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.

ART & LOVE (ZJG Isfahan Notebook)

Waiting for the half-hourly

green Zuklin bus

sitting on a wooden slatted

bench without a backrest

but still better than sitting

on the stone paved floor

as many Easterners will do.

Opposite me a man paces up

and down

his blue shirt acts like a flag

in the sudden breeze.

He is all over a woman in

a summery dress when she

appears

parking her VW next to his.

She turns and giggles as he

comments on her dress that

clings to her body line by

the sudden breeze.

Left from my sighting the

ÖBB Wiesel has arrived

At Weidling’s station and

is poised for a take-off to

downtown Vienna.

The traffic flows at a slower

pace than usual.

The sun blazes down in

an attempt to undress us

altogether.

Boutique Catwalk places

a sun sail to protect its

exposed fashion for sale.

The cars pass in front of

the bus stop with continual

tenacity

speeding up natural life.

A dark-haired woman with

conscription glasses takes

a seat next to me

but feels an urge to get up

and walk.

I notice a car’s number plate

Sticking out her black knapsack.

She walks toward the ÖBB

station Weidling.

Her terracotta coloured

short pants

become a blur in the distance.

The air is heated up

but clouds gather and block out

the dog teeth of the sun.

Mrs Ira phones to postpone

afternoon’s work at her Art Shop.

Good timeous call

I’ll buy some watermelon

at a Spar shop nearby.

It’s an aesthetic ritual to cut

and eat the pink coloured

watermelon

reminding me of sun-drenched

beaches at a Greek Island

heated skins

wholesome Med-food

the holistic love of a Muse

dedicated to Art & Love.

ART & LOVE. EVOL & TRA

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

JOY (ZJG Isfahan Notebook)

I was a happy kid

by genes and nature

roaming the fields of

nearby soft-hilled Pannonia

exploring limits of freedom

given in holistic art.

I became a happy city slicker

taking on the world of

science and art

with a conscious mind

still shaping my answers

with creative art

to the environs of restless

life

yet its innocence stolen.

I was still in a positive mind

seeking happiness abroad

in an African adventure

that bit a great piece off

happiness in marriage.

I am going-by at days

not unusually depressed

about my failures –

as my spouse calls it –

with a last ditched effort

to provide

better for a ripe old age.

But I’m looking back at

times of greater bliss

with my Muse and my

best output in art

I’ve done in my whole life.

I paint what I write

I write what I paint!

This state had been enticed

and promised by my Muse

to keep me going with

utmost inner joy.

Joy.yoJ

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

 

 

 

YoYo Weather (ZJG Isfahan Notebook)

Muggy days of last week

mid July

wore down everybody

in a giant pressure cooker.

Mr T not his usual self

his mind tossed into a

searing labyrinth

with lapses of his memory

stepping aside his promises.

The muggy atmosphere

downtown

has laid the active minds

into slumber.

Neither yesterday nor

today

business seems to run

as smoothly as it used to

at the Art Shop

abandoned by the staff’s

absence.

Yet Mr T today reaches into

his dressing gown’s pocket

and pays me the minimal

amount anticipated

complaining his mind not

working properly.

At times he amazes us

recalling details from his

youth

but forgetting what he did

a few minutes ago.

B has walked to Lower Wei’s

shopping area to buy some

groceries

indicating she would prep us

a delicious meal.

Now what’s the catch?

Tired from the day’s activities

I still feel fine

but sense the tit for tat

services from this competition

of one spouse for some

financial benefit to further

her fashion hunger.

After all she could never reach

her dream becoming a

professional model and

an independent fashion designer

creating her own brand.

She had great talent but missed out

to secure pecuniary support.

Is she competing besides some

common survival

with my own creative output

in the arts?

In spite of what she calls

Mental coitus interruptus

I have also not yet collapsed

From oscillating heat and cold

B calls: Yo-Yo weather.

Yo-Yo.oY-oY

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

He Sat Quietly Today (ZJG Isfahan Notebook)

He sat today quietly

at her choice of Café

she chose for her mood

and contemplation

rushing downtown

pulling him along

not listening to his words

or the serious state of

his mind.

Working down time related

stress of the past few days

with nervous vibes from

his spouse

who suffers from continual

irritation of her sympathetic

nerves.

Ce ca. He listens to his

mental friend Albert

whose talk refreshes

be it a philosophy of

naked existence

or some new ways

presenting a novel

he discusses with Albert

any time.

Novel.levoN

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.

At 23:12 (ZJG Red Notebook).

At 23:12 the poet lets

the ghosts of his past free

like the newspaper that

might print the truth.

She’s hurt she says

but she’s been hurt a

long time ago.

So has he

by his bride to be.

The law of causation will

drive his life on board of

a ship for sailing to the

tip of Africa.

For he seeks an adventure

to crust over his hurt

while protecting his spouse

from pursuits of shallow

characters

promising her a good life

just to be laid.

At 24:00 he watches movies

on YouTube

enjoying classics with

Humphrey Bogart and

Burt Lancaster

while his spouse views TV

all day and half of the night

living her life in the larger room

next door his kitchen domain.

There’s no understanding

below the same roof

but away from it there’s

pleasant talk and better

understanding.

This’ll be the bug of WU?

There are no winners

in a partnership of 47 years

where feuds continue about.

The slightest mishap will

spark an instant skirmish

not to escalate  blow up

and burn to ashes

one will need to swallow

one’s own pride

and live quietly one’s life.

This sounds easy but will

need a helluva effort

living sparsely and save up

use all one’s talents:

Publish eBooks with XinXii

and try to carry on with

one’s artistic self-realization.

ART.TRA

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

Voila

Fortunate to miss two groups

of secondary school classes

visiting A/F.

Sat at Anker sipping an espresso

wrote an art card I kept in my bag

from an artist called ZG.

Bought fair trade roses

burnt orange colour

returned a huge art bag to A/F

where V conducted another

tour for an elderly couple.

Birthday child Nica had already

eloped

so I placed the roses into a vase

and the art card into an envelope

phoned Nica to let her know.

Later Mr T queried the envelope

‘Is that money?’

For whom?

It’s time he paid his dues to his

Staff.

Tomorrow would be a good day

for only that

but today’s work as a guide sat

heavily on his shoulders.

Will logistic and design work

offered by Mrs Ira come finally to

fruition?

Voila.alioV

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.