On a Weidling Spring-like Day in November.

There’s no other

way out from being

pinned against

a verbal wall

than silence.

Much to the dismay

of an irate spouse

with desire to stay

all day on a sunlit

island

arriving on a one-way

ticket

contemplating to fall

victim of being

stabbed by a poisonous

shell

while you

lifelong friend and protector

dream

of sun-soaked paintings

on white-washed walls

preferred artist’s life

island-style.

A Weidling spring day

in mid-November.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’16

eternity of love

i watched you all my life

lost and found you between

my written lines

a red and yellow rose

your face

took on my poems in white

ink tattoos

on you amber skin

my first love poem to you

inscribed in miniature writing

upon your dusky eyes

and while I wrote you love letters

i thought were lost

your low cut top I came across

read with fascination my story

of the triad children sliding down

and year after year you let me

read at your birthday

another love letter

a poem I had put together for

you

but for my birthday you let me

embrace all your body and in love

i would read my first novel about

love called fervor

you kept all these years

embroidered on your amber skin

with every stroke its pages turned

and with loving you gave me

a palpable exhilaration

this the eternity of love.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry’16.

Demoiselles de Vienne – Nica

I’ve painted her face many times

have reveled in her dusky eyes

those glowing coals of her soul.

I’ve dreamed of her child-woman

nude

entirely covered in body-art

her elfin gait and speedy flight

shooting arrow-feelings

burning from her softest touches.

I’m one of many who fall in love

with her listening to her talk

The sensual sound of her voice

envelopes everybody

she decided worth to be liked.

But most of all Nica wishes to be

loved

showered with attention

seeking a mate on par standing:

Intelligence

critical mind with a deep sense

for aesthetic values.

Through strength she oozes great

willpower and against the noon

light she looks as if Jacopetti had

modeled her as his favourite

like ZG’s number one model

he’s drawn many times.

Arranging a huge canvas with four

of her sister-friends –

Mona  Vivienne  Luba  Ella…

ZG’s homage to Picasso.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry’16.

Diminuendo in Blue 渐弱蓝色 (II)

Once emerging from loneliness

the poet has taken the hand

offered by a contemp artist

human being and fighting spirit for

all suppressed human beings

on the verge of extinction.

Dulled are times before and even

of past Muses conceding to the

poet’s gait of moving forward into

the land of extreme differences.

An interpretation that’ll split up his

inner world of extreme solitude

where he found reflections of his

true feelings

but also counteractions of a devil’s

advocate.

When artistic intuitions recline and

fade into the milky atmosphere

of a known rapid passing landscape

he’ll take memo-shots with his mind’s

instant digicam

for later rework of the images from

a trip to new frontiers of feelings.

Like dough kneaded by his body’s

resistance for anything different

compared to sacred images of Anne

Muse of one in a lifetime love.

Is this a concluding protest of the straw

that rises up man high

before the flames of an all-consuming

flash-fire take it down and

in spite its rising white smoke density

it slowly diminishes

between coats of blue lacquer

upon the broad canvas of the skies?

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-Poetry’16.

 

Bluebird of happiness

Closing down the old year

some files on art and poetry

thinking about Muses

friends and bad encounters

flashpoints in front of

my mind’s eyes.

Most important is freedom

of mind and soul

love that happens

at an instant.

Sensing human vibes

the artist choses his

appropriate canvas.

The poet extracts his words

from the midst of paint and

lines

while his tear turns into

a precious stone

the bluebird of happiness

that grew out of this

woman’s wavy hair

holds in its open beak.

Is she a foreboding spirit

of his next Muse?

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry’16.

At 7am Monday morn’

Even if my birdsong-alarm

pulls me gently from my sleep

I praise myself lucky

that signs of my body’s

disintegration have faded

over night.

I may sense again a workable

body pleasant enough

to face libido-charged Alma –

She entices my own libido

or whatever is left.

At 7 am Monday morn’

a short walk in fog and

darkness – it pays to be

early at Dr. W’s practice

never mind all moans from

an irritated spouse

and I wish to leave as fast as

I possibly can

longing for my personal

freedom

I’ve left behind on an island

in the Ionian Sea.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-Poetry’15.