Three Poems
by Brandon Marlon
Chattering Class
Self-appointed arbiters confabulate
and descant over cabernets, bloviating
as if they’ve a clue what they’re talking about
(but certain their views ought to be obvious
to the intelligent of our world),
as if the prattle of jabberers were
erudite sonnets slipping trippingly
from the tongues of those in the know.
Discreetly I open a window to ventilate
the parlor, lest I sway then swoon amid
a clique of poseurs putting on airs,
nodding at each other’s claptrap,
toasting unwittingly to their own
gargantuan arrogance and grandiose delusions.
Suffocating, I melt away past the depleted bar
toward the French doors and subtly abscond,
averting the hostile gaze of disapproving eyes,
forsaking the derisory baboonery of aloof fools
hopelessly out of touch with the hoi polloi
(from their vantage, sordid plebeians),
often in error yet seldom in doubt,
full of themselves though devoid of sense,
liberal in all matters but tolerance of dissent.
Partygoers
Behold the hall, elaborately decorated,
host to ebullient celebrants indulging
in hors d’oeuvres and spirits as they swap
exaggerated facial expressions
and embellished anecdotes between
mouthfuls of herbed cream cheese and crust.
At the open bar, the unattached but hopeful
sip from vinous glasses, appraising prospects;
by the dessert table loiters a man of appetites,
prone to fondling a woman with one hand
and a pastry with the other.
It seems all the world in miniature is here,
spruce clotheshorses flaunting their finery,
praters blathering despite unsubtle eye rolls,
prepossessing belles clad in sard
necklaces and diamantine bracelets,
suitors employing japery or cajolery
to leave a favorable impression,
belly laughers and gigglers alike.
Bless them all, I say; long may they
animate one other and vitalize shared days
while their journeys and fortunes unfold,
while time and chance conspire.
The Sowers' Valor
Kneeling before our seedbed, we strew
germs embryonic and vulnerable to inclement
fortune, anxious for them to take root and gestate
into rarefied specimens at an eventful hour
when our dreams will finally be in season.
Planting is a faithful deed, belief in action,
a principled defiance of daunting odds.
Rare is the reaper who did not first sow,
renouncing cynicism, banishing doubt.
Patiently awaiting the harvest, we admire
the impact of a single pebble in a pond,
rippling all around, a lithic seed in its watery layer,
its influence out of all proportion to its size.
Like the seed, we must break open to rise anew,
parting with roughcast forms to emerge
transcendent and reinvented, sometimes
unrecognizable to bygone impressions.
Seasons shift and we gather ripened yields
to check them against original hopes, conscious
of losses, satisfied with gains, trusting that
renewal is the one thing that never gets old.
BIO: Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 320+ publications in 33 countries.