On a grey, wet winter day I gathered my stick about me and walked into town. I was tired and sore and grumpy, and in need of poetry. Balm for my bruises.
You may be thinking that I have any number of poetry books in the house, and easy access to a whole wide world of words, but happenstance meant I’d already got a ticket for a poetry reading. L had done the hard work, I just turned up.
The reading was by Ciaran Carson, and he surprised me greatly. Melodic Irish airs played on a marching band flute. Who knew marching band flutes didn’t come pre programmed with The Sash? (Now, that’s a link I’d never imagined posting…)
Carson was reared through Irish, learning English outside the home. He talked about the differences between words and meanings and languages. Somehow, I’m now interested in the word ‘fetch‘ which he described as having haunted him for years. So many meanings, such interpretation, variety and storytelling.
In discussion about ‘other’ worlds, he was asked if he believed in such things, or if it was just a good story. “Just a good story? Just?”
The story telling, the use of language, the words: that is what interests him. And his use of them caught my imagination, brought my self away from my piddly little bruises, and sparked my mind.
Carson’s poem Belfast Confetti can be heard, and seen, over at The Poetry Archive. It’s worth the trip