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’?




Viennese Sunday Morn’

Time to wake up and take

His medicine

Boil water and prepare some

Nestle instant cappuccino

As Mr T would like it.

His special small spoon at the


Some full fat milk and the

Sweetener bottle.

While the poet has

Earl Grey Tea with a slice of


He also sips at leisure

Into a Sunday morn’

At the city with a view of

The gothic turret of

Maria am Gestade.

The skies a gun battle grey

Start lighten up

But – thank you – no winds

As usual in Vienna.

The artist ZG takes his pen

Sketches Mr T in a pensive


In his city of birth – Bratislava.

B phones to tell the poet

To switch on Phoenix TV and

View a docu on the famous

Villa Borghese in Rome.

Magnificent. Thoughts about

Rome swoosh thru’ his mind

Happy times at a beautiful

Hotel near the Spanish steps

And Via Condotti.

Sixteenth Chapel with the

Great art of Michelangelo.



Roma eternal.





A choice of a place in Europe would


To live as a citizen within

Everywhere. Not?

Yes and no.

If you’ll receive a state minimal

Pension-like contribution

When the state or its local gvmt.

Determines the place of living

Where you receive your support.


Living in some European countries

Will have you at a knife’ edge

Due to the cost of living.

One would not feel

That there’s an existence of

A European community

But then…

The cost of living climbing steadily

The state’s support stays a fixed


Besides the cost of accommodation

Rising yearly with increments.

A decent living for a couple –

The poet knows personally –

Is impossible with the allotted

Monthly payment.

The locked-in couple:

Artist and designer. Survival artists.

Perhaps fate will provide another

Chance for them.






The poet studied the artist’s painting

Who worked on a while at the table

In Mr T’s kitchen.

One morning he saw himself looking

At a bronze sculpture of a man

Throwing his arms up in desperation.

An existentialist position.

He mumbled to himself:

‘Something recalls in me desperation

At hand

Visiting the poor in an African township.


It still happens at this moment

As it has happened since Adam & Eve.

Desperation of thinking about one’s

Own family

Having suffered injustice thru’ politics

And murderous intent.

Now then many of the culprits and

Infamous have been put to trial and

To face the justice system in the

Western ‘so-called’ democratic world.


So many of the small people and the


Who suffered thru’ secondary thugs

Who had been overlooked by the

Justice system

Not even ostracized by society

Even not by today’s date’.

While the poet does not take the

Law into his own hands

Brandishing a gun

He definitely takes the sword of


To punish those responsible

Destroying his family.


zoltanzelan                      ZJG-POetry’19.

Carpe Diem

If you are sitting on passing time

You better not be idle

Neither in thought

Nor in action

Carpe diem.

Use the day and be grateful

For the things you have

The tools in your bag to draw

And create

The watercolours to render

Your drawings

To artistic depth.

Like now

When the Muse of a pleasant


With a pale autumn sun

Caresses your mind and lifts

You up on gentle wings

Of tender feelings.

What would you do without

All that?

Would you be a desperate person

Looking for an outlet to conquer

Your fears of living?

Don’t sit idle on passing time

Move with the flow of energies

That emanate all around you

From all the colourful folk

Mingling with high expectations

Across the city’s main squares

Especially around the antiquities

And the famous Viennese dome.

Go mingle!

My friend Mr Tis an extraordinary

Example of a talented mingler.

Have a successful day.

Carpe Diem.



AKA People

It’s a real treat to be sitting

In the warmed up bus

At this inhospitable November


Commuting from Weidling to



Even looking forward to an

Invite to dinner with Mr K

The frequent traveler from


AKA Chicago Kurti.

Now then

It’s a challenge for Mr T

Who I will assist lending an

Arm and watching his steps.

Wir schaffen das!

Surely a special occasion

Mr T queries CK’s frequent

Visits to Vienna.

Certainly he must have a

Tolerant wife for sure.


I’m the polite lead-back guide

And always available friend

To give a helping hand.

The artist who came in from

The heat of Africa of the South.

AKA the DI/ the Burgenländer/

The survival artist/ a real artist/

The Bard.

AKA People.



Today November 12.

This cold rainy November

Finally started to prick a

Bad nerve of the poet

Who has an ongoing dialog

With his basic human shell.

This room with a dark


A wide most comfortable

Bed with a green fine

Knobbed sheet and

Sunny-yellow covers

Stirs sentimental feelings.

Now then –

‘Leaving behind

Damned cold rainy Vienna

The comfy bed of a wondrous


Will not despair my cooking

Creative being’.

‘But take the acquired energy

To finalize my poetic efforts’

The poet said and put the

Collar of his leather coat

Up high below his woolen


For the changeover to bus 401.






Er frägt sich –

He questions himself –


The moment he wakes

Steps out of bed and

Brushes his long hair:

‘Am I still alive to fulfill

A purpose on this planet?’

As an artist he has failed

To attract a greater audience

And followers

Than the core of his family

And perhaps some friends

Who commissioned him

To work to themes

That had never entered

His artistic mind

Paying a tribute to surrealism

And developing his own style

Of ‘Mystical Realism’.


As a poet he had more success

On the World Wide Web

And at times he had 33 clicks

Of readers in one day.

A new group of readers will


He thought

Who’ll treasure his journal

His journal poetry

He was writing since he had

Read more deeply into the

Work of George Seferis.

His Muse Ana was instrumental

For introducing him to the

Great poet.

Poet to Poet

Ana to ZZ.

This then is his purpose for

His existence?

Ana sending him a new Muse

She had approved for him?

PURPOSE.ESOPRUP                                            zoltanzelan ZJG-POetry’19.