from Decarceration




          from Decarceration



Translated from the French by John Taylor



Crepuscular cupules in

pulpy vigils.


The joy of letting

the harrow

level out the soil

of your being.




the inebriation

of running yourself dry




when you find the way out

in others.




Led back, drawn off once again

towards your fluvial and insular



which you struggle to gather

into a single pronoun.




You’re no longer your body you

go beyond yourself like a law

whose revocation

you have demanded.






in which breaks out


a fire that again takes on






the aftermath leaves


incendiary joys

covered with ash




Your breathing rises

thousands of times thousands

and is revived


in a never-ending





Garroted in a continual absence,

this body onto which surfaces and sometimes seeps


an epidermic pain, an






From core to crust,


a long cloak of absence

bedecks you


before showing

on your surface.



—from Désincarcération (©Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2017)


John Taylor’s most recent translations are, from the French, José-Flore Tappy’s Trás-os-Montes (The MadHat Press) and Philippe Jaccottet’s Ponge, Pastures, Prairies (Black Square Editions), as well as, from the Italian, Franca Mancinelli’s The Butterfly Cemetery: Selected Prose 2008-2021 (The Bitter Oleander Press). His most recent books of poetry are Transizioni, a bilingual volume published in Italy by LYRIKS Editore and illustrated by the Greek artist Alekos Fassianos, and Remembrance of Water & Twenty-Five Trees (The Bitter Oleander Press), illustrated by the French artist Caroline François-Rubino. He lives in France.



French originals :


Cupules crépusculaires, en

de pulpeuses veillées.


Joie à laisser

ces labours

te herser







de te tarir


des appartenances


quand tu trouves l’issue

en d’autres.





Reconduit, drainé à nouveau

vers ta solitude fluviale
et insulaire


que tu peines à rassembler

en un seul pronom.





Tu n’es plus ton corps tu

t’outrepasses comme une loi

dont tu as demandé
la révocation.






où éclate


un feu qui reprend







dans le sillage


se cendrent
des joies incendiaires





Ton souffle mille
fois mille fois s’élève et se



dans une systole

qui n’en finit plus.





Garroté dans une continuelle absence,

ce corps où affleure et suinte parfois


une douleur à l’épiderme, un







Du noyau à la croûte,


un long manteau d’absence

pour te parer


avant d’affleurer

à ta surface.



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