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


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


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.




chemistry & passion

chemistry & passion

to fall in love over one creative

craft product

sold by the hungry artist

who was there to help her

overcome sadness and depression

an artist knows intuitively lots

and lots about. indeed!

to be committed to sexual love

the artist overpowered by one

decisive oral event

to be his culminating first

be laid like a man

developing a taste for it

apply it later to another woman

as it’s chemistry & passion.

the caring man who placed his

his young wife into his pocket

of course couldn’t keep her there

triangulations seek their victims

for instance: a doc’s prerogative

to fall for his patients?

whatever – man or protector

cannot stop love

in a love triangle one corner loses

or perhaps two will fold

losses are irretrievable

even if an artist will create works

of great art – through pain

a great part of the soul has just

drawn back into its carapace


like a crab into its newfound


shell/ carapace/ protection/

pain forever

chemistry & passion.



two cultures meet

zg-heart 2

viv-elfin of the musical scene

special talent/ dedicated/ ethereal

conscious/ cultural blend/ critical

eyes that’ll look through you

quickly secure a place for you

if you carry yourself a cultural

breeding/ tells you who you are.

‘des gibt’s do ned’ the tipsy woman

from the adjoining table cackles

in basic Viennese dialect

then falls back into high german

coloured by some words tainted

with the local drawl.

the poet talks about his work

asking about her education –

she appears to be uneasy

irritated by the couple’s noisy

silly love-tease talk.

annoyed by fruit-flies chasing

for a sip of wine

the poet touches her arm –

“don’t touch me,” she said as if

stung by a bee

asking for a physical distance

the way of far eastern habits

which is unbearable to the poet

who is not used to behave in

ice-cold indifference

but southern joie du vivre.

could you love somebody and

never touch?

hah! how to dance then?

arms/ legs/ lips/ and penis

cut-off like a tree branch

one huge human sufferer

worthwhile living?

the heart only supported by

a glass of blaufränkischer?

“i hate idiots,” she said

“the world is full of them,”

a voice said.

the poet is silent

‘a tale of two cultures’

he writes.                      zoltanzelan   zjg-poetry’20

med’s blue

le blu

i’ve seen the breeding sun

burn-off your clothes

at the cretan sea


when the poet fell from the

icarian wings

a feather in the cap of apollo’s

wish to keep me reporting

the miracle of love at first sight

while driving up and down

seashores at makrigiallos and

passes to pefki and the place

where kazantzakis showed me

a welcome praise for visiting

his memorial home.

have I found what makes a poet

into a poet? –

it’s been people

people believing in freedom

and in more than that

as entailed in one word:

eleftheria –

i’ve learned

miss it since seven years

but as you can’t put your foot

into the same river twice

the gift of detailed memories

such as a powerful eye of a


longing for the med’s blue

piercing trident into my flesh

spurts of white blood still

bind the soul to land and

sea/ sand/ and ashes/ red clay/

and polished pebbles painted/

beads to play/

faded memories.






les yeux du poete

magenta of the heart

cobalt-blue of light in the soul

spirit of colour-hues

envelopes the floating pair

of soulmates

who left the canvas of chagall

over the roofs of paris

while fuchs loves sulphur-yellow

mornings at villa wagner II vienna

in the bath of his tub’s

marble sculpture with voluptuous

taps like boobs –

in midst blue rays of the poet’s

lonesome soul

frizzles the birth of a point

that grows with a bang from


can you fathom this cobalt-blue


or its height without a horizon

that renders it endless

just like longing

the strongest feeling in love.






this warm august evening

has returned

to be a wondrous quaint

and introvert sitting

at my laptop typing

another post for my readers

as I have noticed that ‘forward’

had been well received by my

loyal and interested readers

instantly : india/ china/ Austria/

france/ UAE/ out of all my


i’m glad i have more than

entertainment values to

transfer to a truth-seeking

world-wide audience.

servus –

a friendly greeting to everybody

more than just a ‘hello’

it entails the warmth of

friendship that’s borderless

the most important human

social emotion for goodwill.


stay safe

stay healthy

enjoy life.





magenta of her lips

get things done

let’s do it

no haste no speed

just a steady forward

will get you there

this july sun emblazons

the acrylic blue paint

on your awareness

this day – feel of a holiday

without traveling far –

it’s in you

deep like the ocean

pebble art


happy dialogue

a worrisome twosome

that couldn’t develop

although taken off in

a gentle flight above

the ancient city

minions as executors

undermining all

individual free thinking

laying traps

unsuccessful flying above

covered-up heads

virtuous knights of word


great spirit of will-bashing

dense thistle woods

turquoise plastic for pools

blue grass for smoking

yet the glow of magenta

from disappointed lips

let the sun tracks of his


leave behind gentlest of

petting marks

a Muse may feel.




he sings

the poet born

he sings the alphabet

in the half-sleep of his level

swimming in the amazon of


somewhere between the andes

and the innocent beauty of samos


by the bone-man’s violation

his conscious being’s finger

on the pulse of an aged eros

yet – still greening below

the pomegranate groove

at the waterfall of rejuvenation –

he sings again

all sings

in an electronic world of

newly creation he visited on his

last lap’s remembrance of a

denuded muse

tearful marie magdalene.

he sings –

jean-jacques – to pink flow’s music

a conundrum of ears rushing in

like rats to the piper’s tune saving

the cities of a deadly peril/ pipers

john the piper/ piper jacques/

drummer pink/ mushroom trumpet

miles/ who’ll call at such an early hour

of lacquered blue skies

sticky gum of dirtied air’s sugar taste

titillating the taste buds for a tete-a-tete

with fate’s open window

closed with a black-brown curtain?

It’s a new world again –

If it’s bold or brave

we’ll see in fleeting time

of flash-electronic travels –

already en vogue with artists/ poets/

writers/ who devour words their

gilded muses bring them

manna from the body of a planet

whose body

not yet deadly wounded

where the amazon queen

not yet slain by new-age achill

whose tears not yet flowered

into narcissistic creatures

we have subscribed to

at one time

in the past

when life was to be discovered/

fresh/ an unlined piece of paper

the poet was born.

he sings. he sings.





how often on life

have you found out about

trusting somebody

you thought to have met a new


or a person seemingly trustworthy

becoming a friend

often you’ve distrusted at first

or having abandoned the feeling

of distrust

just like you couldn’t carry on

distrusting everybody and stay

a human being.

bam! circumstantial talk around

issues of help

alerted your gutfeel

and surely as god created green


the attractive shell brings out

one hidden worm at first bite.

your self-appointed managing

friend had with certainty

arranged to purloin one of your

valuable creative work. damned!

your brain immediately works

on two possible suspects

who surrounded your daily moves

and knew your regular habits.

after you’ve cracked the case

there’s no more trust

you are treading with caution.

purloin: Mel in athens a catastrophe

the third man emerging from

vienna’s misty ambience.

not even in the artist’s entire life

such a disaster has happened

in un-united europe.





thistle beauty

there are city trails

that inspire:

lakes/ woods/ mountains

some only accessible at its base

with a private vehicle.

yet to see vienna’s periphery

you have to walk all walks

designed to give the wanderer

a well-rounded impression of

the area concerned.

this time the city’s tenth walk

is called: breitenlee.

its path leading out of a

spread-out village

to nearby recreational areas

past small settlements

small areas of forestation

green fields/ high grass/nature


a stud farm with healthy looking


more high grown thistle along

the embankments of the

northern bypass-motorway.

having lost sight of one signpost

perhaps forgotten to replace

after building operations

the poet lost his way

but passed a huge piece of land

prepared with extensive fresh

lettuce planting by machines.

his compass showed him the

correct direction back.

finally some wind-power masts

were good position markers.

passing the stud farm before

reminded him suddenly of

a jolly fast ride on a retired

race horse he couldn’t control

inexperienced his foot slid from

the stirrup and he lost balance

rolling from the horse like an

indian/ seen in the movies.

damned! Fell on a hard place

causing him concussions.

besides he noticed details of

flowering thistle

natures great ingenious design

but a lack of benches to rest.

great thirst to be quenched

he found the only village pub

on his final hundred metres to

the end of trail ten

the terrace/ overhung with

wine leaves/ populated

to the last seat by locals for

a Sunday luncheon

at the pub inside the most

sought after beers: Zwettler

cool/ fine foam/ delicious

nectar from the barrel of the

gods/ mhh/ prost.



a thought picked up


if edward hopper found

that painting exists

due to the impossibility

of words saying all

I am glad he chose to

express himself with his


for the poet in me

word-expressions will be

a permanent challenge

that may bring out shades

of feelings

I will depict in drawing/

painting/ or mixed-media


well now/ the poet has

worked from his early teens

on his poetry

with recognition from his


stimulated by his young

sensuous muse

he felt indeed that words

failed him to express his

feelings and he drew/

painted/ searching for

his personal style

while mom lauded his

artistic efforts.

from Johannesburg to

athens his muse anna

furthered his literary


between two poles of

expression now

he wanders about

perhaps it’s all poetry.