Instead of watching tv
I could have gone to your garden.
There you had grown sunflowers
and planted a walnut tree.

But I did not care at all
and didn’t try to cross the wall.
The walnut tree was cut down,
sunflowers turned all to dust,

and now, you’re so far away.
Unsaid words weighs heavy
on my heart. Yet I still dare
to hope it’s not too late.

Daddy! What a wonderful garden!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the Gardener
Georges Seurat (1884-83)

the-bench

Poetry is not so much about writing
as it is about watching and listening.

That is how I know
you were sitting on that bench,

hidden in the light,
whispering words of love.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Banc dans la lumière © 2016 – F.G.M.

When the blackbirds are back,
when the rain makes them sing again,
the shy masters of the garden
will tell us about little things

like the green lined joy of snowdrops,
the ruby beauty of cherry trees,
spider webs glistening with dew
or the Second Spring revealed anew,

and if we stay quiet long enough
we may hear a few more words of Hope
there is never one Sunrise the same
and the best is always yet to come.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

The nights get colder and colder.
Without a sound
the red oak leaves
are falling on the ground.

Snails and ferns
before they sleep or die
can now watch
faint stars in the sky.

Yesterday
Summer was buried.
The wind blew,
a pale flower worried.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

the-kitchen-garden-gustave-caillebotte

I sowed tiny seeds of words
like aspen, maple, rowan
and got three magnificent trees.

I thought of lilies and bees
and wrote a few lines
about rosemary and thyme,

then I drew an alley and a Door
where ivy hadn’t crept the wall
and goldenrod was standing tall,

and this was neither art nor poetry
but rather a garden beyond memory,
such a pretty place to see you again.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: the Kitchen Garden, Gustave Caillebotte (1877)

Claude Monet, The House at Giverny Viewed from the Rose Garden (1922-1924)

My garden, my friend,
I won’t go away
without saying farewell
without thanking you.

The old cherry tree knows much
about hope and gratitude,
and I’ll certainly learn from its knotted branches
one last lesson of patience and fortitude.

I smile to the white butterfly
flying in the blue light of bliss:
wildflowers seeds will ever stay
under the magic spell of Summer winds,

but I know I’m going to leave you
without looking back,
for no flower has ever grown
from a gardener’s tear.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration : la maison vue du jardin aux roses,  Claude Monet (1922-1924)