Torn-up letters of disdain.
Manuscripts thrown in the bin.
You say you are sorry.

But it is no so easy.
And I must close the book
on printed rainbows.

Raindrop words will never find
their place in the sun.
I give up. You have won.

Success will never come.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: The Book
(Juan Gris, 1913)

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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)

When poets die they go to
a Garden in the Sky.
A garden full of flowers
whatever the season.

It is like a mountain peak
emerging from the clouds,
the peaceful shore of a lake,
the beginning of a Dream.

And they do not awake
until the Sun
has smiled lovingly
upon them.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

I’m happy to let you know that two of my poems are now published : Forgotten Sandcastles and Between Chatou and Croissy. Thanks to John Looker and  Bennison Books I have had the opportunity to take part in the beautiful anthology “Indra’s Net: An international anthology of poetry in aid of The Book Bus”. The Book Bus is a charity which aims to improve child literacy rates in Africa, Asia and South America by providing children with books and the inspiration to read them. The book is available on Amazon UK or Amazon US. Royalties will be given to the Book Bus. Thank you for reading & vive la Poésie!

I’m not a Painter,
but I dream to paint Words
like gate and path
on the wall that separates us.

I’m not a Sculptor
but I would love to carve
a few more poems
from the soft clay of Silence.

Poor me!
I’m not a Musician,
but I’m still desperately trying
to make birds of Nowhere sing.

O God of many Names!
I wish I had time enough
to live and leave as
a true Poet!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

One swallow
will make a summer
but one sparrow
has died in winter.

How brave the bird was!
How poor poets are!
Never ask them to justify
their dreams of flying.

That is unfair.
How could they explain
words
fallen from the sky?

© Frédéric Georges Martin