There is a rainbow
over the hills,
there is a sparkle
in your eyes.

There is a smile
on the face of Spring,
there is a twinkle in the sky.
Trees have always known,

flowers glow in the dark.
No one is alone:
it’s raining Light!
We are not dreaming:

it’s raining Light!

© Frédéric Georges Martin


I, writer of poems unable
to rise above mere doggerel,
declare this to be
my last will and testament.

I appoint Summer butterflies
as my personal representatives
to administer this will.
I give and bequeath

my poems to the Wind
my heart to the Night
my dreams to the Sea
my love to the Stars.

Bury me somewhere near a tree.
Draw an ankh, plant snowdrops,
then please shed a tear of joy:
they will bloom earlier next year.

He’s so kind:
the Gardener won’t mind,
and my soul will smile
for a little while.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Un chemin qui mène
au royaume du hêtre
et des fougères immémoriales,
forêt initiatique.

Un chemin pour aller le soir
toucher de l’âme
la brume évanescente
sur l’étang silencieux,

et pour marcher à l’aube
jusqu’à la grande clairière,
certain de ne point rêver
en se fondant dans la Lumière.


A path in the forest
that only the Soul can take.
A walk to see
through the eyes of fern fronds

the mist over the pond
the green moon over trees
the Dryads
and the Wizard,

and only one morning
to unveil
the mystery of life
the mystery of death.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


illustration: Forest Path
(Renoir, 1875)

Snowdrops and budding barberry,
birds singing in the hedge,
memories under the ivy: even in Winter
there is some beauty in the cemetery.

I must say you were right:
no one can replace a mother.
Yet I never will lay flowers on your grave:
they can save those in Hell.

Why did you drag
her name through the mud?
I know you cry tears of blood.
I’m sorry.

Cold hearts beat slow
in February.
Maybe I’m just not ready.
I know I should,

but I do not forgive you.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Blood-red mountains, purple clouds,
lava winds, pumice stones,
cliffs and screes, gecko thrones,
ochre lands, dust and gold,

and the path that leads to the Sea,
and the garden where fire flowers bloom,
and these swirls in the sands of time,
broken lines on the palm of my hand.

I give up on my dream of light.
I break the spell. I abandon Hope.
And I look for a place in the shade
to bury the bird found dead along

Starry Road.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

What if
I close my eyes?

What if
you cross the Sea?

What if
I hold my breath?

What if
you make the wind chime sing?

What if
I let the breeze carry me?

What if
you let me see?

© Frédéric Georges Martin