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.

A Funeral

Who’ll rejoice on a day like

This?

The ceremony in full swing

Has drawn a couple of hundred

Mourning people

For this tragic death

Victim of an accident.

Was it?

Especially for the son who has

To bury his beloved father

Loved by all in his community.

There are many questions and

No answers.

A delivery van reversing back

From a dead end street

Closed for traffic.

The unfortunate man walked

At that moment from the

Corner synagogue across the

Back of the van.

The pet would be interested

In the protocol.

Unfortunately there were

No witnesses

Or are they afraid to come

Forward?

After the funeral service

Workers and participants

Take shovels and bury the

Coffin. It’s dead still.

The only murmuring you hear

Is the cantor’s reciting prayers.

For me – guide to Mr T –

It’s sad to think that he was

A victim of an accident

Or was it negligence on behalf

Of the driver who supposed

To make sure there was nobody

Behind his van when reversing

From a state of parking?

SUV.VUS

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19

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Tree of Life

Symbol of life: The tree of life.

Many artists walked around it

Admired it

Drew and painted it

Whatever fruit it bore

Bitter quince

Or pomegranate sweet.

Like women who came forward

In the life of an artist:

Sweet or sour pussies.

Have you experienced

Sweet rose-red petals or

Powder blue coves?

A peek into the lost garden

Of Eden?

Or into the red-tide beaten

Oyster banks?

Whatever.

In between rose-red petal’s

Sweet scented folds

The poet danced around the

Specific tree of life

His Muse crowned with

Olive leaves

Silvery and dusty green

A vessel for rich ripe fruit

Peaches and green apples

Chanting songs of poets

To the tree of life.

LIFE.EFIL

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

Hermannskogel

Familiar face of pale-red

Karl-Marx-flat buildings

Elongated shadows of man

And trees

Like ghosts from a pre-dorm era

Dreaming on in a bus ride

End station Sievering.

The ‘Gspöttgraben’s’ uphill walk

In midway break’s cops of trees

Posting their wintry structures

Against a pale-blue sky.

The final push for a break

Called ‘Heaven’

With kids playing slides on

Surviving snow and ice.

My soul rejoices with the dusky

Appearance of trees of life in a

Backlit biosphere park set as an

Amphitheatre.  

Nature’s graphic art of order

In chaotic density of branches

Blackened like charcoal against

The white-blue skies.

Walking through vistas of scenic

Tree cops lit up through the lantern

Of a wintry sun

Yet turn around completely and

Enjoy the real colour of birches

And oaks.

A snowy icy patch on the way

Towards Hermannskogel

A snow covered ‘Kogelwiese’

People sliding on the last snow

Of winter

Up and up towards ‘Habsburgwarte’

Rest until the waning sun demands

You should return.

Finally, passed the cut back

Vineyards in wintry slumber

You spot a sign: ‘Haseleckersteig’

Where your shadow will be

Passed you in El Greco style.

‘Uferweg’.

‘Sievering’.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

Erminia

Just for a few words

You wouldn’t mind

To read them. Would you?

This moment in time

Waking from a dream

With the soul’s

Pleasant extensions.

It has been no twist of fate

To have met you

In midst a mixed crowd

Of celebrating friends

And those recalling their

Historical fate

The poet had accompanied

His friend was drawn

To your presence

Got on with you like

A house on fire.

How extraordinary.

Wouldn’t you say?

For letting the heart speak

The artist in me would like

To meet the artist in you.

Would you not?

I am sure I would be glad

To have the chance for

A portrait session

Let creativity have its say.

Non e vero?

Erminia.ainimrE

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

To Be Human

‚Mensch sein ist ermüdend

Hast du das auch schon

Festgestellt?’

To be human is quite tiring

Have you found that as well?

To be human means work

To become one

Have you noticed my man

From foreign lands?

To be a good human being

Means to work on yourself

Everyday

And don’t tell me that I’m

A racist

If I’m trying to teach you

A bit of Western culture

As you have taken chances

To come and stay here.

I’ve been to Africa for a long

Time and although I’ve found

Friendship and respect and

Learned a new language

Just one criminal act of invading

My private space at home

Has ruined my believe

In a country we could have

Shared together in peace and

With goodwill

Just like Madiba had envisaged

And preached.

And yet you’ve turned the tables

And then left your land

To seek an easier life abroad

Where people enjoy the fruit

Of their forebears

Who worked very hard for it.

Are you prepared to do the same?

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

Omen

Through some good omen

We succeeded meeting in town

And once we had a rest in the

Speed trains lounge

Watching the coming and going

Of airport travelers

Then departed with B’s wish

To catch some groceries at

Gourmet Spar’s near Opernring./

Then as we advanced to the lift

From the Opera Passage

That takes one up from subway

Level to the street a familiar face

Appeared with shoulder-bag and

A pack of groceries: P the fashion

Designer-artist-photographer

Great conversationalist./

His bag is heavy, his shopping too

And our invite to the opera café

Seemed to be a good way of

Continuing a conversation that

Had started for the poet last time

At this café and seems to carry on

Between creative minds./

Besides P has taken the role of

Gentle pacifier with humor and

Multiple facets of experiences

In a historically tainted atmosphere

Of being away from life at a dormant

Provincial municipality of a grand

Religious foundation based on

Saint Leopold

B says she cannot stand./

While her spouse changes into

A poet-artist-writer-trifactor state

Morphing about in his creative

Moods.

She cannot morph.

She turns angry when designer P

Is not around

With whom she had many talks

About fashion./

Some good omen outside our

Involuntarily apportioned bedsitter

Forced upon us by the unsocially

Orientated forces of society –

Warm dry humorous get together

Of associated artistic minds.

OMEN.NEMO

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

PELL-MELL

For some time I recalled works of Henty James, but now his thought about art made me refresh my own responses as well. ZZ.

zoltanzelan

It is art that makes life

Makes interest

Makes importance…

And I know of no substitute

Whatever for the force and

Beauty of its process.

Writes
Henry James.

It’s music
that makes life

Makes
interest

Makes order
to your priorities

And entices
you to feel a swing

Taking hold
of you

Facilitating
the adventure

Of your own
creative process

And
innermost extensions.

It is
poetry that makes my life

That
creates an endless interest

And makes
out life’s importance

Viewed from
a star above

Seen from
the depth of the Med.

Nothing
could substitute these

Recurring
happenings

Since my
Muse Anna had guided

My
awakening talent

Toward this
spur of pell-mell.

PELLMELL.LLEMLLEP

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

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