Byzantine Empire

By Todd French

Byzantine Empire develops themes from Todd French's previous poetry anthologies including the rise and fall of ancient empires, America's decline, living by faith in a post-Christian world, and the beauty of nature and simple human connections.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Dec 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890913791

Todd French

Todd French lives in California with his family. His interests include poetry, fiction, history, art, film and music, and birdwatching. This is his fourth collection of poetry following the summer 2022 publication of his first volume, Sad Superpower by ReadersMagnet. He has started work on a fifth volume, titled Harvest. Current projects include a short novel titled The Early Retirement of Sheriff Anselm. Favorite authors and influences include poets Ezra Pound, Billy Collins, Jill Pelaez Baumgaertner, John Steinbeck, Anthony Doerr, Cormac McCarthy Richard Monaco, Dean R Koontz and William Peter Blatty.

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Byzantine Empire

Copyright © 2023 by Todd French

Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023923614

ISBN Paperback: 979-8-89091-378-4

ISBN eBook: 979-8-89091-379-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

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Either they must rule over us like gods, or they refuse to govern at all.

Michael Psellus

(from The Chronographia)

AND WITH THOSE WORDS EVERYTHING CHANGED

In the great city of Troy, while the gold and bronze-greaved host

Battled on the dust and gore-flooded plain, meeting the rataplan of

Arrows and javelins, locking the rims of the ox-hide shields to turn the spears

Of the ravening, fame-hunting Achaeans, there was a group of gusty squires,

A half-dozen worn-down wastrels reprieved from trading blows against the Greeks,

On behalf of (damn him damn him!) Apple-Eyed Paris and his purloined missus,

Because of pulled hamstrings and groins, deep furrows down the sword-arm,

Or just coming back from some bug or minor, miserable bout of dysentery.

Anyway, the crew is sitting in the tent entrance, happy enough to be at leisure,

Polishing a piece of bronze vambrace armor, straightening a thigh plate,

Repairing the ties on a good saddle, refitting a sword blade to its handle;

Sprawled out, ensconced beneath the tent-fly, slick with the midday heat,

Swatting at flies, forgetting to curse Apple-Eyed Paris (damn him damn him) and his

Purloined missus for the bother-they launch into their favorite war-ditty out of boredom.

Eyes-sea-green and clear as the summer sky or rheumy and yellow with age,

Hairless lips straining, or paint-brush beard of gray wagging, unflagging,

They toil half-heartedly through the afternoon as they hold the Son of Peleus to scorn,

Who, boiling over differences with his king, refuses to show his mettle

Against the Trojans-like a peregrine falcon disdaining to be flown from the fist

At a brace of partridges flushed from a row of glassine wheat,

He keeps his spear bolstered, his round shield rests against the support pole,

As he paces the length of his camp digs, chuffing and huffing, ears burning

With the clangor of conflict, frazzled as a hunting dog withheld from

The deer hunt by master’s command-he rises, then reclines,

Raging like the winter gales on the headland over the theft of Briseis by Mycenae’s king.

His dereliction in the drive for word-fame has been a subject of much humor

And scorn for these gamey gallants granted a time-out by their leader,

Who has taken the cream of his fighting dependents out to meet the Greeks

In the thick press and swelter of the killing-fields.

And so these worthies sing lustily as they go about their little jobs:

Noble Achilles is pent in his tent!

He’s pent in his tent, paying the rent!

Valiant Achilles is pent in his tent!

Pounding out his helmet dent!

Of course, these clods are oblivious to the irony of mocking The Great Runner

For sulking in his field-tent over the god-fueled quarrel with King Agamenon,

While they are kicking back in their lord’s pavilion, basking in exemption

From shedding their blood on behalf of Apple-Eyed Paris (damn him) and his

Purloined missus-steaming, like many, that King Priam gave sanctuary

To the Spartan king’s pilfered spouse, starting The Great War that has

Come upon the heartland and bled every town and province of bronze and muscle.

However, the singers and malingerers-as much as they hate her-wouldn’t mind

A glimpse of Helen strolling by with that black-haired, bull-baiting dandy,

For say what you will about the attaining of that minx-she is fair oh she is fair!

(but was she worth spurning Hera’s gift of all Asia and Europe?)

(I would have taken all Asia and Europe if the choice had gone to me!).

The times they laid eyes on the daughter of swan-feathered Zeus and Leda,

She seemed as graceful as the twining brights of the high fountain of Pirene,

Where the Pegasus slake their thirst-oh, they have seen her now and then,

Beauty blinding like dawn’s first flourish of rubellites and tourmalines,

That neck: surely the cloud-convoler playing the swan gave her that neck!

Well, well, the baggage is here and you can’t deny she’s easy on the eyes,

But none of its worth what we’ve suffered, are suffering-after all,

The Glorious Dead are still The Glorious Dead, someone’s husband, son, brother:

Leda should have broken the egg that hatched her-Zeus or no Zeus!

Ah, but there is no denying the baggage is fair indeed, eh?

(but not worth a war/he should have contented himself with Asia and Europe)

(but the gods are capricious and he would have lost them before time)

But still and all let us admit that she is a leman without rival:

Hector’s Andromache is not even close to fitting the bill, eh, lads?

And so they go back to their raucous verses:

Noble Achilles is pent in his tent!

He’s pent in his tent, paying the rent!

Valiant Achilles is pent in his tent!

Pounding his pretty until he is bent!

The light retreats outside their tent as the day winds down, and

The late day blood-shadows-dark as Japanese bloodgoods or smokebush,

Paint holy Ilium’s chaste, over-awing spires, residences, shop and stall covers

With their scarlet lacquer as those not going by in their blazing, armored cadres

Go about the day’s business of shopping for goods gone to price hikes

Due to the economics of siege-life and Trojan noblewomen and their servants

Pass, making desultory chatter, breaking off when some act of conspicuous valor

Brings a great wave-sough of approval from the battlefield, while eyes

Flick towards the distant specks of raptors lost in the thin cirrus and robin blue,

Or mark a ghost-puff of cumulus scudding overhead as if it meant something more

Than it was-and children, untouched enough by the anxieties of their parents,

Toss balls and chase katydids, fall out of friendship and quickly make up

(ah, that the Achaeans and Trojans could make up their quarrels as easy as this!),

And the boys go about their mock-fights with sticks and improvised helms,

Crying I am Hector and by Apollo’s bow, I will strike you down, Diomedes!

And another declaims I am Aeneas-take that, King Menelaus! Go back to Sparta!

And one or two of the girls pretend to be Helen, smiling down on some youth

Pretending to be Prince Paris