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)

Cosmic Vertigo

Our star, the Sun.
One hundred billion stars
in the Milky way, our home galaxy.
One hundred billion galaxies
in the Universe,
and countless universes.

Cosmic Vertigo.
Cosmic harmony.
Cosmic necessity.
We are tiny grains of light
without which
Infinity is not infinite!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

The Word

There is no word for
the depth of darkness.
No word for
the light of stars.
No word for
the Spring.
No word for
the miracle of being.
No word for
the boundlessness of Love
and no word for
the power of

the Word.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Sunny Spell

if only I could lift
the curtains of rain

if only you could
stop the flow of time

the Sun would break
through clouds

and the world would be
created again

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: The Sun
(Edvard Munch,  1911)

Droplets of Time

They were not mere raindrops
sliding down my father’s car windows.
They were colliding and merging worlds.
A game of creation and annihilation.

Droplets of Time, tears of the Soul.
My father’s car is long gone
but I still wonder at the power
of a child’s imagination.

And when it starts raining
there are neither where nor why.
The Silence in my heart helps me
to clarify some of Life’s great mysteries.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Confession

I build crystal cathedrals
then I take a special delight
in destroying all of them.

I like when sharp shards
hurt my child heart.
I love when it aches and bleeds.

Yes, I have to concede
I’m a bit of a masochist.
Besides, Someone told me

you are your own worst enemy.
But what wouldn’t I do to grasp
the beauty of suicide poetry?

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the Death of Ophelia
(Odilon Redon, 1905)

How not to be a poet

I don’t write poems.
Primroses and the sky
do the hard work.

I don’t need a silver pen,
but I treasure words like Spring
and I listen to the shy wren.

Then I sit under the Tree
that grows from light to light
and the bird tells me

how not to describe
how not to be a poet
just how to sing in tune.

© Frédéric Georges Martin