shrink

waiting for the bus

at a temporary stop

next to the open door

that invites you to enter

into a place:

welcome to the limits of

pain-gym

in the city of saints

where people march-in

meet/ travel from and to/

health enthusiasts/ sporting

folk/ casual visitors meet

at this point of mobility’s

intersection as a base

no use of discussing matters

of a specific bus

one travelled on

as it comes up with a friend

who insisted

that she was ahead of her

spouse

who left her thirty minutes

earlier

and yet she arrived at the same

time at changeover station

to join the thru-bus

he was sitting on.

well – he said – she insisted

that i hide from her

where i come from.

she thought she noticed that

he came sitting on a bus

from the opposite direction

to hide from her meeting

somebody else.

“wow now” – his friend said

“she’ll need a shrink – as

pop-words go”

“yeah” he replied

“she always insists it’s me

who’ll need one.”

they both laughed.

shrink.knirhs

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

one smiling & one tearful eye

there are few options

in life

for conducting an existence

as an artist

who fell onto hard times:

the first one is to find some

work

even if it pays a pittance

the second one is to work

on his own specific art

and suffer hunger spells

amid depression –

it’s incredible how galleries

treat an artist –

well now/ the artist said

nearby my place the woods

will sing

so let’s go/ let’s explore them

if at the beginning being

thrown to the wolves

let’s find them and become

a wolf-whisperer –

the laughs heard are those

of spirits

who still share in ironic trains

of thought

but still support the artist with

one smiling eye and the

tearful other.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

happiness

he settles down to his

restaurant-styled desk

and he tries sorting his

staple of calling cards

thinking of visitors for his

exhibition

that lies in a static state

since april and frozen

since the start of corona.

but then he types some

intimate thoughts

as if he’d do a striptease

for his muse

just like anne did for him

virtually

and if eroticism and faked

climax mix

diluting borders of true

feelings

so it all happens in public

life and in politics.

he settles down to his

writing desk

editing poems he wrote

at a bus stop/ the subway/

waiting between fast food

kiosks

the waft of spices colours

his words

wynton marsalis with his

refined orchestral breeze

lets the words dance along

for a grand ballet/ colours

blotched upon a giant canvas

of imagination

for great happiness.

happiness.ssenippah

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

time

nothing else makes you

feel waiting longer in time

than waiting for a bus to arrive

nothing makes a poet feel more

rejected than a chosen woman

who won’t react

to all his love poems

and having spent time between

sheets of cotton-clouds and

a wholesale store of words –

suddenly an unfortunate slip

on a porcelain floor

emerging naked from the

shadows of a temple’s inner

chamber

a priestess of aphrodite’s

cloud-cushioned bed

held up by seven muscular

dwarfs

nothing makes you feel more

complete

than her sexual attentions

when just as much time had

been allotted for waiting

but it feels like cut in half.

time.emit

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

done

fleeing forward – a rapid

movement invades my feet

and it even amazes my

spouse of endless years

that i gained such mobility

such strength in my legs

with twice her model-weight

“incredible” – she whispers

carrying on a monologue

i’ll hear still fourty feet passed

our open entrance door.

she’s hungry for fresh air and

opens windows wide

a sounding board for the

courtyard-neighbours

just as we hear them

otherwise communicating

with braised voices

even over a greater distance

today – my friend the dancer

said: i’ve shaved from top to

toe

following a zen philosophy

but then

this sweetheart left me at a

sudden impulse

pretending an oncoming

headache – wow! just now!

he cried-out disappointed

when we were ready for love

with all signals on go?

damned! so he commenced

autoerotically. ah!

suddenly she returned again

all stirred-up…

“sorry” he sighed – it’s now

all done!”

done.enod

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

warped

“you have a blue eye”

she said

“oh i thought they both were

green/ brown specks

he replied

“seriously/ somebody hit you?”

“no – i would recall such an

incident!”

“here is a mirror/ look.”

“i can’t see a thing. you must see

colours galore.”

“no/ i think you deny it/ keep

secrets from me…

is it over a woman?”

ha! ha! what is your imagination

doing to you?” he’s surprised.

“now put your new glasses on

and have another look.” she points

to the right eye of the poet

who cannot see anything blue

on his face or his skin.

he makes fun of her.

“ho! ho” – she imitates his laugh

Sarcastically

“you wish to put me on and it

annoys me “ she repeats.

“ridiculous – he replies…

you make a scene for nothing.”

“you are aggressive and a denier

of facts.” she says aloud.

“indeed? i’m also no streetfighter!”

“go – and leave me now

i do not wish to travel home with

an aggressive man.”

“sure – good-bye.” he rises/ pays

the bill for a milk-shake and

ice cream

and leaves for the subway in a

disturbed mood.

no wonder his friend recommended

that she’d see a neurologist.

warped.depraw

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

busride 400

in the upholstered seat

of a 400-bus

that pulls the landscape

left and right

by its long hair

with changing speed

it’ll stir the poet’s thoughts

that percolate like fresh

ground coffee beans

hit by steaming water –

a wondrous day

a spray-painted sky

in pale-blue

at a bus stop the artist

sent-off as a postcard

wake-up dear poet

see the onion-shaped

turret of the hamlet’s

solely church?

it’s high time to prepare

for the exit next.

in a few seconds uphill

the acceleration flat-out

the poet will fall thru’ the

bi-parting doors

and passed two-lane

moving cars of weekenders

from the city

who are used to unusual

events at forgotten hamlets

they’ll stir-up to new life.

the poet has succeeded

to enter his writing pad

and settles down to some

gunpowder-tea

and whole-wheat bites.

busride.edirsub

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

salud

sitting daily on buses and

trains

commuting from village to

city

existing thru’ movement

keep the humour for a friend

the smile that left from our

temporary shelter

appears on the face of a muse

who listens to the whispers

of a breeze

above industrial roofscapes

extending a helping hand

slender fingers that curl around

a virtual image

like pearls around the curves

of her well-shaped neck

and thoughts about a

romantic tete-a-tete

lost

in the dense foliage of tall

smooth-trunked beech trees

close by at geometrical rows

of vineyards

show piece of the vintner

school. prost.

salud.dulas

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

between lives

end of summer and

roadworks aren’t finished

in general –

people commute to work

rush to shop

look sheepishly at one

young people laugh

share cynical remarks

talk shop

play games on their mobile

phones –

life in the city has become

a hoarder of masked persons

less individual expressions

of style/ less affordable garb/

less visitors/shops close early/

healthy food is rare/

fatty and sugary stuff in huge

abundance/ open friendliness

is scarce/ a visible rise in

selfish behaviour.

roadworks everywhere.

the bus station at the node

of the City of Saints

had been moved further

adding awkward crossing

of roads and more distance

between connecting lines

narrow pavements can’t cope

with a two-way people stream

passed waiting passengers.

summer’s end/cool air invades/

between stations/ numbers/

between lives.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

happiness

he settles down to his

restaurant-styled desk

and he tries sorting his

staple of calling cards

thinking of visitors for his

exhibition

that lies in a static state

since april and frozen

since the start of corona.

but then he types some

intimate thoughts

as if he’d do a striptease

for his muse

just like anne did for him

virtually

and if eroticism and faked

climax mix

diluting borders of true

feelings

so it all happens in public

life and in politics.

he settles down to his

writing desk

editing poems he wrote

at a bus stop/ the subway/

waiting between fast food

kiosks

the waft of spices colours

his words

wynton marsalis with his

refined orchestral breeze

lets the words dance along

for a grand ballet/ colours

blotched upon a giant canvas

of imagination

for great happiness.

happiness.ssenippah

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.