“The Glories of Our Blood and State”

THE GLORIES of our blood and state
—Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
—Death lays his icy hand on kings:
——Sceptre and Crown
——Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
—And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
—They tame but one another still:
——Early or late
——They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;
—Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death’s purple altar now
—See where the victor-victim bleeds:
——Your heads must come
——To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

— James Shirley (1596-1666)

Original Poem: “The Bachelor”

The bachelor is a well-groomed myth;
Avuncular man, ruddy in cheer and mien:
Chaste and perverse in balance, never settling,
Never happy. The long loneliness is his
Only companion—and his long-loved glass
Of sherry, and port, and oak-aged Madeira.

The bachelor is an epicene hermit.
A god-split androgyny, seeking a half
Whose sex is a puzzle and a piece
That fits. Pity and pain, he does not ask for.
But receives it all the same. Who by name
Asks him where his heart lies—empty cafes,
Stale diners, a half-froze queen-sized bed.

The bachelor is in every lonely heart.
And so we cry for young Cupid’s dart.

“Spring & Fall”

To a young child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

— Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

The Grass is Always Greener

Hello, world! A star is born!

At least that’s what I’ll continue telling myself as I add more content to this blog. My first serious foray into the blogosphere, The Grass is Always Greener—so named in honor of my Op Ed column that ran in my high school’s newspaper, The Chronicle, in my tenure as editor—is my attempt to continue writing after four years as an undergraduate St. John’s College in Annapolis, MD.

This blog is ultimately a vain attempt to hone my academic skills in writing, poetry, and translation.

Now, with Bachelor’s Degree in tow, I am braving the world of college admissions at my alma mater and, y’know, selling out to the Man. This blog is ultimately a vain attempt to hone my academic skills in writing, poetry, and translation. I hope this will combat the crushing ennui of an entry-level desk job.

For those of you who haven’t noticed (or who don’t quite know me yet), yes, the title of this blog is a pun on my last name—Pendergrass. While I won’t explicitly claim to know anything about grass (except for maybe a croquet court), nor do I have an overabundance of optimism about sod in other regions, I do think that the title is expressive of one thing: me… because my name’s in it.

Without further ado, I present to you my thoughts, my work, and myself.

Well, once I write something, that is.