She was quiet and almost sad.
Olds ladies were painting.
I could not say anything.
I just threw flowers in the river.

I don’t love you anymore
and I’m going to leave you.
Cruel words a poet should
never say to her muse.

How strangely still the water was!
Did the women notice something?
Flowers danced silently on the Seine.
Lost world in watercolours.

I left without looking back.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Fleurs sur la Seine © 2019– F.G.M.

Imagination is a lace maker,
so when you feel down,
go to the seaside of your dreams
and walk along the tallest cliff.

Make a small white handkerchief
from the cotton clouds.
Think about worries and grief, gather
all the little black pebbles you find.

Wrap them in your handkerchief,
then throw it up in the air.
The Wind hears every prayer.
Make a wish, kiss a clover leaf.

You are lighter than a cloud
floating above the Sea.
Now you feel relieved,
now you can wake up.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Falaises à Fécamp
(Claude Monet, 1881)

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)