Sculptural, Graphical artworks & Poems


Walking with Gyula Friewald

Village walk in Spain

I climb up from the valleys

follow the  path of donkeys.

My presence pursues the moments

as it croaks like a floundering bullfrog

in the mind’s stronghold.

The floating minute whistles casually,

weaves wreaths from wild flowers

and gently strokes my neck.

Vast, bright air flooding from the above,

the scented breeze ignores me.

I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces

of these elegantly  resting female mountains.

Herds and swarms of cultures gathered

in these cupped hands like valleys and

disappeared in the drain hole of time.

Nobody wants to wake up from

the oozing garlic ornate dream.

They just repeat what is safe,

as the old told how to survive,

indeed,  good for their godly goats.

Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.

Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013



Maestro de la Música (1)


Kóma / Coma


You stand daily outpace

above your packed suitcase,

iron wasps drunk on your tears.

The bite of the winter’s

tattoo refrozen puddles

drift and stuck on you.

Mum’s fallen fingers

On the strings of your

facial lines,hesitantly old

melodies swell.

The clerk’s ancient epilepsy is

in the law’s cacophony.

The unwrapped memorabilia’s

brick piles, lapses into pyramids.

Wandering friends trance on the passes of years.

The mind croaks, the scientist cries.

The right half, destructively rise new temples

the left, replace priests,

geld healingly

for stealing faith.

The insignias of your worn moral suitcase:

survived odours of slaughterhouses,

sexually in smuggled tricks,

the empty skulls and in their eye sockets

the peeping violets,

The long forgotten trips,

The secret panties, bras and their

creased vapour,

The walnut tree’s love letters.

Excitements, carved in school benches,

the thick drip of candles,

the pit of the first glass of alcohol,

a dilated pupil gazes into your mirror,

the emotional ram of your rebellious child,

the capsize of the porcelain potty.

All turn sepia brown, in musty albums,

atrophy to the tapestry of a museum.

You, who know how to crawl across borders;

time to cut some corners!

Turn over the stinky moral baggage!

Push aside the lunatic blockage!

2010-12-21 Friewald Gyula


Between Bridges of Budapest


(Story of my parents)


I search the big trees above  me,

follow the path of my mother’s force.


Replacement: Daci, my mothers’ first lover, gone,

my father back from Stalin’s gulag.

Massive dripping of ideology,

the worse outnumber the bad,

Decisions and instinct of a 19 year old,

new ideas of working class demagogue optimism,

while her sewing machine rattles.

Hot summer excursion, forest walk.

Betting time, the die has been cast.


New bridge


I’m there, the whole rollercoaster,

runaway train cut into the blue sky.

Genes, DNI, amino acid gambling,

next few months and

as a little, rechargeable frog finish my first cycle.

Week long struggle to get on the stage

Mother bleeds and never stops.

Frog life reality, Mum’s learning

voices, to understand, croaks, sounds to etch in the heart.


New bridge


Father gives me his funny name, all right!

And leaves,… was a quick job,

he’s his own bureaucrat.

She is sobs, bleeds,

Starts to forget, but she has her frog life to live,

just about out of water.

Young mother, young child, young country.

Behind eyelids,

old wolves haul everywhere,


Another new bridge


Crystallized mind, crystallized muscles.

Derelict homes, unknown draws full of sweaty, worn masks.

Replacement again: Gyula ( my father) spins out

Another man comes, enters with emptiness of the desert,

Stubborn taste of the  sand,

At the age of six,

I smell of grape and leather in the wind.


Mádi = the nickname of young Mother                                      Gyula Friewald © 12/08/2011