Long Snobbery Poems
Long Snobbery Poems. Below are the most popular long Snobbery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snobbery poems by poem length and keyword.
(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.
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 world burning under the weight of its own infernality,
Empty words destroy suffering like a lost art.
Those who write only for applause and hollow idols birth dead phrases,
Devoid of pulse and blood, fragile facades of pure expression.
True writing is an exorcism, a confrontation with the depths of the soul,
Not a begging for validation, but a dance with inner shadows.
When the writer is carried away by fame and fortune,
They become just another floating object on the river of futile illusions.
It is a lie to write for money and fame,
A lie to seek the praises of literary snobbery.
Authentic writing is born from necessity, from a burning urgency,
Not a spectacle for crowds, but an escape from oneself.
Many writers, like gladiators, spill their blood,
To satisfy the modern Caesar, the hungry crowd.
Circumstances and misfortunes are insignificant to the writer,
They write through hunger, despair, and the slow erosion of hope.
The true creator does not wait for ideal conditions,
Does not seek refuge in comfort, does not complain about obstacles.
Excuses are the refuge of those who lack the inner fire,
Souls afraid of the weight of their own words.
For the one truly called to write, there is no choice,
Only necessity, for writing becomes an act of survival.
I may be hungry, homeless, wet, and in debt,
But if I write, that is enough, enough to give shape to silence.
To write means to cast meaning onto the arid page of existence,
To give form and style to the unspoken, an act as essential as breathing.
It is not enough to drown the world in moth-eaten words,
The world is already drowning in them, in clichés and empty talk.
If you must write, let it be because you must,
Because you have something original to say, something vital from within yearns for light.
You do not write because you want to say something; you write because you have something to say,
A final confession, a revelation cast into the eternal void.
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.
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
I do not care making a living donning a dirty coverall
if it earns me more trips to the mall.
Whether it's newly minted or has changed hands many times,
a dime will still be worth a dime.
I am not impressed by people owning university degrees
because hey, I, not them, am the one making hay.
I do not mind if they get a thrill out of their academic rank
for I am the one laughing all the way to the bank!
Intellectual superiority? snobbery really and vastly overrated!
if it leads not to financial security it is all in their head.
Listen, I have met too many folks armed with some fancy PhD
who hold lousy, nine-to-five jobs that do not pay.
They find themselves regularly appearing on prime time TV
that, funny, does not make them any richer than me!
Like peacocks strutting as if life revolves around the academe,
they forget their monetary situation is shaky and dim.
What they see as power is nothing but worthless paper pushing,
no ifs and buts, one's worth is gauged through his earnings.
Eggheads, they sure know every answer to all kinds of crisis
except the true state of their sorry personal finances!
At the end of the day life is, yeah, truly all about money,
if you ain't got it, I am so sorry for you, baby.
Power lives in this hardworking, flesh-and-blood workingman,
not the head-in-the-clouds moron badly in need of a tan!
I do not care making a living donning a dirty coverall
if it earns me more trips to the mall.
Now the chattering guns have ceased
Now the battlefields are bared
Now we walk where history teased
The convictions of those who stared
I climb the hill to see again
The land that yields its children who toil
For fruit where no father remain;
I climb to see ploughs ripping the soil
Of ignorance, snobbery, and superiority
False, where the boy swings the axe
And find stray cattle enjoying fake liberty:
The man who makes the law must use the tax.
Now the riffling pages turn no more
Nor siblings buried far from home
Now the fisherman pulls his boat to shore
And the athlete rests beneath the loam
I hear the silence of the courts and wonder
What genius does justice lack in defense
Who speaks when the voiceless in blunder
Is stripped of dignity and common sense?
Where is the advocate from Roxborough
Where the hero in the mudded trench
So much congenial goodness in that fellow
We are the bolts but he was our wrench.
The man from Roxborough was our prince
Our knight in shining armour of truth
He was the reason the world was convinced
Men have souls who crouched like brutes.
The man of Roxborough was a different kind
A class that did not stand for class
A scholar with a peasant's candor and mind
A vision clear as taintless liquid in a glass.
Roxborough man, father of the federal design,
Roxborough man, we are fifty and remember
How yielding to kindness, you made us shine
Such a big bush of fire from a small ember.
Prone to bloviation pure and simple
rides on figurative high horse,
which doubles up as my Plymouth Duster
analogous to General George Armstrong Custer
(blowing his i.e. mine little big horn)
anonymous readers I unwittingly fluster
poetic patina an artificial, superficial,
yet beneficial ego boosting luster
one mister re: man can muster.
I (no surprise) become
self absorbed with my own palaver drum
ming across the screen written from
me, (an average happy go lucky)
goose stepping honk
king Crimson and clover Caucasian man hum
bull despite being imagine
an infinite string of superlative adjectives jum
bull ling together to accentuate Lum
burr jack ambitions comfortably numb
when modest male
just another brick in the wall
scores of decades during plum
years of mein kampf
watching favorite television programs
in boyhood living rum
while bobbing like a sponge
(donned in square pants)
sprawled on my washboard tum.
No inflated cheekiness for logophile
renown throughout the webbed wide world
for his pro licks
regarding poetic shenanigans ad nauseum.
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
misinterpreted as snobbery
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,
in the east, while a nation or caste grows up
with own creeds, cultures, lifestyle
at the same time in the west
another nation or caste
grows up with own thoughts
in this world
there are prevailed
many cultures, paths, beliefs, creeds
every day in this world
we face many thoughtful emotions,
realistic views, doctrines
consequently keep mounting many paths, beliefs, lifestyle
because of nation or caste
you don't be blind,
if you go through all principles
then you'll find same convergent
you're the behind follower purely
because of nation or caste
all of your egos or snobbery are futile
or worthless logical as a fairy tale
because of nation or caste
these all egos are beastly manners
such as dogs of one village
cannot endure dogs of another village
better and worse are false in measure up-
the east or the west, the north or the south
the nations, the caste, the religions, the creeds, the beliefs, white or black,
this betterment or worse
only can measure up by your present actions, compassionate ethics
your every moral labor certifies that you are the divine or hellish
just, know it clearly
the east or the west
the north or the south
wherever you go
you are merely human
blood and flesh made human
not more something than it
-Sunday, July 21, 2019 Chattogram