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.

B’s morning song

20150225_093837-1B sings her morning song

praising a life in the sun

we do not have an inkling

of in February’s Weidling

for her life revolves around

her heart’s own drum beat

I suppose to follow.

But yesterday’s fight with

misunderstandings on end

lingers on

besides a night with

interrupted sleep.

Her own demeanor

verbally underlined

with continual comments

questions and answers

oozes her anger if I would

not agree.

Is this a life together?

In my kitchen corner

domain I’ve drawn back

to and regroup to her

manic depressive state.

Since years we would have

already separated

if not for economies and

a roof above our heads:

That is the golden key

in these windswept

Austrian lands.

Welcome to the cage

Of basic survival

Yet another spring is

on its unstoppable way.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry’17.

The 239 Bus Ride Poems – Virtual Scene

On a pink-clouded day

Along the Danube River

The sun like a huge stage light

Illuminated a virtual scene

Riding along bus 239

I gathered I knew only

As usually quite drab.

What is it on this Wednesday

Morn’ that has influenced

The way I feel?

Perhaps the New Year still

In it’s infancy

But serious thoughts about

Its growing up?

Life might offer a respite

From living in between

Air pollution and the hope

Of an escape to an Island

In the Med.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry ’17.tavola armenica (2)

Weidling. Weidling Station

Weidling, Weidling station.

Bipa. Buy Odol Med 3

gum action gargle. OK.

Fewa soft tissues by the time

241 bus arrives

stops at Weidling station

all’s forgotten.

The mind flies ahead

to Nica

friendly co-worker at

Gallery du Juif.

No more bad vibes

no more moaning in

continual batches

about a life undeserved

to end without any help:

It’s all mon marie’s fault

as she derives from an

academic family

and would have deserved

better at her age.

She’s unhappy and if angry

she states to be unhappy

during all her life

and he provokes her

to be rude

in an exchange of words

about mere trivialities.

While he’s active

creating works of art

she lacks an outlet for her

talents

creating  fashion-accessories.

She’s on about me to have

a good day in downtown

Vienna

where I sit in a gallery

laminating art-photographs

snapshots of an unhappy

man’s sweethearts

who revels in his virile past.

gnildieW. gnildieW.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.

aneladgaM

If you’ll experiencing her

throwing a tantrum

a loose electrical wire

sizzling with sparks

you’ll have to take a hike

strike bus 241

uphill main street.

Arrive ten minutes later

at a historical place

with 900 years below

your feet

most people do not even

realize consciously

yet the sense of that spot

Will eventually get to you.

Beautiful skies

forever spreading hues

in blue variations.

Your session with healing

massages and gymnastics

begins again just now

pity that Magdalena isn’t

scheduled for it all the time.

A new thing ‘s in the growing

some changes with friends

will affect us all.

For the creative side

all’s in the inner brewing

something new will emerge.

Aneladgam.

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

Abandoned but Never Lost

You never should forfeit

to keep good friends

and friendly neighbours.

This bi-weekly trek

from the valley

near the Viennese Woods

has been a worthwhile

hourly effort there and back.

Spending one whole day

a month

appears to be the sacrifice

for making some cash

you’ll need one day

publishing your art.

But who’ll care about it?

For some readers you have

given away your art

like drops of blood from

a body’s battered life.

Viv – misunderstood by peers

and friends

appears whenever you leave

a message to be in town

assisting with a gallery’s

administrative tasks.

For more than an hour your

minds touch and query

matters of general and

personal interests.

It feels like the ebb and flow

of a search for the truth.

Her touch of fingers

feels delicate

sensual extensions of her

being

translucent spirit of a violinist

talented performer of

Classical compositions

standing still in the shadows

of the Place du Juif

abandoned but never lost

to her artist-friend.

Ce ca.

 

Zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

Crass Fraud

He read on facebook’s posting site:

The problem with the world is

that the intelligent people are full

of doubts

while the stupid ones are full of

confidence.

Indeed! He knocked his head

with his clenched fist.

How stupid were you my friend

your brain filled with 77 years of

experience

but it seems to be only seven years

at one time

letting yourself to be drawn into

a confidence scam:

Promises of easy earned cash –

There’s never such a thing based

on honesty

you should have listened

to your inner voice

the genuine warnings of your soul.

Damned!

No use of swearing.

No use of crying over spilled milk!

Get-up from the floor

flattened by crass fraud.

Delusions of wealth

celebratory orgies of flesh and

mind!

Dust yourself off

start saving-up again.

No gain without pain.

No love without sacrifice.

Evol – Niap.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.

A Day Starting with a Bad Bang

I read in the morn’ from

“SIX NIGHTS ON THE ACROPOLIS”

By George Seferis:

Our loving-kindness, our best intensions: how briefly

they hold out against the millstone of fate.

If only one could at least work, could consecrate oneself

like a passionate artisan, with humility –

Not this wasteful struggle for one’s daily bread.

 

INDEED. The struggle will only stop

if one falls over, dead.

Until then one should use time to create

wonderful scenes of imaginary landscapes

depicted from the varying images of the soul.

The counterbalance to one’s physical efforts

to keep bad things at bay and master the pitfalls

of daily living.

 

The painted frame that slides from one’s hand

and knocks down onto the tiled stone floor

of the Heiligenstadt station.

The glass all shattered with cracking noise.

There’s no way back home to replace it.

The way forward is to find a glass work in

Korneuburg, opposite the army barracks,

Koppel is the name.

The plush cab charges eight Euro for a smooth

Short ride in a big Beemer.

The new glass will be done, by good luck,

immediately, the receptionist stated.

Standard glazing 30 x 40 cm.

WOW. Seven Euro.

 

A man appearing with his wife offers to take

me back to town. Great. He wants me to

step out his car in the City’s Square, but his

spouse insists to drop me at the hospital.

UH! Saved a fare to replace the glass.

Then at last I will get some praise from

my surgeon: She loves my painting and I am

pleased to please her with my art.

 

Her exam of my scar is favourable and she

asks me to walk up and down without pants.

I wonder what she thinks checking my

nude posture. She must like it.

Later she smiles again looking at my painting:

A poet’s license showing her as an apprentice

to the art of replacing artificial joints

to knees and hips.

I am glad I built a good tacit understanding

with her immediately, when she took me

as a patient.

Inviting her for a visit to the gallery

I work at some times, telling her about

its dedicated function.

For now Werner entertains me with some stories

asking me to phone him at my next visit to the

hospital

as he lives nearby.

He shows off giving me a lift in his small Merc

letting me out at the station.

A day that started with a bad bang

ending half way with a smile.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry’17.