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The smell of mahogany
as you walked through
those white wooden doors
and the dried lavender
that spoke of summers past.
She raved about the art deco
treasures and wonders she
collected and I was mesmerised
by the ancient modernity
sugar crystals of brown and gold
were put into darjeeling tea
next to collections
of handmade theatre masks
hung among portraits of
a younger blonde girl.
The sounds of a stormy night
as we sat eating some
honey roasted almonds
were a rhapsody to us at candlelight
I wanted to sketch her antiques
and add them to the
painting filled walls
one of them I found
was an old typewriter
a Mercedes that her mother had
found discarded in a dump
she didn’t know if it worked
and so gave me some ivory paper
now I sit with the lace tablecloth
by the window to the
evening street below
cars pass with the softest breeze
and I write of summers past.
Chris Saitta Jun 20
Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,  
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.


The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.

In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.
The Ringstrasse is the well-known road around Old Vienna, the inner heart of the city.

For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at ChrisSaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Ankita Gupta Feb 17
Open the door
Enter the time that lapsed
Draw out the curtains
There is light from the past
Breathe the air
Dance to the tunes slow and fast
Ride the carriages
Travel to the time of chance
Peter B Sep 2018
He passed away in 1791,
aged thirty five.
He never saw a car,
never heard a noise of a machine.
His lungs
never breathed a smog.

He didn't wait
for the industrial revolution,
wild capitalism
and their awful consequences.

He left much earlier,
saving his senses
from the ugliness of the world,

from the unpleasant times,
which were soon to come.

He didn't die,
he only withdrew
from the end of the world.
İlayda Korkmaz Aug 2018
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.

Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.

Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Peter B May 2018
It's Drei Uhr in Wien,
Leute are sleeping tight,
when Wolfgang is playing
on the Klassiknacht.
*Drei Uhr - 3 o'clock, 3 am
*Wien - Vienna
*Leute -  people
*Klassiknacht - classic music show on Austrian radio Ö1
Michelle Garcia Nov 2016
on the night train to Vienna I dreamt
as the soft tangerine light bled into the windows,
tumbling down infinities of Italian countryside
absorbing into my retinas in summer shades
of dusk-colored haze

entranced I was--
a nervous girl of sixteen years,
uncharted valleys sprawling ceaselessly
at the beds of my fingers,
love languages my tongue could not yet
stretch its fibers around
freedom forming its hunched silhouette
just outside of thin glass windows
cooled by the night’s apprehensive breeze

endless, it seemed
the rumbling blur of possibilities--
my hands sedated for the first time in years.
quietly existing in the jolt of a moving cab,
the subtle ricochet through the faint lamppost glow
of fragile Austrian dreams.

home-- four thousand and forever miles away
and yet here was fine, just fine
a girl with stringy hair and a steaming cup
of midnight European tea
as her mother sighed to herself in the
peak of her American afternoon,
wondering whether her baby had found sleep
in someone else’s morning.
Alec Verse Sep 2016
Mother threw me away
****** me in and spit me out
The pavement still tastes like your thighs
Like bubble gum underneath the chemistry table

Where I first held hands with
Some other girl I loved
Not knowing her reaction but
We burned flowers cut with kitchen knives.

I woke up to ashes lining my breakfast
Tongue thick with Amaryllis
Thinking if God asks you my name
Say serpent,

Say hello —
A disaster of two elements
You and me
If we combined

Our neon wrists.
Does Ares care about
How I touch you, with the lights off
You tell me the walls

Already know
What I do with my wolf teeth
And your caffeinated bellybutton,
They find you in three nights.

Rebirth is not as kind
To my combusting spine, replace
Ghost sin with your birth right
Jacob’s carnage

I paid for with eyelashes,
Long glances — my dignity
Wrapped in ****** white, and impotent boy skin
Becomes a coffin.
Vienna Sickness is a working title, it will probably change, I'm really bad with titles. If you can think of any titles, please comment them. I am really free to suggestions.
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