Ornamental grasses
wave seductively in the wind,
flowers dream of freedom
in carefully aligned pots,
cleomes and roses grow
under the wooden arches
and poplars teach maples
how to touch the sky.
Let’s walk on the gravel path!
The place looks like
a wonderfully light-filled painting.
Summer is the painter’s name,
and butterflies can’t keep it secret:
Love is a garden!
© Frédéric Georges Martin
~
Le jardin de l’île des Ibis © 2019– F.G.M.
He lives a billion light years away.
He surfs the gravitational waves.
He has found galaxies
in the shadows of quasars.
Cosmological dream.
He gently kissed Andromeda,
and neither time nor space
could keep them apart.
Poet of the Night
in love with the stars
gone before
the break of dawn.
© Frédéric Georges Martin
The more countless stars gleam vividly,
the more words live intensely.
Enthralling paradox of the divine Scheme:
everything is both false and true.
But we too are alive like in a lucid dream
and Love will stay this wonderful Blue.
© Frédéric Georges Martin
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.
One minute
to have a lifelong dream
with you.
One minute
to watch the shadows of clouds
moving silently on ocher mountains.
One minute
to gaze upon a small white church
bathed in the sunset light.
And one minute
to walk hand in hand
leaving no trace in the sand.
© Frédéric Georges Martin
In a small white village
on a lovely sunny morning
I met a funny old lady.
She talked about her life
and we laughed a lot.
How beautiful Taormina was!
But everything ends.
“I have a malignant tumor.”
she said with a smile.
In a small white village
I met a friend of the Sun
and my heart is heavy,
so very heavy.
© Frédéric Georges Martin
~
Illustration: Blossoming Almonds in Taormina (Tivadar Kosztka Csontvary, 1902)
(For Alexandra)
Fire under the ashes.
The wind blows.
The sea roars.
I love an Island.
Maybe I should say
an Island loves me.
Silence speaks louder,
my heart beats faster,
my soul flies higher.
I burn for an Island.
Maybe I should say
an Island burns me.
© Frédéric Georges Martin
