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.

the palindrome effect

she has the initial appearance of

an earth mother

a voluptuous woman/ a rich meal

of delicious fare/ a ghosting appearance

in a time of puberty/ a rounded woman

with flesh aplenty

where dreams of fulfilled sexuality

are palpable

without having touched her

but intentions to do so are deeply

seated in the male libido

that senses the physical and mental

preparedness

for a great sexual encounter

indicated with talks on the telephone

yet/ as all conversation may be recorded

and although one is more straight out

on the comm’s electronical interlink

than eye to eye –

when the need to do it is böocked out

by the interchange of info about books

and stimulating tools for mastering

the art of writing

besides all other artistic expressions

to further one’s self-realization.

voila! She’s a fully fledged photographer

and wishes to take snaps of one’s

portrait/ loose one’s self-conciousness

of being photographed/ she wishes

you telling her stories so that the artist

dives into a relaxing mood

while she snaps away on her minolta.

front to back/ back to front/ this is

the palindrome effect the poet uses

since he had detected it in the poetry

of oddysseus elytis.

super/ she says/ her tongue slides

over her lips

as if she had tasted a sweet desert.

now then/ the poet muses/ all we do

in art is out of love

but only if we wish to contribute

with a positive attitude.

thank you for the talk/ she said

thank’s for having me/ he replies.

amen.nema

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’21.

hello sunday

sunday afternoon all’s quiet here

in weidling/ near vienna

yet countryside with customs and

in mind.

the poet sits back/ listening tohardbobs

life vol.1/ monk / rollins/ etc.

thanks to youtube and the great

internet connectivity to the world

of art and love.

yesterday night parsifal/ unbearable

but a good excuse to change channels

even if one’s spouse is a fan of opera –

and finish a painting’s rendering layer

on top of two watercolour layers.

next door’s art critique ‘A’ notived

the work in passing/ commented about

the underlying erotic genre on the

part abstract geometry of body parts:

you studied courbet?

‘why?’

there are parallels to his work.

‘really?´´i couldn’t fathom that with

my best intentions. nay.

whatever/ it’s great to loose oneself

in the labyrinth of shapes/ sizes/

perspectives/ and just to follow the

one’s inner voices

that are often as confusing to the

artist’s mind

as a wagner opera/ tristan and isolde

comes foremost to the artits’s mind.

hello sunday.

welcome to my art.

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

viva aprile

the poet ritsos wrote:

‘it’s spring

i cannot match

my bitterness into its light’.

my right eye is runny

and i use a warm watered cloth

to relax its nerves that may cause it

trying to soothe some awkward

moments

as it happens with advanced ageing

there are however many tasks

that let me forget my small irritations

of a physical nature:

draw/ paint/ multimedia is fun

the creation of art remains one of

the great adventures of my life

setting all else further back.

writing poetry id a breather

inbetween rendering drawings

where figures/faces/parts of symbols

for living and loving emerge

from the worked at basic watercolour

where i will render a second layer

an encrustation of culture that lives

inside the artist

colours and drawings/ bits an pieces

encrustation of an intuitive ocean

to the shell of an idea,

there’s light for the artist growing

on a daily reconciliation

with the fickle ways spring will

present itself:

at times like a wayward child

then again a young girl teasing

the elderly artist

a woman in love

a model to be painted.

viva aprile!

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

cela

the poet has a sobering moment

besides his positive thoughts

about art & love –

poetry he illustrates for a new

book he calls: ART & LOVE

a true interaction of lyrical poetry

and art –

expressive drawings that influence

the choice of words

the mood of the poem

when the intricate drawing guided

by half-awake consciousness

slides in and out of the subconscious

mind/ directed by a state of

growing communication with a muse

in a state of a soulmate dialogue

thoughts exchanged via beams of

ESP/ like musical scores.

then again the words wake from

a state of being in that groove

have brought about a poem

that inspires the artist of the other

half living in the poet

to draw freely and having left

all constraints aside.

this happens fast and furious

cutting-out the editor in one’s

mind. voila!

the poet recalls his facilitator

and friend/ amara/ inspiring writing

by extending one’s mind and soul.

his creative time in athens/ greece

where the poet bloomed into

a fully fledged artist/ living close

to the winds of legacy of exceptional

minds

steering his boat of his own artistic

life towards the island of creativity.

celui qui a compris cela

a tout compris.

cela.alec

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

the difference

“what is the difference between

‘i like you’ and ‘i love you’?”

buddha said: ” when a flower pleases

you notice it.

when you love a flower

you take care of it every day.

whoever understood that

understood everything.”

now then/ the poet said to his friend

i gave lots of presents to a woman

but then nothing seemed to satisfy

her need

and she collected for many years

fashionable clothes/ hats/ shoes

and jewelry.

one day thru’ bad luck

she lost almost everything

and now she has difficulties of sharing

when times are tough on everybody.

however/ his friend said/ i had a girlfriend

and we understood each other well

went for long walks/ coffee/ and talked

one day she just left stone cold

and never returned.

well then/ the poet said/ I keep life

as it should be lived

just as you write a poem

let your feelings and your mind

be in a healthy dialogue and enjoy

those people who love to walk with

you along for a while

or take the bus for a joyful ride.

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

spring

what are you waiting for?

that spring will come to you

steadily like the narrative

in a classical novel?

we have arrived at a month

known as being unpredictable

as far as the daily weather is concerned

putting most predictions to ridicule.

well/ in my case/ the poet muses:

i will just look out the window in the

morn/ and there’s my weather prediction

for the day.

but then/ there’s another weather

inside you/ the poet/ the artist/ the seeker

of truth for oneself.

it is thus that you’ll determine

your inner season

by thinking about art/ art related things

and the aesthetic qualities you always

had deep within you

but never realised

until you met your muse

and while your feelings melt in her

closeness

you’ll know the moment

when your instincts take over

just like when you’ll be in your

creative flow.

what are you waiting for?

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

birthday musing

on the 81st year since his birth

he thought about his past life

where anecdotes/short snapes

of photographs/ video clips

and ideas forged/ some completed

flickered on the screen of his

mind’s eye

like classical movies.

what a wonderful tool one’s brain is

but it has to be rested in a fine

wellness centre of his lively imagination

whrere he visits his muse

all those beautiful women

who had befriended him

or he had chosen by gutfeel

and a spark in their eyes

that he responded to.

voila! now he – on his last laps

on the racetrack of life –

will endeveour to forge

a last ditched effort for

completing his task of publishing

his lyrical oevre

will it become an oevre complete?

his muse/ a generation ahead of him

will be of great help

and with her heart of gold is the

sustenance for the artist’s soul

the best present he could have

for his birthday.

mozo.ozom

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

just life

for a long time I’ve mourned

about losing you

over your dialogues/letters/photographs

all preserved by digital power

to be recalled at any time

day and night.

and every time i felt you still could inflame

in me your holistic love

or what has been left in my mind’s memory

about a great love/ once/ 17 years in returns

perhaps faded somewhat

but still those traces of those athens mornings

lie still like quicksilver’s float on clouds

pearls that tickle my fancy

memories of sweet ecstasies.

for a long time i’ve sat and contemplated

about no sense of living without love

until i found ‘art & love’ – an everchanging

feast of mind and soul7 indeed a great

moving feast.

dropped my defenses

denuded my body like my soul

and started to live again –

just life.

just art.

just love.

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

bluemorn’

one blue morn’

when the raven flew over the

cookoo’s nest

the poet had found his own nest

for an emotional wellbeing

where his mind could float

between famous poets in a

continual dialogue/ and with

stories told by his muse –

who happen to have a golden

heart

who’ll react to accompany him

on his road to self-realization

most important to him –

that’ll reflect upon his muse m/

mm/mmon/ his mind expansion

into a world just recently created:

world mozo.ozom –

as the crow flies above a turquoise

moon

that borrowed its shine from

planet uranus

uranus.sunaru/ the poet & his artistic

muse

followed by their shadows

the way they render their drawings.

zoltanzelan

zjg poetry’21.

tea bag/teesackerl/teebeutel

“dieser mann aus felpu…

this man from felpu/ artist

and poet

squeezes his teabag with his fingers

and then places his fingers on his

eyelids too

before he drinks the squeezed rest

of the tea.”

mr t. tells that to his spouse

but mrs ira won’t comment –

as he had just done for her an

innermost dig/ creating five faces

who float in midst of an autumn

landscape –

he had conceived visually/ as he

drifted past in the 400-bus

that moves along the backwater of

the danube/ with its tall poplars

that let fall their colourful garb –

pretty women who hide their

denuded bodies

behind the mighty trunks –

their natural lonely habitat

for the oncoming wintry season –

elfin/ nymphs/ erotic beings?

as long as they’ll stay in our dreams

like that,

teabag/teesackerl/teebeutel.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’21.