300 (Athenians)

Amidst my doodling and half-to-quarter paying attention during school hours, I remember being taught about Athens and Sparta. From what I recall, there was a significant divide when it came to the philosophies of how these places were governed. Athenians, if memory serves properly, trended more bookish and tolerant, while the Spartans were rather on the violent and warmongering end of the spectrum.

Then of course there was the film 300, where Gerard Butler kicks the dude into the deep pit and shouts something or other about Sparta. 300 Spartans staring down the barrel of a gun in the form of the Persian Empire…well, this got me to thinking—how would 300 Athenians respond to the prospect of a greater army bearing down upon their gates? (Did they have gates?) So, long story short I wrote a narrative poem following this foolish line of thought, and I’m going to share that poem now! This poem is called 300.

300

Inside of the Acropolis;
Inside the great metropolis
Of Athens, stood three-hundred men
Less versed with sword and more with pen:
Men of commerce; men of art;
Men who made the oceans part
With words and doctrines; verses; codas;
All the while wearing togas.

“Settle, settle," said a thinker
Known for wordplay, sure to tinker;
"As it stands, the Persian horde
Surround us with their bows and swords:
The Spartans fall (though wreathed in glory)
Played out in a manner, gory.
Scholars, I propose at present 
Finding something less unpleasant.”

“Here, here," the group said, all as one
(As if the deed were good as done),
"I say,” a voice said, "how can we
Be sure that is a real army?" 
“Thank you, Pluto, for the thought,”
The thinker said, “but this might not
Be just the time for such a musing;
Plus, it’s just a mite confusing.” 

“Have you felt them?” Pluto said,
“Has any hair upon their heads
Been scrutinized or studied long
Enough to recognize this throng?”
“Pluto,” said the thinker, "you
Will die; they’ll cut thee square in two.
So stop. Enough. We need a plan
For how to save us; every man." 

“That’s premature," then said another,
“Pluto; how can you uncover
If this army bears a being
When that very word lacks meaning:
How," the man asked, full of beard,
His head and eyes now skyward steered,
“Would you, yourself, describe an army?
Can we understand this party?”

Murmuring was spreading fast
Through all the white-robed men amassed:
The thinker’s face was all scrunched up
(Wrinkles like a hound-dog pup).
“Thank you, so, Hippocrates,"
He said, “but your philosophies
Won’t stop a spear nor shield our bodies
From the coming arrow volleys." 

“Upon examination, I,” 
A third man said, "propose we try
And view this legion as a band
Of men with form to understand." 
Harris Tutle looked the sight
Of wisdom at her crowning height:
His head was craned up towards the sun,
His hand, upon his chin, was run.

Three-hundred cloth-draped men-of-letters,
Each convinced he had the better
Concept of the bloody horde
Began to offer underscored
Exactly what an army meant; 
More than used to such dissent.
The thinker watched all this unfold
Then turned his back and off he strolled.

He passed by temples; passed by halls;
Theaters; fountains; till the walls
Which held the city from attack
Stood tall and near his chosen track:
He opened up a closeby gate
And, far preferring such a fate, 
Walked out towards an open plain
And let an arrow end his pain.