On a clear and sunny Sunday
behind the railings of a bourgeois house
I saw patient roses in prison.

I thought of those caged birds
whose poignant songs grieve
the deep blue sky.

But the roses were not sad at all.
They were dancing slowly
with the old rusty iron bars.

The flowers had freed my heart
from confusion and impatience:
I was the prisoner!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Roses prisonnières © 2019– F.G.M.

Trees weigh words and light,
and colors drown in the river.
Summer has lost its memory
but gardens remember Spring.

How strange! It seems to me
I am one thousand years old
and I feel like playing again
hide-and-seek with Fall.

I love those ember days
in the breath of the sun.
My soul was born in September:
today is forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Bridge at Montfoucault (Camille Pissaro, 1874)

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.

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.