he sings

the poet born

he sings the alphabet

in the half-sleep of his level

swimming in the amazon of


somewhere between the andes

and the innocent beauty of samos


by the bone-man’s violation

his conscious being’s finger

on the pulse of an aged eros

yet – still greening below

the pomegranate groove

at the waterfall of rejuvenation –

he sings again

all sings

in an electronic world of

newly creation he visited on his

last lap’s remembrance of a

denuded muse

tearful marie magdalene.

he sings –

jean-jacques – to pink flow’s music

a conundrum of ears rushing in

like rats to the piper’s tune saving

the cities of a deadly peril/ pipers

john the piper/ piper jacques/

drummer pink/ mushroom trumpet

miles/ who’ll call at such an early hour

of lacquered blue skies

sticky gum of dirtied air’s sugar taste

titillating the taste buds for a tete-a-tete

with fate’s open window

closed with a black-brown curtain?

It’s a new world again –

If it’s bold or brave

we’ll see in fleeting time

of flash-electronic travels –

already en vogue with artists/ poets/

writers/ who devour words their

gilded muses bring them

manna from the body of a planet

whose body

not yet deadly wounded

where the amazon queen

not yet slain by new-age achill

whose tears not yet flowered

into narcissistic creatures

we have subscribed to

at one time

in the past

when life was to be discovered/

fresh/ an unlined piece of paper

the poet was born.

he sings. he sings.





how often on life

have you found out about

trusting somebody

you thought to have met a new


or a person seemingly trustworthy

becoming a friend

often you’ve distrusted at first

or having abandoned the feeling

of distrust

just like you couldn’t carry on

distrusting everybody and stay

a human being.

bam! circumstantial talk around

issues of help

alerted your gutfeel

and surely as god created green


the attractive shell brings out

one hidden worm at first bite.

your self-appointed managing

friend had with certainty

arranged to purloin one of your

valuable creative work. damned!

your brain immediately works

on two possible suspects

who surrounded your daily moves

and knew your regular habits.

after you’ve cracked the case

there’s no more trust

you are treading with caution.

purloin: Mel in athens a catastrophe

the third man emerging from

vienna’s misty ambience.

not even in the artist’s entire life

such a disaster has happened

in un-united europe.





thistle beauty

there are city trails

that inspire:

lakes/ woods/ mountains

some only accessible at its base

with a private vehicle.

yet to see vienna’s periphery

you have to walk all walks

designed to give the wanderer

a well-rounded impression of

the area concerned.

this time the city’s tenth walk

is called: breitenlee.

its path leading out of a

spread-out village

to nearby recreational areas

past small settlements

small areas of forestation

green fields/ high grass/nature


a stud farm with healthy looking


more high grown thistle along

the embankments of the

northern bypass-motorway.

having lost sight of one signpost

perhaps forgotten to replace

after building operations

the poet lost his way

but passed a huge piece of land

prepared with extensive fresh

lettuce planting by machines.

his compass showed him the

correct direction back.

finally some wind-power masts

were good position markers.

passing the stud farm before

reminded him suddenly of

a jolly fast ride on a retired

race horse he couldn’t control

inexperienced his foot slid from

the stirrup and he lost balance

rolling from the horse like an

indian/ seen in the movies.

damned! Fell on a hard place

causing him concussions.

besides he noticed details of

flowering thistle

natures great ingenious design

but a lack of benches to rest.

great thirst to be quenched

he found the only village pub

on his final hundred metres to

the end of trail ten

the terrace/ overhung with

wine leaves/ populated

to the last seat by locals for

a Sunday luncheon

at the pub inside the most

sought after beers: Zwettler

cool/ fine foam/ delicious

nectar from the barrel of the

gods/ mhh/ prost.



a thought picked up


if edward hopper found

that painting exists

due to the impossibility

of words saying all

I am glad he chose to

express himself with his


for the poet in me

word-expressions will be

a permanent challenge

that may bring out shades

of feelings

I will depict in drawing/

painting/ or mixed-media


well now/ the poet has

worked from his early teens

on his poetry

with recognition from his


stimulated by his young

sensuous muse

he felt indeed that words

failed him to express his

feelings and he drew/

painted/ searching for

his personal style

while mom lauded his

artistic efforts.

from Johannesburg to

athens his muse anna

furthered his literary


between two poles of

expression now

he wanders about

perhaps it’s all poetry.





the poet had lost the edge

of instant communication

back in times of guns & roses

in gauteng – land of pioneers

afrique du sud.

ten years later on a Wednesday

morn he steps out into a day

emptied of people and deer

lack of empathy and respect

but just don’t take it too hard

on this Weidlingbach trail

try a new one to the world

of Wienerwald inns

thistle’s lush showing harbours

emerald lacquer-finished beetles

sucking sweet-rotten scent.

hinterweidling’s houses lie

already deeply embedded in

the lush green overgrown

valley below –

what trail is this?

marked as a red one

steep like the man who forged

it out of nature –

smooth silken barks of beech

huggable –

roots like steps across the path

pause the hard walk-up

look into the crowns of brother

and sister trees converging.

have you pal tattooed your

fav tree? Wounds heal but

scars remain.

life & death in nature will

confront you fellow wanderer

truth-seeker/ mind cleanser

habsburgwarte/ charming couple

from barcelona in casual talk

comparing notes

poet and teachers

back to brunnstubenweg/


all’s in flux.





the poet on a yellow bench

reflects on his repetitive trip

from weidling station to the

subway station at the city of saints

but then as he runs from B to Ira

from A to Jo

from muse to muse

they all dance in a round dance

schnitzler to zz knew this perhaps

with eyes close shut

and belle du jour

have entertained us with a

traditional theme

in midst of a hot terrace

above the heart of vienna

where the poet’s carapace

lies unblemished in the open

exposed to some vitamin d3.

yes. He fetches Italian-made

fish dishes for the ladies

and salad for himself.

his thoughts caught-up in

the slightly poisoned food

where’s no escape from what

fish swallow.

birds still warble in weidling

horses still neigh at stephansplatz

and the trees shape the wind

the wayward child’s face.






where is god? the poet asks

no satisfactory answers from

intellectuals/ artists/ models/

folk – impossible to ever receive

ending in absurdity.

does god want us to suffer?

c s lewis already extended on it

in oxford

camus – in paris

zjg – in weidling nö.

blocks of granite chiselled to

turn stone into perfect pharaohs

man or woman into god or

marbled goddess.

she comes/ she cleans/

she swears/ she leaves.

were you once hurt deeply?

when mom’ married my dad’s

brother/ but then I didn’t grasp

yet survival.

what drives me out of this

imprisonment of a bedsitter?

it’s suffering from her verbal abuse

meant to counteract pain she

suffers/ it’s not a personal attack.

this ’s love’s many shades?

at one time she looked golden

gilded by a life-spending sun

warming her elongated back

iced by living in these shadows

of a bitter northern land.

is pain part of a distant

happiness lived in the warm

sand of samos?

god might have chiselled the stone

we come from and with every blow

inflicted pain for making us perfect

but we still are far away from that.

the small bit left for perfection/

a big innocent canvas is set aside for

a human being’s creativity –

thus’ art evolved.

art is love

love entails pain.





the lone man’s mobility

on the countryside’s hamlet

depends entirely on a well

working bus system

that’ll take one to the city

but more so on the mood

of its drivers: the friendly/

contentious/ the grumpy/

the funny/ the unreliable/

as well.

on a saturday afternoon

the shown timetable is not


the poet waits at 15:52

and the bus is not arriving.

for god’s sake –

no use to complain –

offices are closed on a saturday

for ‘le weekend’.

now then/ walk a bit to the

next bus stop to kill time/

another bus in 30 minutes/

or else: walk half an hour to

the main road ‘wienerstrasse’

and get main line transport


it’s ok/ if one has nothing much

to carry

but now the poet has a painting

of his artistic endeveours below

his arm

for exhibition at a fashionable

coiffeur’s shop adjoining a

famous landmark

in the heart of vienna.

It’s not important to the vor-

busline organisation but for

the lone poet

or has there been some other



zoltanzelan    zjg-poetry’20.

paradise lost

paradise lost

sexy movie that’s French/

the coiffeur’s vaulted place

where already mozart has

been attended to his curls/

the artist’s paintings hung

very soon on a stark white

wall south-east agreeing with

feng shui/

lost paradise depicted with

the art of artist zg/

manuel the artist of hair will

arrange and honour/

it’s not covid 19 that separates

people through regualtions

but ignorance for genuine art/

does your art smell good?

like freshly baked croissants

at the U4 bakery close by?

like a fresh shirt or underwear?

hey artist zg/

does your carpel syndrome

hinder your freely moving brush

or pencil/ gel-pen/ your slider

visoglide/ your intensely burn

of rendering?

you’ve searched for a used copy

of blumenberg’s biography

extend the imprisoned horizon

increase the hills at the bed-sitter

until a mountain will squash us


but on the faces a smile of knowing

will remain

in this 34 m2 temporary home

where most furniture belongs to

the awkward landlord

but all paintings and books are

zg’s and he shares them with all

his muses and art-interested/

his heart though has flown to the

aegean isles/

the soul of his art reflects what has

been a colourful love/

cat-sighs from the barn of an imago

a woman looking like mom

locked-up by a stepfather’s bad


and lucy/ like anne/ feels sensuous

without a top

touches herself with the pot’s hands

whose mind is afloat in the nearby


his dangling feet extended like

spindly sculptures

cannot tap into the sane water


he’ll run south from an infernal

fire that rages within his carapace

and has gutted all his physical


his mind survived

thanks to the cooling brook.

most of his senses still alive/

paradise though lost.



first time: jägerwiese again

after one year

the poet felt again

well-recovered from his

knee-joint operation

to take on k j grünberger-weg

and make jägerwiese in ¾ hours

from home in picturesque old


he was to be soon in form again

continuing to former cobenzl

the count’s super-positioned

castle/ winery/ and restaurant

at present under a renovation

and reconstruction contract

for coffee and cake at spectacular

views on vienna.

nearby the trail leads to a place

called ‘am himmel’ – near heaven

where you may hear something

about your respective tree of life

related to your date of birth.

helicopter circling is unusual

the police units were searching

for a missing child

perhaps from the nearby school?

down the gspöttgraben to old

sievering’s historical village

meeting a young girl who walked

from döbling to here – good going.

she told me about even narrower

city roads in perchtoldsdorf.

take the bus 39a and change over at

heiligenstadt to the 400 bus to


a great first time round tour

many more to happen soon.



jägerwiese vienna woods