Jardin de cendres / Garden of Ashes

Dans le jardin de cendres
les fleurs vivent dans le déni.
De leurs vives couleurs
monte un parfum d’insolence :
contre la sombre évidence,
elles ne croient qu’en la Vie.

Dans mon jardin de pierres
je veux vivre comme elles,
mentir à la Mort
et au noir crépuscule oser parler à Dieu
pour lui dire en retenant mes larmes
“le Paradis c’était ici”.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

In the garden of ashes
flowers live in denial.
They have vibrant colors
and a fragrance of insolence:
against the dark evidence
they only believe in Life.

In my stone garden
I want to live like them,
I want to lie to Death
and if I can hold my tears back
at dusk I will tell God
“Heaven was Here”.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Corner of a Garden (John Singer Sargent, c.1879)

The End / Terminé

Will ashes remember the Fire?
Will the Night hear from the Light?
“I” was a play on words
and so were the shadows of the world.

The stars are veiled, the poet has failed:
nothing will remain
but the dark whiteness of Silence.
THE END.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Les cendres se souviendront-elles du Feu
et la nuit, de la Lumière ?
“Je” était un jeu de mot,
de même que les ombres du monde.

Les étoiles sont voilées, le poète a échoué
et rien ne restera
que l’obscure blancheur du Silence.
TERMINÉ.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: White Line on Black (Jiro Yochihara, 1968)

Clara’s Song / Chanson de Clara

It’s a huge universe
and a strange hue of blue.
Clara, I mean
I don’t blame you.

With all your being
you loved him.
Clara, that’s  true.
There’s light in darkness.

Deep black silence.
Absence and presence.
Clara. Like a sweet
and luminous laughter.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Que l’univers est grand
et cette nuance de bleu,
étrange. Clara, si loin de moi
l’idée de te blâmer.

De tout ton être tu l’aimais.
Clara, c’est vrai.
De l’obscurité
a surgi la Lumière.

Silence noir et profond,
absence et présence.
Clara. Comme un rire
doux et lumineux.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Ophelia (Odilon Redon, c1903)

Abstract Poem

Blue flows, ebony bows,
oriental garden, playful arson,
half a golden sun,
tranquil purple seas, green rays,
agate slices, serene waves,
chimerical swan, concealed wand,
the last star at dawn

and a world beyond.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Composition (János Mattis-Teutsch, 1920)

Song for a mourning Heart

She just said a few words
with a gentle smile
as if she wanted to apologize
for being sad and hopeless.

But you had taken an oath!
He reads your closed lips.
He sees the light in you,
and he will give you a sign!

Those we have lost
did not lose us.
Those who are gone
live deeper than we do.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Girl on a Park Bench (Charle Blackman, 1961)

The Blue Tree

Alice’s dream within a dream
and the far side of the Moon
and the big blue tree
and a Spark of Love.

A sprig of heather
has fallen from the sky.
What is it called
when you see in the dark?

Shadows in the Night
love the shade of stars.
How is it that they die
each time a child awakens?

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: The Blue Tree (Ernst Ludwig Kirchner)

To Autumn

The song of forgotten springs have reached
the dreamer’s heart:
today is the first day of a dream in color.

Last to arrive and last to go is the pale rose’s way.
When it fades butterflies and light will perform
a wonderful mime.

Autumn! Even though we both die at the end
something deep in me will love you
till the end of time!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Afternoon Light, Dogwood (Thomas Kinkade, 1985)

Born in September

Trees weigh words and light,
and colors drown in the river.
Summer has lost its memory
but gardens remember Spring.

How strange! It seems to me
I am one thousand years old
and I feel like playing again
hide-and-seek with Fall.

I love those ember days
in the breath of the sun.
My soul was born in September:
today is forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Bridge at Montfoucault (Camille Pissaro, 1874)

Friend of the Sun

In a small white village
on a lovely sunny morning
I met a funny old lady.

She talked about her life
and we laughed a lot.
How beautiful Taormina was!

But everything ends.
“I have a malignant tumor.”
she said with a smile.

In a small white village
I met a friend of the Sun
and my heart is heavy,

so very heavy.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Blossoming Almonds in Taormina (Tivadar Kosztka Csontvary, 1902)