John Taylor
Anne-Marie Donaint-Bonave, « Celadon », 2018
Celadon
perhaps at the beginning
the cracks were etched
who knows
do you know
how they filled with glaze
who or what
had spread the glaze
over the surface of your life
you were anxious about intervals
about absence
empty spaces
as if separated
by more than skin and air
from others dashing away
in predictable directions
while playing hide-and-seek
over the lawns
in sultry summer
in chilly autumn
now you look back
often you look back
at patterns on the surface
the foreseeable hiding places
the figures emerge at dusk
they are unmoving
as if the playing were over
everything had been settled on
settled up
circles and spoke wheels
inescapable continuities itineraries
eyes eyelids
hearts and hands
were you free
who were you
when you ran haphazardly over the grass
sometimes through the flowers
through landscapes and languages
when you look on closely
from afar
you understand so little
or all too well
when you remember
and anticipate the night
when the mothers will call you in
all of you
when all will come full circle
like this celadon in your hand
with its radiuses and inner circles
leading back to the ultimate center
only hours have gone by
and will vanish
John Taylor, born in 1952, is an American writer, critic, and translator who has lived in France since 1977. His most recent books of poetry and short prose are If Night is Falling (Bitter Oleander Press), The Dark Brightness (Xenos Books), Grassy Stairways (The MadHat Press), and Remembrance of Water & Twenty-Five Trees (Bitter Oleander Press). He is also a translator of French and Italian poetry. His most recent translations are Philippe Jaccottet’s A Calm Fire and Other Travel Writings (Seagull Books) and Franca Mancinelli’s The Little Book of Passage (Bitter Oleander Press).