In the 239-bus

a ride for holding on

by the seat of one’s pants.

The smell of cabbage soup

kiosk type wrapped food

of rancid body odours.

Hopping along in a rhythmic

Hancock-bounce over grey

cobblestones of a Viennese

road design tradition.

At Holy City’s stop the wale of

the sickened bus spews out

its entire content.

People rush like a shoal of fish

gape-mouthed into the open

past casual news stands

the familiar homeless paper

seller.

The sound of knocking shoes

murmuring conversation

singing of a female refugee

echoes through the access

tunnel connecting to the trains.

Catching the next U4 train to

the city’s core many will rush

Time: Two minutes to take-off.

At last jockeying past the slow

walkers has ended

finding a red seat in traveling

direction of this train

noting down poetic ideas into

the red moleskine notebook.

For a Saturday lunchtime enough

passengers travel

while the poet misses his usual

yoghurt treat from Nica

more so to study new angles

for her portrait

she’d asked for cautiously.

Today’s a solo visit at boesner’s

artist requisite supermarket

where one finds everything

needed to express one’s own art

but let the postman deliver the

yearly comprehensive catalogue

as Mona has encouraged the

artist who lives close to the poet’s

heart.

A fortnight ago she left the party

too early and the artist found

himself as a lost soul drowning

in the red cabernet-sea of loneliness

where he’d lost his conscious to

reality and painted with his soul.

He fell from the heavens of solitude

like a stone –

That’s how Icarus must have felt –

Falling onto a sea made of

tempered glass.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POEtry’16.

OFFER

On the third day of January 2020

It hardly feels as New Year

Rather the dried out extension

Of the old one

Which had been drowned in the

Oversupply of quenching that thirst.

Same hangover

Same dissatisfaction of contemp

People

Same grey days in the Northwest

Hamlet of Weidling

Where the poet should rather enjoy

The aura of famous poets

Who walked the tree-studded

Alleyways

And densely forested paths

Along the blubbering brook.

Bad luck if you live in an area

Outside the city of Vienna

Where local council summons

You to bus fees

Double the ones in Vienna

Albeit the half reduction for

Senior folk

Who had to pay already for

A yearly membership fee.

No mean feat in a social

Democracy?

It’s a fight –

The cast-aside

Educated people share with

The under-privileged

The jobless

The homeless

The day-labourers.

If at least there would be

Willingness to communication

Addressing these important

Issues that seem grossly

Imbalanced all agree.

A healthy New Year to all.

‘See what the new government

Will offer’…

The poet has been told by the

Bus traffic organization.

OFFER.REFFO

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

Love Below the Sea

Love Below the Sea
by ZG

The tired sun drowns

Its sorrows

Wine-red beads of

Drunken tears

Pearls of love upon

The Nereids

Sunken treasures from

The deep

Beams of love’s secret

Thoughts

Reflect in a myriad of

Intricate patterns

And souls commute every

Night to Poseidon’s

Translucent illuminated

Concert hall

Dancing singing festive

Floats

Diverge and fuse again

To open and to close

Turn loose

Tighten their lyre strings

Into sets of magical chain light

Lanterns play               

Across the Med’s expansive

Blue

And a drowned soul’s tarantella

Performs

Until the break of dawn.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

End Year – SELF

Goodby for now

Two-roomed apartment

Recluse of a poet and womb

For an artist at heart

Pleasant and inspirational

Filled with the silent aura

Of a supportive Muse

Tender to the sensible heart

And healing touches for the

Wounds of verbal abuse

By the hurt of a spouse

Who had been mistreated

In parts of her topsy-turvy

Life

A supportive hanger-on

To her spouse at times

Who’d be fighting all his life

For being an acknowledged

Artist.

But only another artist could

Understand this artist’s issues

And his striving for

Self-realization.

SELF.FLES

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

CONSUMING

In this present age of consuming

Like the last days of living have

Arrived

People travel to follow adverts:

The most visited sites on our

Blue planet –

Coliseum/Louvre/Vatican Museum/

Statue of Liberty/Eiffel Tower/

As presented on the Internet.

In the same breath

I noticed the value of art.

While shot-up in monetary terms

It diminishes in value

Even to a duct-taped banana.

A perfect depiction that it has been

Stranded

On a remote island of

Loneliness.

Be it Cattelan in Art Basel

Or KAWS’ Donnelly in Melbourne’s

National Gallery of Victoria

Hit the nail on its head with:

‘Companionship in the Age of

Loneliness’.

Cheers to all observers.

Art lives.

Life’s Art.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

AHEAD

On the last days

At year’s end

The poet looks back

Summarizes life during 2019:

Starting in January

To have his right knee joint

Replaced

With steel and porcelain

A rehab in Baden

Meet new compatriots

Work hard to exercise the

Operated knee

Get better and help Mr T.

Finalize writing ‘The King of Ice’

Publish and order copies of the

New book.

Mrs Ira appears as the poet’s

New Muse

With many projects of creative

Writing

Perhaps the kick start of

Drawing a new cycle in love.

Looking forward to a New Year

2020 ahead.

Ahead.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

SUN

On the second day of X-mas

The poet came across

A Classical music performance:

Jaqueline du Pre and Daniel

Barenboim

Directing the London

Symphony Orchestra

What a treat!

Reminding the poet of times

In Southern Africa

Within a wide group of friends

In discussions about life and

Family ties

The philosophy of getting ahead

In one’s personal development.

On the second day of X-mas

Life has presented itself with

Problems

One had never thought will

Be important to one’s later

Life

While dwelling in the sun of

The Southern African continent

As for some the sun is all

Important

For others born in the ascent

Of the sun

It’s very important

Like food to stay sweet

For others like one’s spouse

It’s the milk

On which life’s dependent on.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

My Big C

Some call it Boxing Day

And others: Second X-mas Day

The poet calls it ‘A Day of Hearts’

While he converses with his Muse

Who wears the hat of a ready and

Able collocutor.

And while he exchanges

Life’s stories with her

He had not felt so colloquial

For some time

Meaning the flow of chemistry

And energy

Between them

Just so wonderful.

My Big C.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.