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.





For days on end the poet –

In a mode of deeper groove –

Stuck to his goal

To finish his poetic legend about

A great love

That is rare

Like winning the lottery.

But even then

Since tales of great love

Have fascinated him from an

Early age

As he had to run the gauntlet

Of non-requitted love

From insincere but attractive


To pains within his soul

Burning up in hellfire.

But then a Muse with an attractive

Personality and good looks

Enjoyed love’s varied facets with

The bard

Sharing the art of poetry.

And Ludus became Eros

In a flight of the star-crossed lovers.

For years on end the poet has

Licked his wounds

And worked like a madman

To rid his being from perfect


That is only allowed as a peek-in

By mortals

A new Muse is to appear on

The horizon of his being

Moving towards a union

With his spiritual shadow.




Before you’ll face your day

When sentimental issues cloud

Your mind

And in the mist of your imagination

You’ll drift toward an unknown


Yet where circumstances are known

To you from another happening

One’s heart soul and mind

In a favourable disposition.

The poet has been made aware

By similar constellations in the

Planetary system

That’ll influence his life

Besides he’ll be as curious about

An adventure

That he’ll call unique

In his mature life

Perhaps the one he was least


To grab him at the cockles of

His heart that much.

Before you’ll face your day

When two words will dominate

Above all others: Just now.

Just now. December.

And all will fall into place for

Great happenings.





If good things happen to you


You wonder what the papers write

About the prediction in sun-signs.

If the poet is often attached by his

Spouse unexpectedly

Or by a certain pattern of her

Varied behaviour

He’ll be alarmed that she’s either ill

With delusion

Of calling back the times

When love had been good

But yet never to her satisfaction.

However hard the poet tried and

Even fell into a depression

Of being impotent.

But due to a series of his spouse’s

Bad health problems

The poet met his partner-in-love

On a website

Sharing the creative power

Of writing poetry and life’s stories.

Longing brought together the lovers

Of distance

And when they met in flesh and blood

A passionate romance blossomed

Whereby the poet’s Muse raised

The poet’s self-assurance:

Good bye ‘lousy lover’.

Never come back bad vibes.

How could this all be?

Love found like a winning

Lottery ticket?

Or was it not alone by fate but

A lucky constellation of planets

Those years of 2000-2003?


zoltanzelan   ZJG-POetry’19.


Day by day

For the last seven days

The poet had been at first to find

The mood to slip into the

Protective bubble

Of his artistic groove

Living in a room of his Muse

And touching the circles of his


Looking after an elderly friend

Administering his medication

Strictly within the agreed


On the surface an easier task

It seemed

Yet the poet had to learn the skill

To switch off from his duties

To the creative mood he’s

Looking forward to

Day by day.

His creativity has never been

This successful

Never been this prolific

Good deeds followed by good


A great experience

To be repeated?





Like a bird

Surprised by sudden cold air

She shies away from walking outside

Her sensorial system raised to high alert

She even smells the omission from a nearby

Chimney emitting smoke from burning

Second-hand fossil fuel.

And this with doors and windows closed

Her body in grave stirred-up alert.

Her temper flares up to the slightest

Tease or humorous comment

She’ll need a holiday. She stated.

‘My blood pressure is quite high and

You play silly buggers.

Well even if she’ll grow wings

She cannot fly to the South

Like the birds.

I feel sorry for her. She cannot cope with

Her budget allowance.

Well now.

The poet observes and sticks to his own

Budgetary restraints.

His good luck – His physical fitness –

A wonderful gift.

His options though are limited to work

And that is: Poetry and Art

Appreciated by his friends.





The poet has indeed mastered

Perhaps his jealousy and hurt

To a high degree

As taught by his Muse in Athens


Yet he has not been able to

Describe his deep sorrow

About a love he refers to as:

‘Great Love’

Where all components merged

Heart Mind and Soul.

Do you hear me Ana?

Wherever you are now?

Don’t forget your promise

To send me Muse.

Perhaps you have and I am not

Sensing it that much

Maybe a lost Great Love does that

To anybody

Poet or Artist

Anybody listening to his or her

Deep emotional life

That has to be cultivated at first

Before you will walk the gardens

Of your efforts

And muse about love’s

Precious fruit!

Do you read me?




17 seventeen

‘The seventeen reminds me of my Muse

In cosmopolitan Athens’ –

The poet said –

And felt gently tugged by her

At an intimate moment of waking-up.

‘Once a great event of a perfect communicative

Game turned a great love

Impossible to know at the start

Into the blue-violet mist of the city

Around the Filothei Hill

Last visited with my Great Muse

On a day filled with an overflow of


Still emotions grip his heart and throat

But tears won’t come any longer

To his eyes

All the while in the country of

Africa at the South

He had cried into the garden of his dreams

That brought frustration to his poetry and

Art: Seventeen Songs for ANA.

So then, the poet mused –

‘Is this my work cut out for me?

That my Muse had intended before she

Made the giant irreversible step into the

‘Great Void’?