Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

excerpt

Just prior to his 20th birthday, Ken strapped his backpack in place
and crossed the river at Coppermine, NWT. He set off across the tundra,
mesmerised by the silent endlessness of the landscape and the unreachable
horizon. With no idea of what lay ahead of him, the young man took only
what he could comfortably carry. That included many rolls of adding
machine tape on which to record his sketches, a collection of pencils and a
knife for sharpening them. He hoped to capture on paper the sights that until
now lived only in his imagination.
Initially, the land itself transfixed him. The ground was hard and
covered with low-lying plants, prickly shrubs and the occasional stand of
stunted willows. It appeared empty of all habitation and there were few
reference points to indicate distance or direction. The most striking thing to
his eye was the 360 degrees of unbroken, blue sky that met the edge of the
horizon like an overturned bowl. The solitude was the balm his broken soul
required.
He fished the river for food and travelled as, and if, the mood took
him. Occasionally he glimpsed other men silhouetted against the sky in the
indefinable distance. It took some days before he realised these people were
not of flesh and bone, but rather precisely piled stones—stark, timeless and
majestic.
I came to learn these beings were called Inukshuk, singular, or when in
a group, Inuksuit. They were as impressive as the Sphinx or Stonehenge.
Constructed of various sized blocks of granite-like stone, they stood on
two legs and varied in size from larger than human-sized, to perhaps
sixteen inches tall. They had no facial features but gave the impression
of being totally aware of their surroundings and they captured my
attention in a powerful way. Years later they became an essential part
of my commercial paintings.
Outside of National Geographic Explorers, not many people have
the opportunity to actually live with and learn from a culture with such
a richness of history, so it was largely good fortune that Ken’s camp was
located in an area visited by a family of Inuit in the course of their seasonal
migration. They were unlike any people he had yet met, and Ken bided his…

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Entropy

Cells
Like the cells of each body
that die and in darkness
they float and talk
cells of an undefined wholeness, we
die without noticing or understanding
while wholeness lives
in our death
moves and breathes
eternal youth of an odyssey.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPCRLJC6

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Orestes

Even the flower vases of the house present a gesture of
lenience to her wailing, the compassion of a few roses
gracefully placed, by the hands of mother, there,
in the engraved console in front of the big, family
mirror with its double, watery gleam from reflection
to reflection — I recall it since my childhood — this
still remains shadow-less, watery gleam, tender, neutral,
an abstraction, the timeless, sinless, something soft and
exquisite like the first hair on the neck of girls or the lips
of the ephebes, like the fragrance of a freshly bathed
body in the cool bed-sheets, warmed by the breath of
a starry summer night.
She doesn’t understand anything: the echoes which
scoff her out of tune voice. I’m afraid; I can’t respond
to her call — so great and funny at the same time —
to her emphatic words, old, as if exhumed from
chests of the old good seasons (as the old people say),
like the big, rough-dry flags with mothballs, denial, and
silence in their seams — so old that they don’t suspect
their old age and insist to flutter with ancient gestures
over the unsuspecting, busy and disgusted people passing
in modest, asphalt streets, despite their width and length,
with the decorated display windows, full of ties, crystals,
bathing suits, purses, brushes, which correspond better
to the needs of our times, therefore and to the endless
need of life that commands us.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763815

Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

Put out all the fires of war
shut all gleaming lighthouses
tumble all phosphorescent towers
leave my joy, ardour and celebration.
March oh you chariots and charioteers
prepare the sweet wine and
people hymn celebratory hymns
of my celebration, joy and ardour.
And the gleaming fires were put out
all the towers were tumbled
the Circus echoed loud cries
the chariots started their run
with the royal king up front
crowned with rosy colours
in front of the all alone monarch
and the Prophet heard the joyous
hymn as it spread all over
from the mouths of
the Greens and the Venetians…

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The Incidentals

Glens and Forests
He had walked them all, endless
forests and narrow ravines
the open glens and little brush-woods
old Stefan had known them all
by their first names, tree trunks he
had spoken to, the bark of ageless
spruces he had scarred, numerous
times he strode over ravines and
deep crevasses and over rocks and
steep hills and boulders he rumbled
old Stefan knew the forests well
these trees which had felt the sharp
axe since the primordial years
when the first man decided to build
his abode, back then when profit
wasn’t anywhere to be earned
when the ugliness of money wasn’t
anywhere to be amassed when he
the tree feller didn’t have to do this
to earn a living but only to dig a canoe
out of it and not before he would
hug the trunk of that gigantic tree and
beg its forgiveness, yes there was once
an innocent world that transformed
itself after the tall ships arrived in these
lands and the people who carry with
them the holy book and their greed
created the trade of a tree feller who
after many years of cutting the life
of a living organism still stands in awe
each time he gazes at the proud height
of trees with their centuries-old wisdom
like that first day when a youth he looked
in awe at the skyward direction
of the trees, he was meant to fell
since this was inscribed on his tablet
a tree feller to become a not consenting
insignificant killer among all others
old Stefan now recalls he too lived
among the alive, he too felt the choking
agony of the ageless spruce when it fell
one day he too will be forgotten, like
his trees that became planks for some
to step on yes one day, he will be one
with the grass to be stepped on
by the soles of future tree fellers and
hopefully, they might once listen to his
endless cries or as it’s meant to be:
perhaps never.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763637

Hours of the Stars

Despair
House forgotten by the winds
roof: ghost, serpent-protector
handmade roof tile
doesn’t tremble in the earthquake
nymphs along with a deer
wine at dawn, salt in the evening
they bring in a vessel
and bread on the self
ancient candle holder: a candle
flame and swallow
expectation of a slaughter
spreads its wings
glance of the bow a contour
a rough line
they neither beg of lips
nor of lust
in her silence a mother prays
with the earth’s primordial chariot
far in the sky
a bell chimes giving birth to the world

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Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

… as in the winter
when the haughty waters
of the rushing creeks flow down,
flood fields and sweep away
both shepherds and their flocks
or when at dawn
the sun bestows its light
across the earth, consumes
innumerable stars
above the high Olympus
three hundred souls
of proud Laconians
glorified Assopos
and the grove
of Marathon.
Like them, I seek the steel.
Who will give me
the thunder of war?
Who will lead me
to the struggle today?
Horrible, hated son
of Asia Minor, Ottoman,
why are you still here?
What is in your mind?
Why not escape your death?
The time has come: leave,
ride your wild
Arabian mare
and with her gallop
to defeat the wind…

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Nikos Engonopoulos – Poems

they reflect
proud as they are
in the lakes
and their shores are white lyres
their music covers our internal
sadness
and fill our essence
with joy
serenity
the women we love
are lakes
the women we love are like flags
and flutter in the winds of lust
their long hair
shine
during the night
in their warm palms, they hold
our lives
their soft bellies are
the sky dome
our doors
our windows
the armadas
our stars always live next to them
their colours are
words of love
their lips are
the sun and the moon
and their sail is the only shroud
that suits us

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Übermensch

Kin
We approached the painter who weighted just a few
kilos yet he flew in revolutions that drew circles
on the wall. Certain and safe, that someone
else had died to fill Hades’ need. Wild and
delicate movements, pastel hues and chiaroscuro,
straight lines, his emotionally charged brush, his
canvas a dusty yard, no flowers, only emotions
for background and little huts as punishment
for the unrealized dreams of the emigre.
He smiled, and from that smile we knew: He
understood that we understood, the painter another
Übermensch. His alter ego, His beloved kin and
of course, ours.

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Arrows

excerpt

Tamanoa was no fool. He dropped to knees beside me. This show
of subservience seemed to please Guacaipuro. He turned and left us.
That night we were shown to our own hut.
There I fell to my knees, and gave thanks.

Afew days later, much recuperated from my ordeal, I was surprised
by a dozen children who had come looking for me. Some wore
loincloths, some were naked. They stopped dead at the sight of me,
but one of them, a lad of about twelve, overcame his disgust and
approached me.
“What is your name?” he asked.
I told him and asked his. His name was Pariamanaco, and he was
Guacaipuro’s nephew. His mother, Tiaroa, was the chief’s sister. For
some reason, suddenly being aware of this family structure shook
me. In the months to come, I would learn to see the Indian folk with
new eyes.
Pariamanaco took my hand. “Come,” he said.
I tied Tamanoa to my wrist, as Guacaipuro had instructed, and
they led us to a nearby stream where I pretended to tie Tamanoa to
another tree trunk. We watched as the children ran back and forth,
into the water and out, splashing and laughing.
Hope sprouted in my heart like a sign of spring. Between those
children and me a friendship was born, one that would last until the
end. They splashed so much water over me that I forgot about it
myself, busy as I was with our playful combat. Pariamanaco’s innate
sense of justice soon told him that twelve against one was not fair
competition, and he changed sides, coming to stand by me against
the others.
My strength dwindled, and I sat down on a boulder by the shore.
The children didn’t notice and kept at it for some time. When they
finally saw me there, they came and sat around me. I pointed at the
strings of beads with which they adorned themselves, and soon
enough they were teaching me names and splitting their sides

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