's is a poetry of unlikely juxtapositions. In "Belfast Confetti," a bomb punctuates the poet's day: "Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion / Itself—an asterisk on the map." Carson's rhymes are virtuosic—"lips" and "lapse" "Antipodes" and "tippy-toes"—but such frills nurture rather than obscure his evocations. In an early poem, a woman throws soot on her flower beds and waits for spring, when "it would emerge softly / As the ink-bruise in the pansy's heart."
Copyright © 2005 The New Yorker --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
Copyright © 2005 The New Yorker --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
