Ninth Life

Believe my words.
Love is Memory in its purest form.

I
I loved a galley slave madly
and remained faithful.

II
I prostituted myself in Babylon
but never lost my virginity.

III
I denied my homeland
and found my island.

IV
A king abused me.
I found refuge in a silent garden.

V
I took my own life.
I descended into Hell.

VI
I saved many lives,
many more than I lived.

VII
I fell on the fields of honor.
I still feel the flame.

VIII
I sang dark songs
in theaters bathed in light.

IX
And I write poems to remember
everything about my

ninth life.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: The Girls of Avignon
(Picasso, 1097)

Mother Earth

Mother Earth is crying
tears of salt and blood.
Disregard burns her face,

rivers of blue flowers run dry,
and fearsome shadows haunt
the Gardens of the Alhambra.

Do we really want to hear
the Song of the World’s last Whale?
This is not a morality Tale.

Uncaring children
do not know what they are doing.
Who will look after orphans?

Mother Earth is dying!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Sunny Smile

Children of the stars
on a human journey
we have forgotten
the Infinite.

But the Sky remembers
as well as the Bird in us.
It is not afraid of heights.
Not bounded by borders.

We live in a cage
with a door wide open.
Sunny Smile. Sunny World.
Love gives us wings.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Dream / Rêve

If God does not exist,
if I sleep for all eternity
and never watch the Dawn,
never,

I don’t mind.
I’m glad to say
I dared to believe
and so did the Stars.

O Light, I did love you!
And Love was
my most beautiful
Dream.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Si Dieu n’existe pas
si le Sommeil est long,
sans que jamais je ne voie l’aube,
jamais,

je suis heureux
d’avoir osé croire
et de savoir
que les étoiles aussi.

Lumière, je t’ai tant aimé !
Et l’Amour fut
mon plus beau
Rêve.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Instant de lumière © 2018– F.G.M.

 

November Poem

It’s not only children of Autumn
who can make a bouquet of Memories
and write a November poem.

When the wind calmed down
I went to the garden.
I started by collecting
burnt orange and red leaves.
I pressed them between
the yellowed pages of an old dictionary.
I watched the trees,
I gazed at the Moon
and I thought of you.
I did not wait very long.
Then I put my ear
to the book.

BEAUTY
was the first word
that came to me.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Autumn Leaves
(Georgia O’Keeffe, 1924)

Garden of Words / Le Jardin

Let there be a Garden.
A Garden of Words
where the breeze blows slowly
and time goes back.

Ivy covered walls and a bench
facing the beautiful sunrise,
jasmine and clematis
climbing up old pear trees,

small white roses
humbly standing in the light
and shy patient ferns
with closed eyes.

A place like this is rare.
But now we can find it.
Please come whenever you like.
I will always be there.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

De ces quelques mots
je fais un jardin.
Un jardin caché derrière
un mur de lierre.

J’y ai planté du jasmin
qui grimpe dans un vieil arbre sage
et j’y ai mis un banc
d’où l’on voit peut voir

le soleil levant.
Et de petites roses blanches,
et de patientes fougères
aux grands yeux fermés.

Viens !
Ce jardin est le tien.
Et toujours tu pourras
m’y retrouver.

© Frédéric Georges Martin