Plastered teddy bear, lifeless buddy,
you’re staring into space.
It’s like you were sitting patiently,
but what are you waiting for?

Sometimes Fate is unfair:
it leaves old friends all alone
and can suddenly wipe the smile off
a little boy’s face.

O sweet companion, forgotten friend,
your foam filled soul resembles mine!
Yesterday no one saw your tears,
but God knows that you were cold

when the sun went down over the sea
and the first stars in the darkening sky
silently began to align,
then died of grief!

© Frédéric Georges Martin


ours en peluche oublié sur un banc de pierre © 2015 – F.G.M.

Entendre du merveilleux Mystère
l’écho bleu, musical, infini.

Deviner dans nos cœurs, îles dans l’Océan,
l’immensité du Ciel au dessus du ciel.

Apercevoir les étoiles sans nombre
et quand elle brillent dans la Nuit, Dieu.

Et nous savoir héritiers de l’Amour,
plus que nous-mêmes, plus que lumière,

enfants aimés à qui fut donnée dès l’Aube du monde
l’éternité pour apprendre.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


In the realm where Fall
neither begins nor ends
a needy poet found
gold in a river,
amazing treasure
elves hadn’t even bothered to hide.

Singing streams still remember
the wordless prayer
he thankfully wrote on the wind
whispering through the trees,
and for all I know
in the forest of many wonders

he struck it rich.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Forêt de Rambouillet (France) © 2015 – F.G.M.

It is not a leather-bound book
standing proudly on a rosewood shelf.
It does not curse at misbelievers,
and cannot be used as an excuse.

Manuscript penned for every child of God,
calligraphy on silk paper,
it is the Bible of the Poor and consists of
only one word written in all languages.

Both the Blind and the Illiterate
can read those simple lines of light
for the Heart already knows
the Word revealed in the Bible of the Poor,

the only way that we can live,
the only way that we can grow,
the Bible of the Poor,
la Bible de l’Amour.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

oil on canvas 50 x 50.5 cm

I love an Island where fragile flowers defy
both basalt and Death. An Island called Exile.
It is black and red. It belongs to the Sea.
It appeals to the stars, its rocks teach Eternity.

The die is cast, broken Motherland,
and soon it will be time to leave you.
But your language flows through my soul
like a river of fire,

and as long as I can breathe,
I will write on every wall
whether made from silence
or from ignorance,

the word you never should have forgotten:
France, forever in my heart,
may you rest in peace.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Illustration : Ria Munk am Totenbett, Gustave Klimt (1912)

J’aime une île rouge et noire où des fleurs fragiles
avec courage défient le basalte et la Mort.
Une île où la mer inlassablement
chante l’immensité, Dieu, l’éternité,

et j’en fais ma patrie, celle que j’ai choisie.
Ainsi, je me rêve en Exil, loin de toi,
triste Nation dont la langue pourtant,
ce sang brûlant, coule jusque dans mon âme.

Et je sais que Liberté et Fraternité,
sont deux étoiles étincelantes
qui dans mon coeur, en souvenir de toi,
jamais ne s’éteindront.

© Frédéric Georges Martin