Best Snobbery Poems
O! Mahatma Gandhi!
You taught us non-violence
But we slaughter easily
Our own sisters and brothers
We create an institution
To promote your ideals
Yet we subject to ordeal
The destitute of our nation
Bride-burning and bribery
Casteism and untouchability
We puff in snobbery
Losing our accountability
O! Mahatma! Do not weep and curse
This beloved nation of ours
When the books of your messages
Are used only for binding packages
(Double Nonet)
In poverty there are blessed the lives
Hygienic weather is far fetched
Yet happiness in their blood
No mask and hand washing
Lacking of good foods
Day nights death news
Yes, nothing
Can do
Them
Their
Struggle
For the life
Builds confidence
Teaches adverse act
They manage anyway
No disappointment kills them
Let victory shine their hard world
Where snobbery disease never comes
22.05.2020 Chattogram
Black Bart the PO8
Robbed Wells Fargo in Cal state
His lifestyle—his fate
Claimed his poetry
Not his robbery should have
Jailed him…snobbery
The new residents at the Manor
Were in a pickle, with a dilemma
Their neighbors’ were rather posh
With exclamations like 'Golly gosh'
Keeping up appearances in other homes
Is rather hard when your name is Jones.
I ONLY SPEAK SECOND-RATE SPANISH
I didn’t say it then, but I can say it now -
I can say many things in many languages, and how!
English, Russian, French and the lovely Spanish tongue.
First one I started with, when I was young,
Was Spanish - learned in The States and
Obviously Mexican Spanish, perfectly at hand
For communicating with half a billion who likewise speak,
If in Latin America and over world you seek.
I chanced to meet a long-lost acquaintance,
A snobbish woman of little real substance,
Who spoke Spanish and we practised our learned word.
Oh, she says, you speak only Mexican Spanish. She demurred
- Not real Spanish………
Actually what she thaid wath, “You thpeak Mekthican Thpanish”
Real Thpanish ith called Cathtellano……
You would not be underthtood in Thpain, oh no!”
I obviously disappointed her with my inferior ability
She certainly disappointed me with her snobbery.
Now I can say that speaking Spanish is a pleasure
But thpeaking Thpanish is a torture.
The people of Thpain will have to be denied my voice
But the billion others may hear its song and joys.
When I was in grade school
I was, already,
on my leftbrain dominant path
toward acting the intellectual snob.
This, in large part
my best offense,
my trump card, sadly,
against marginalizing prejudice
of our community's non-farmer economic
and political Elite;
The few kids
whose parents went to college
and/or inherited some above-the-norm property
business, preferably not agribusiness,
professional service assets
even the most straight white male
would appreciate
like doctors
and nursing wives,
two income households
with academic bright credentials.
By the time I reached high school
being on, or at least within sight of,
the top of my class,
and president of as much political property as possible,
or at least vice-president,
became my trump card
for getting out of rural SWM oppression,
depression,
suppression,
Where I was not safe,
back in the 1960s rural midwest,
and I could never possibly matter,
become one of the local community's Elite,
a pillar of church and state
while overcoming the guilt and shame
of being the gay son
of a below median income family farmer.
Intellectual snobbery
was my leftbrain overwhelming defense
against rightbrain amygdala loneliness,
extreme social-sexual isolation,
drowning in cortisol-baptized self-stigmatization.
Leftbrain dominant academic skills
were my best offense
for succeeding out in urban
urbane
multicultural
cosmopolitan
singing and dancing
democratically compassionate
win/win feeling and acting society.
The only healthy society
that mattered;
where I could possibly matter,
and become transparent
and vulnerable
and connected
and safe.
That defensive snobbery
still, in 2020 hindsight,
lives in my deepest closet,
longing for warmer
more inclusive acceptance,
invitation,
compassion
For right brain radical interdependence
with those of us,
regardless of income
and lack thereof,
regardless of self empowerment
and lack thereof,
capable of engaging
and energizing this tragic comedy
of small staged love lives,
Rural and urbane
Healthy and wealthy
Ego and eco-therapeutic
Left and right brained
Smart and warmly co-passionate
Proud and humble
Divinely humane
playing more win/win trump cards
through most cooperative co-investment.
(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.
Nature Bride Price
Thou bride play possum
With her groom, love dies
Nature like a groom who pram
Divorce is his case, has eyes
Commanding earth to turn forward
The price of a bridegroom precious
Nature precession, like to come upward
Precaution the bridge of underming hius
One and one, the earth bride price snobbery
Will be forgotten soon, it’s pore
Cus the pride does not respect and berry
The groom is neglected as husband for
Like a bride to her groom, is love
To earth abandon, we doom.
He has a Roman nose, bright eyes, flashy teeth,
Chocolate brown complexion,
Features which animate only when he interacts—
Otherwise, typical unscholarly looks!
A nonconformist in religion, a revolutionary in spirit,
A stoic in practice—
Epithets can be multiplied.
Sought strange experiences:
Travelling in a locomotive,
Witnessing a surgery,
Learning math on his own.
And living on a glass of lassi,
Which I would call starving!
He speaks with conviction.
His memory is prodigious;
To call him a philosopher is no cliché:
He is one by temperament and self-training;
Teaches philosophy involuntarily—as praxis,
As ‘a set of operations,’ as he’d put it.
No nonsense,
No snobbery:
He has been
To New York—as a Fulbright Scholar,
To Oxford—as a Visiting Scholar.
Never chips in to say, “When I was in England/US….”
Never affects an accent.
He is an Indian source of the Poststructuralist virus,
And I was the one immediately infected—
On his return to India
From his stint at New York.
The infection still remains—incurable!
His love of me is something like election love:
Parallels are Krishna and Kuchela,
Kopperuncholan and Picirantaiyar,
Johnson and Boswell.
Would speak for me
Without my knowledge or consent!
We have stuck together
For about five decades now,
Defying the Machiavellian dictum: There are
No permanent friends or enemies in life!
He can’t, ugh, bring himself to love a pet—
On which subject
We violently disagree:
He dubs me St. Francis of Assisi, though!
Was born at Christmas
And so christened Noel!
— Ram, .R.V.
That damn weekly times (circa 1900),
Afternoonified with Gigglemugs
sending me off my chump
Editors Half-rats, Not up to dick,
the meater.
Genderfied, I am
A woman of incredible script,
stylograph committed,
deemed a whooperup,
yet her prose is
umble-cum-stumble.
The longing expressed
through the lovers eye
poked-up the meater,
who Batty fanged my dyke
with his footle
His "Enthuzimuzzy"
was unwarranted
and the mutton shunters were called
Collie shangles erupted
yet concede he did
overcome with blue devils
He purchased my script
published it last page
like a Skilamalink
I cared and did not
for published I was
weekly times circa 1900
I bested the ragger
Rough translation - deceived
that damn weekly times editors
all snobbery and fake smiles
sent me crazy
The editors drunk, and unwell
he's a coward
I am a woman
a writer, a poet
committed to my craft
deemed inferior
yet my writings are
thoroughly understood
The topic in question
a female lovers romance
embarrassed the coward
who thoroughly thrashed my lover
with his nonsense
Ohh the insulting "enthusiasm"
was not necessary
the police I did call
heated arguments won the battle
and he apologised - albeit begrudgingly
His saddened state,
as he was forced
to take my manuscript
and publish it in the back
like some dirty secret.
Last page was bothersome
yet published I was
in the weekly times no doubt,
as I defeated that trouble making editor
Twisters unlike Supercala-fragilistic-expealidocious
Imagining dreams he was socialistically-unrealistic
Can you imagine an imaginary menagerie manager
Or try imagining managing an imaginary menagerie
Ev'rything can be satisfactch’ll for Zip-a-Dee-Doodah
Of course some make a hoo-hah over tiddly-boo-yah
Reggie’s chilly cheap chip shop sells Daryl a freak dip
Frightfully silly of her for, he flamboyantly let it rip
Her croaking Frog cost truly a princely sum of snobbery
Forgotten hopes, forlorn, besotted froglips of buffoonery
When the bleak breeze blights the bright blighted blossom
Betty beat a bit of butter to make a batter better awesome
Such a floozy to improperly expect a decent cup of coffee
I made it in a proper copper coffee pot, served with toffee
Later I saw Esau kissing Kate; at least me’ thinks I saw
The sorriest saw I saw was rustic on sawdust in Arkansas
Form:
There’s No Way To Win
By Elton Camp
Anything’s wrong in some folk’s eyes
Whatever you do, they will criticize
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t
For any action you take, they’ll taunt
Try to be friendly instead of curt
“He’s nothing but an old flirt.”
But if you should hold aloof,
Of snobbery, they see proof
With your spending be wise
“What a miser” is no surprise
But if you spend and never save
“How irresponsible, they’ll rave
Speak against practices gay
“Homophobia,” they’ll say
But others’ view tolerate
“An evil man,” they berate
To people like that, I’ll tell
“Why don’t you just go to hell”
The world may be an oyster filled with tremendous possibilities,
yet, the Elitists among us are craven and want others to accept
less than they are accustomed to,
They harp and spew conspiracies of hate,
creating their own version of "blocking gate",
Our society has become divided,
victims of their snobbery,
trying to perpetuate a non-existent caste system,
with the debaucherous among us setting the scales,
They want folks to accept less,
leaving them no time to exhale,
These Elitists want the best of everything,
just because..........,
They have created niches for themselves
from the sweat of many,
They really have no claim to fame, except their
chicanery.
From any and all who can see
as I see,
From most definitely me; my
furthest, darkest recesses
buried deep.
To they who worship at the
high places of the Valley;
To the bright cultists from the
third tribe, second family of 'P'.
I write this to you from all we
who are forsaken sons.
You probably don't recall us, for
as you see you shun.
Stare down long noses that,
unbeknownst to you, run.
Snottishness and snobbery to
which you are blind, as Saul to
the sun.
I grieve you, our loss, as you
are engrossed in your web.
I weep over you because your
child, Intellect, to you is dead.
Come down from your high
places; be united once again.
Leave your 'god' and surely by
your child you will be forgiven.
Cut down the poles, break the
altars of Fourteen.
Leave the idols and temples;
escape the obscene.
Flee, fly, from its clutches steal
away.
Perceive cold truth, see how
the worship made you stray.
Raise your head, unstrain your
eyes; come now, reconnect.
As the chains fall off remember
the world and reflect.
Realize who you are, and could
be, and then conform.
Not to me, or any ideology, but
to the better you transform.
Dear Reader, if my scribble you
comprehend, please one thing
understand.
To all who use the tools of the
Valley, this is not a reprimand.
I only beseech they who
worship to retake command.
To rise up in their life and no
longer take their 'god's'
demand.
The gifts of Fourteen truly they
are great.
But do not offer yourself over
to Fourteen, prostrate.
Leave the high places of the
Valley, I adamantly pray.
Find yourself out of the web
and finally in sun's rays.
From any and all who can see
as I see.
From my pen, directed by the
longing within me.
To those lost in the temples
and high places of the Valley.
The forsaken ones, and the
dear Child, miss you fiercely.
once had a friend from the Netherlands
who when walking with me in the city
stopped in a bodega & saw a pack of
cheddar cheese & pretzel
Combos---
i bought them in an instant &
asked him if he wanted some,
however, with a bit of stereotypical
snobbery, he turned up his nose saying something to the
effect of
“there has never been something so american as
Combos…fake sodium pumped cheese inside of stale
carbs & salt” &
i could only imagine if he stumbled upon the same
bag of Bachman’s Multigrain Baked Cheese Curls,
which i saw today &
how his heart might have just
stopped,
as he gasped for breath amidst the
NYC pollution.