Storming the Foothills of Mt. Olympus, Part 1 (Draft 1)

I wrote the majority of this over the past few months. It is the first draft of the first part of this long-ish poem. The rest of it is outlined in my text-drafting program of choice (Evernote, though Dropbox and simple text files are getting appealing lately). A goal is rhyme and meter or abandoning both.

Part of me is interested in how the drafts evolve. Because I write on a computer (or texting capable cell phone) almost exclusively, drafts are generally destroyed or mangled in process. Drafting seems like a weird process to those that do not do it ("Just write it right the first time!").

Also, part of me wants to put something up as proof that I'm actually doing some work.

{All you need know: I am a soldier, dressed in a hoplisis,
fighting against the gods. My goals: succor and gold.}

Achlys moves the Earth with her words: "Armies
onward towards the crest of this hill and
onward towards the home of the Gods;
ever forward, forward to usurp these
faulty idols. We do not pray, we demand
what's ours and will raze their castles of sand."
I say, "Those who stopped just before this hubris
are what we call, 'Un-ambitious.' They are
the forgotten soldiers upon history clods
upon with terrible hooves. Great people, this
is how we inhabit history: ideas and tar
and mortar and art. We are dancing stars."

{But we will not be the greatest. We would fall
under the forgotten tasks of our ancestors.}

Achlys orders us further upwards to lay siege
the home of the gods. We will starve
them of pomegranate and catapult rocks
and rotten meat. We will not leave these
mountains without just rewards, riches carved
by Zeus; his struggles become our toy models.
I can see the great walls now: battlements
bare of soldiers are covered with a haze--
a smoke that refuses to rise. It is dusk;
I lay my head on the grass. Slaves raise tents
for officers. I breathe deep: their supper today
is fowl: all save best officers have gluttonous ways.

{The soldiers empty stomachs churn, prolapse into
nightmares and make sleep exhausting.}

Morning. "Xolotl has distemper; the eagle god's soft eggs
poach well," Achlys tells us we will be upon them,
we will fight the gods and triumph and win and reclaim
"For we have made them in natures image, the hags
and the dogs and the eagles and warriors!" Then
she stops short, breathes deep, and pulls up phlem.
She spits on the ground; it is clear and healthy.
"We spit upon their throne; we deny their place
at the head of our lives; we deny them any fame
or hope or existence. These gods--never the
way to truth--have occluded our search, face
to face they tell us that we're the inferior race."

{My own doubts are still full and fast. There might
be something to this even still, even still.}

"They're worse than us because they learn slowly;
even now, we see that bombs and wrath are tools
of last resort, and they act like the unwashed.
They are not our betters. We raid brutally
but with hope. We will kill those fools
who, on our sacrifice, lived petty, fought petty duels.
"And we see their castles brick by brick now,
each one white square and arranged by a slave.
Imagine such a life! An eternity of toil for naught;
for the mere pleasure of an ungrateful sow.
Zeus is mine. When I enter His castle, I'll pave
the world with his soldiers, from general to knave."

{Do her slaves hear her words as she promised freedom?
Do they know she lies like everyone before her?}

Small men--advisors--scurry all around. New news
from scouts and prisoners returned. "Silence,
silence!" she says, wills, orders. "Free the men
in chains. What treasures from our dues
to the gods lie ahead? How do we battle? Lance,
sword, or siege?" Them: "There is barely even a fence.
When we ran to the gates and threw them agape--
no longer afraid of terrible white towers, buttresses
overhead--we scurried and pillaged every corner, ran
upwards, forever upwards, into spires. Empty, from nape
to foundation, of gods or men." "Then, what nemesis
bound you, stripped you, and held you in place?"

{Who else is left? Who remains to lock them up? Logic
tells us who it must be, but it is still a cause for wonder.}

"Achlys, we locked ourselves in the dungon and traded
our freedom for fear of offense. We were afraid
of our freedom. We wish to return to our holes,
bound and miserable and secure." She looks over faded
skin, gaunt and hanging loose, and clothes frayed,
worn. She says, "Do you say that when we raid
we, too, will feel this fear, and feel an ache for restraint?"
"Aye." "Well," she says, "I have felt deep aches, though
I wouldn't call them aches from fear." We laugh. "Souls,"
she says, after the slow men understand her faint
wit, "take a boat to that river and row, quickly, row.
Stay mid-river. Rocks line the shores. Beware of undertows."

{Of course you don't know (do they?) just around
the bend: waterfalls and rocks and hard clay.}

Part 2.