John Kotula has probably been an artist for lifetimes. In this incarnation, his work can be seen at Hera Gallery, Wakefield, RI.
Visit his blog, Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man, at blogspot.com for his insights.
"I have been drawing continuously, at times obsessively, for more than fifty years. My choice of materials comes and goes and comes back again: pencils, charcoal, conte, ink, crayons, Sharpies, china markers, pastels, chalk... Through all the changes in materials and subject matter, what has always been true is that I love making marks and seeing them accumulate to reveal an image."
► John's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below. All cover art is by John.
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Origami Micro-Chapbook |
Selected Poem(s) |
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{mooblock=Harriet}
Look, the dead don’t miss you.
It doesn’t work that way. No matter what you do. No matter what you say. We’ve got perspective. We’ve got the long view. I’m beyond being protective. Even with Asa and Moshe, There is nothing new. Every story’s an old one. It’s all been told before. You miss me? Yeah, yeah. My loss makes you weep? What should I do for you? Put a broom up my ass? Give the floor a sweep? • John Kotula © 2011 {/mooblock} |
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{mooblock=Swanee River}
Here’s the way it is:
I’m often on the shore Watching you splash and play In ocean, river or lake. Way down upon the Swanee River On a steamy summer day. There’s you In silvery white light Like a photo taken from underneath a black cloth Blurry edges with you at the center Glowing. That’s where my heart is yearning ever. Like Popeye, the river swims between your knees. The pebbles tickle your feet. Minnows nibble your toes. Trout delight in their fish eye view of your Banjo-shaped ass. The lazy ‘gator thinks, “Hum… probably tastes like chicken.” The lazy husband thinks, “Enough poetry. Enough lying on the bank While Deb’s far, far away. I’m going in.” •
John Kotula © 2011
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{mooblock=Husband in Winter}
In the middle of the night
I wake up in my warm bed. I nudge Deb softly. Yeah, she is still there. I get up to pee, Walk past the coats in the hall, The door to the basement. The clock on the stove says 2:10. My old bladder knows the hour, If not the minute. There is moonlight coming in the back door. I can make out the silhouette of the big rosemary plant. I sit. No sense in trying to steer When I’m half asleep. The thermostat is set at 58. I’m cold When I slip Back under the covers. But, Deb is warm. I press against her, Snuggling, spooning. One day, One of us Will be alone In this bed. One of us Will have to wait While the heat of one body Warms it up. •
John Kotula © 2011
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{mooblock=Gringo Time, Honduran Time}
El tiempo del gringo
Es bien organizado. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. Honduran time flows and loops. Si Dios quiere. Gringo time falls on the beat. At best it waltzes. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. El tiempo Hondureño baile la bachata. The feet execute a sexy little two-step While the hips elaborate. But Honduran time is a Bromista cruel. Its jokes are merciless. The hours glow. The days rhyme. The weeks nap in their hammocks. The months pass in ciclos de sol y lluvia. But the years kill you. You are old at forty. At fifty you look seventy. Before long, There is a tent in the street In front of your house. Your family weeps in rented folding chairs. A black bow droops on your door. Gringo time is a negotiator. (Even time knows that gringos are powerful.) In the end it is all the same. Time has nothing to lose By relenting a little Here and there. Five years if you go to the gym Three times a week. Ten years if you take your Lisinopril daily. Gringo time is patient. It’s all the same in the end. •
John Kotula © 2010
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| Cross Country Haiku I. Road Trip |
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{mooblock=PA and NY}
Pennsylvania
Freight trains pass by me
Headed west. I am going east. I can’t count that fast. Coming back seems fast. Faster than going. Tail winds? Anticipation? New York
New York, the cool state.
Just a corner of it is Cooler than Texas. •
John Kotula © 2010
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Two towns up a tree
K-i-s-s-i-n-g. One thing then another. A well-known story, A different order for the Carriage and marriage. Biloxi loved Austin. Austin loved Biloxi. But still, would it last? •
John Kotula © 2010
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