Mythography – Manolis/Kirkby


Manolis, Ken Kirkby & friends
Paperback 9 x 6 in
174 pages
ISBN: 9781926763217
Buy Online


“The idea for this book has been circling the edges of my mind for years. The members of my tribe are a solitary lot and not readily attracted to acting as a group. In ages past we worked on the walls of caves. Having run out of caves we now work on canvas and wood and write on paper. This is perhaps a cautionary tale on the limits of what nature can provide. Each member of this tribe has a clear vision and strong view. Thankfully they are also blessed with the power to describe those views.

Many thanks to Manolis, friend, poet and publisher, without whose talents and enthusiasm this gem would not have seen the light of day.

It is my hope that each person who views this book will enjoy the results of our collective labours.”


“Brushstrokes on canvas, the wood chiseling of a wood carver, or poetic images on paper, create myths that take the observer-reader to that other realm of understanding beyond the sensory world. Mythography is the result of collaboration between nine painters, a wood carver, and a poet, who, via three different forms of art, contributed equally to the compiling of this unique artistic display.

My heartfelt thanks and appreciation go to Ken Kirkby for organizing the participants and for his gesture of trust in the interpretation of these artists’ works through my poetry.”




Why you grew so tall

oh, great fir,

lonely guard of our secrets—

asked the blades of grass—

fir gazed upward to heaven

reached by her top and said—

to look upon the crispy water

the forest canopy

the mountain peaks

to delve into the higher values

in my anchorite’s meditation

to grasp magnificence

to dwell in God’s wish

to also bend and cry

to also germinate


Oneiric scenic endlessness

the ground conifer’s

meditation soothing

in air’s consoling absence



Let my arms become a shelter

where the vulnerable

will seek refuge—

said the red cedar—

call me the tree of life

let birds sing in my shadow

let need turn into giving

even when the axe nears

my bark and falling the mighty

canoe I become to travel

river-bends peaceful

tranquil songs

of tenderness on moist lips

of people in love



Through second floor window

image crawls

into my eyes taking

charge of beauty’s feather



In a lane exiting the highway

of cars with lights flickering

pastel colors and soft hues

not traffic signs or policemen

bugs and mosquito passengers

females applying make up

men arguing about roughness

of flow and all appear as gigantic

to the painter’s brush

as we do in the eyes

of enormities peeking

from their world of leviathan

down to our miniscule

like the infinite plus

gazing the infinite minus

with us

in the middle like big zeros

representing the great void of

colorful and eloquent nothing