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.




To Be a Poet

  1. The Preparation.

It has nothing to do with any form or style. In the beginning, there has to be an inner fire and desire to be an artist. One’s interests in poetry, given to one by inheritance and talent from one’s parents, will eventually materialize in an upcoming sensibility for choices of words. Writing poetry at all times, patiently day by day and week for week, the month for month, eventually, year by year, will yield your own style. An artist, a writer, a poet will have to be in good luck to meet his or her Muse and be lead along for some time on the path for a self-realization of his or her art.

Art, writing, and poetry will become a way of living rather than just a pastime fad. That’s when the artist will experience his or her drifting into the sphere of grooving. The mood and position of a flight of the innerness into the fields of continual relaxation and happiness. The poet, artist, and the writer has a complex history of arriving at his or her way of presenting art. Life’s complexities will shape the way he or she handles the tools of canvas, the paper, or the selection of the type of notebook that will be the thrashing floor of his or her performance.

Intuition will be the antenna of the artist. Listening to his or her inner voice will have to be the driving force of creation. The artist is after all the messenger of a higher power. In the study of mythology – an endless source of inspiration – lies the kernel of truth that has to be found. The Blarney Stone of revelation, the key to open the door to one’s garden of Eden, the Horn of plenty. There is never a shortcut to finding that kernel of truth, the artist is continually on the search for. Like an athlete, he sets out ön a slow walk to warm up, before he has entered the realm of spirituality that provides the fuel for a faster walk and finally after he or she has entered the artistic realm, the power needed for a great home run.



Waking mornings when the

Sun comes up

Savouring parts of an erotic dream

Rolling sideways sensing one’s


Wishing one’s Muse to be in bed

While stretching supine and

Opening up one’s zipped up top

Embrace the sweetheart’s presence

Feeling her heated body

Skin to skin

Nude to nude

Rub to rub and stroke to stroke.

The wishful union physically


The scent of love cut with

The flower’s life

But in the mind’s garden of Eros

Everything’s still possible

And the loving union renewed









One cannot rely on the

Trail markings to lead you

The wanderer

For arriving at your goal.

Weidlingbach – walks thru

Wooded portions along

The brook

Until you hit suddenly the

Dreary main road.

Damned nuisance for walking

At the roadside exposed to

The peril of fast driving cars.

However up to Steinriegel

But the red markings stop

Midway and the forest road

Is marked for the bikers.

After a tiresome climb arriving

At the Sofienalpe –

Not intended at all along the


Have a coke and carry on to

The nearby Mostwirt

Who is on his summer leave.

So there won’t be a stamp

Collected for the wander pass.

Then after a sandwich and

Green tea from the flask

Down through the woods

To Kasgraben

Catch a 450 bus to Hütteldorf

Enough walking on asphalt

Disinterested to walk this trail


Sitting with apathy in the U4

To the Spittelau.

Bus 400 to Bhf Weidling and

Milk for B and beer for the artist

At the nearby grocery shop

Just in time to catch bus 401

To Weidling village.



zoltanzelan     ZJG-POetry’18.


The modem is faulty

The artist phoned the Internet

Provider and a new one has been

Set aside for him in Vienna’s

Seventh district.

In spite of the heat wave and

Changes of plan by Mr T:

What did we say in the morning?

I have to phone Viki and then

Tell you what time you’re on.

The artist set out on his trip

To Vienna complicated by the

Refurbishing of the end station

Of U4

But noticed he had to recharge

The battery of his cellular phone.

So he was late

But then she accused him of

Lying he took off.

Never would he have envisaged

Her impertinence at his

Advanced age.

He had to care for his own health

As his spouse would not care

For him in sickness

So he had experienced.

A tooth for a tooth and an eye

For an eye

Finally it came down to this.


She is moody like the modem

He calls it manic depressive

She’d inherited from her dad.

The modem cannot be faulty

The techie guy told him

Check your plug extension.

Damned! Two of three are

Suddenly faulty.

Just like life is on the outside

All fine

But on the inside rotten.

But he’ll prevail.

Buy a new plug extension set

For a few bob and all is


TV for B

Internet for the artist.

And now it’s time to plan

A walking trail for tomorrow













Side by Side

All of a sudden he looked back

At fifty years of companionship

Most folk spend on dining out.

For years the poet’s spouse talked

About a spectacular event

Like a speed boat trip on the

Danube River.

The day before the anniversary

Had come

Hos plans for fitness over crusted

The event

He took off in pursuit of his physical


Shopping Nordic Walking sticks

Rucksack and Dry-Fit top.

Off he went starting a series of

Walking tours day after day

As if he had limited time left to

Prove his newly gained fitness

Past two hip-joint operations

To himself.

Did he wish to impress the

Lady surgeon with his newly

Found second youth?

Well whatever

But the impulse to walk lay

Deeply rooted in himself

Just like a DNA inheritance

Or a programmed trait implanted

By a smart manipulation

Of his new existence.

Is it that we are newly born

After replacement surgery?


Was it before his spouse

Who walked the nearby hills

And wooded pathways

For three consecutive years

Living side by side

While the poet ached?

Now it happened to her partner

Of half a century.

Drained of energy she shouted.

She cursed him.

Was she jealous for his physical


Just like his flirts with other women?

Living still side by side.

Off he goes like in a trance

Happy and content

Yet still looking out for another










Good Manners and the Poet

Some matters matter

Especially good manners

Mean a lot to the poet

Who did the utmost to clean

The bedsitter

He shares with his spouse

For the second time since

He returned from Rehab

As a changed person

But not in his faculties

But to merge his physical

Inadequacy merging his slogan:

A healthy mind in a healthy body.

Nothing new since Greek antiquity

You might say

Indeed! But you still need to get

To the consciousness level

Feeling that you actually doing it!

Nothing better!

Since the poet has taken up

Nordic Walking

He’s leaving his imprints behind

All over the Viennese walking trails.

The moving body will write all

And having written its poetry

About moving like a butterfly

Will move on

Across the network of pathways

In between the famous vineyards

Of the Kahlenberg

And neither your accusing voices

Nor silly accusations thru’

Domestic differences

Will lure the poet back to cancel

A single line

Neither scissor-squeezes

Nor all acidy belittling of his

Literary efforts

Will erase one word of it!

Not one word.drow eno toN




Stay Cool

For the poet to ask

A few hours before he intends

To leave

For the so called Soma Pass

Is timeously enough

But not for his spouse

Who considers it an attack

On her person

An intrusion into her own

World order of things.


You should have asked

Yesterday evening –

She throws words at him.

He would see:

This minor thing to ask for

A shared pass caused her

That much strain?


Her nervous system at an


The heat wave adds more

Fuel to his reasonable


Leaping up flames in her

Destroying her common



He feels sorry for her raw


But he also has to conduct

A living in accordance to

His own budget.

Besides he’ll travel with

His friend to a Haydn concert

He wouldn’t even tell her yet

Avoiding the cause for another

Round of tedious arguments.


So they live together

Yet avoiding each other

But that’s impossible to do

At all times

In a bed-sitter situation

Where they have to exist

With a bounce back of

Human frustrations.



When she loses her rag

Slamming the door shut

He usually withdraws

Into his sacred domain

To his desk at the window

In the rectangular set out


Mumbling insults at her.

Finally peace.


Pity the door has to

Stay otherwise wide open

Most of the time

Due to the only possible

Cross ventilation

Badly limiting his privacy.

Perhaps tomorrow will

Come with a cooling wave


Stay cool.