I alone took the actions that needed to be done
and it was right and proper that the gods paid
me honors, bribes and flattery. For I know
that it is only the bold that is favored.

For when man speaks of Achilles, they shall always
remember the man who felled the unbeatable.
My greatness, my wit. For it was the great love herself
upon our lover's bed who granted me wisdom's virtue.

What is one son, I hear the fools cry.
What is one child for the sake of the city?
Give him up, give up his prizes,
for the Greeks have come to pillage.

It was not solely for my son's lover that the Greeks came.
And she pleaded with me for him, despite his faults.
When Great Agamemnon raised his voice for his own kin,
I understood why he would never relent.

My lovers dead or taken as secondary prizes,
And what am I given to slate my rage?
I am not to fight against those that have done me harm
instead I am to strike the enemy of my tormentor.

With shield forged for sole purpose of ensuring
that I struck deadly upon the honorable protector
And in return I would suffer no wound to still the blood
no mark of spear to end my struggle. No pain to satisfy

The Logos of Antisthenes is a series of 42 Poems set in the immediate aftermath of the Trojan war.

The poems are mostly in Free Verse. I try to stick to the Heroic Stanza format of Quatrains. However, I don't stick as closely to the rules as is traditional, and I'm perfectly fine with that. Essentially, I wanted to capture the feel of a Greek heroic epic, but with some reflections on the war I fought in.

There are three acts.

1st Act: The Muses.

The seeds of my art lie buried within the heart,
for many have declared it dead, and held funerals
mourning the great men who shall never come again;
their words carved upon unliving stone in tribute.

And so the dead prayers come. Rote, unchanging.
The cool, dry air that brings no nourishment,
to the potential bursting within the chest.
Until a spatter of inspiration comes flowing

As the world shakes and rumbles beneath the feet,
the spinning top retains its balance,
The external motion having no purchase upon
its dance, energy imparted that will be completed

and so I act the toy.
Let the cruel marvel at my motions and beat,
let my hands weave patterns they interpret
as the flap of a wing, or the flow of water.

When tyrants bloom among the dung of the city
first they strike against me and my roses
that I offer to the city freely, without demands
save that the thorns are observed and prepared for.

But the grey and wise scream against my thorns
for they shall rend the fragile hands of children
The scent is too strong, they warn, and it will lead astray
those that should revel in the smell of civilization.

So stands the proudest of beasts upon the field,
Ever bold in his journey, ever sure of his steps
the burdens of the past put aside, never to trouble
the conquering hero upon his noble throne.

But upon every throne lies a snare
to catch the beast in his moment of weakness
while all look away, the beast paces
seeking satiation at the nearest pond

I do not know the future, for all is flux
within the various states of being
The bodies within the skies whirl in time
and those that study can see the patterns within.

The mockery of the ignorant will ever be
for so secure are they in their tiny spheres
that they cannot realize that many bodies
rotate and affect each other, and what is true

Upon the field they clash and strike
Each attack intended to end the matter
for no blow is unsportsmanlike
no lust believed the domain of the satyr.

(Refrain)
Crashing shields and broken spears
These are the things left on the field
Fear behind the false veneers
Led by rancid hate unconceal'd