Thoughts . . . by Mark Rich

. . . scribbled . . . scrawled . . . trimmed . . . typewritten . . . grubbed up . . . squeezed from circumstance . . .

Tuesday, March 4, 2025

State of the Union, 2025



So — soon he will proclaim his innocence
of being what he is. I guess that all
along, though, his projected, spittled sense

of injury has said this. Any call
for justice wounds his ego, we all know.
How many of us — we, among the small

of wallet, large of conscience — would be slow
to wound that softness, had we but the chance?
We have but tongues to lash with, lungs to blow

away his blather — merest words to lance
his pustulence. His boils. His vast balloon
of speculative wealth. Our words would glance

off ears made dumb by bullet. That old tune
of "I am not a crook!" will follow soon.


Cheers . . .

Monday, January 20, 2025

This Is Another Country


This is another country from the one
we lived in yesterday. Here, with a gun

held to our temples; with the threat of rape
and graft and grift; with mobs of men who ape

the posture their imposter ruler chins
and sneers across the stage to make his sins

look holier than ours; and with our Posts
and Times pretending to be friendly hosts

to sane appraisals and unaltered facts:
we cross the line to lands where bestial acts

and purchased truths and porn-queen beauties feud
with one another to be ranked most lewd.

We had a Lincoln and a Washington —
but in another country from this one.


Notes:
Since I wrote this today, around noon, and am posting it mid-afternoon, it remains within the realm of possibility that it will change in minor ways before I consider it finished.

An unfortunate thing about political verse, besides the fact that it rarely speaks as well as a non-political verse does, is that the versifier feels the need to put it out in the world promptly.

Today, it is of the moment. Tomorrow, it may seem to be of a moment passed.

A train hardly cares if you make it to the platform in time to catch it. It irks you, though, to miss it. Even should you lose your hat and put on mis-matching socks in the effort, it matters to you.

Cheers . . .

Wednesday, January 1, 2025

Imagine Yourself


Imagine yourself buried in the grass
and leaves — piled high on some wet winter day
by unseen hands that had an hour to pass

in mischief, with no set rules to obey —
for who would mind that they should rake to grace
gray, sodden ground with mounded art, to slay

an idle hour? So chill against your face,
and damp and clingy, fall the grasses, leaves,
dark twigs, and scraped-up roots. The only trace

left of you is the sense that this year grieves
for years long past, of ice and snow. But say
that now a lively, laughing wind retrieves

your hidden self to view! Thus life will play!
And somehow you rejoice in this gray day.


A note . . .

I wrote this sonnet on the 29th of December. The day was warmer than it is today, which is the first of the new year; the ground, wet; and the sky, as the sonnet says, gray.

Today, though colder, with random snowflakes being breeze-blown here and there . . . is gray again.

When I wrote the poem I thought it might do, as a New Year's expression. It still seems to suit the occasion. This may not turn out the happiest year, at least for us in United States. Yet in the gray ambiguity of our times we may yet find joy.

Cheers . . .

Wednesday, December 25, 2024

Our Scottiedogs, December 14th . . . (posted for the 25th)


Fat Santa rides a red firetruck
outside our house; and with his bark that bites
our Hutton festively shouts, "WTF?"
Loud sirens and red-flashing lights!
These village Christmas sounds and sights!
Sing carols! Santa rides a red firetruck!
Our Callie joins the chorus: "WTF!"

Saturday, December 21, 2024

Happy Winter Solstice 2024


What might we mean, in saying days will gain
in light? Will we be glad when darkness wanes
by slow degrees? Is darkness some age-pain

afflicting us? Do we think joy remains
when day remains — just when dark night's intense
grip strengthens? Why then do we sing refrains

in chorus, at the Solstice? Night's immense
and starry dome seems holy — just because
cathedral-like it begs us to commence

our songs to carol out the year that was,
that is no more. To give this longest night
its proper due, before departing. Does

this night prompt all this joy? But then what might
we mean, in saying days will gain in light?


& a note . . .


Some years ago on this date, when walking up to the village post office, I encountered a man unknown to me. I said, "Happy Solstice!" He seemed a little surprised, but said, "Happy Solstice? I like that!" We went our ways; and if he did not repeat the greeting to someone else, I would have been and still would be surprised.

I make little fuss about the Solstice in winter. This morning, with Martha, I went about daily doings without any real intent to spread the good news. I did say the greeting three times — twice to Amish women who were checking us out at small food stores. The greeting seemed not to register. The second one apparently thought I was saying some variety of "Have a nice day," and replied along the lines, "Yes, and the sun is out, and that is good."

Shortly thereafter we stopped to put gasoline in our van, at the village grocery. Being checked out by a worker there whom we have known for many years, I said my Solstice greeting. When she looked puzzled, I said that the days would be getting longer from here on. "Well, that's good," she said.

I was pondering this lack of comprehension, in these three. At home, after I set the noon-meal stew on stovetop to warming, this poem arrived on the page. To some degree it seems to wonder about my own degree of comprehension.

Cheers . . .

Saturday, June 1, 2024

Humpty Dumpty


Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
So astoundingly full of hot air was he
his men believed he would grumptiously
rebound like a ball, in event of a fall.

Then he fell. He broke in thirty-four pieces.
And all Dumpty's horse shit and all Dumpty's men
piled all thirty-four on the wall again.
And all Dumpty's nephews and all Dumpty's nieces

sipped at the egg-drop soup he made
on the ground — and cheered! The rule of Dumpty
broke thirty-four others, in hiding some Humpty!
Psychophants plumped him; his asses all brayed.

Tuesday, July 11, 2023

Part I:

The Events Leading Down to Biography:
On Writing Kornbluth


Twenty or more years ago ... how did it feel, the haunting, at first?

I noticed nothing — except that while sitting in a Greyhound bus heading east from Wisconsin I felt a growing fascination with the intelligence and humor put into play in the short stories before my eyes — for I felt dazzled, truly, by several; delighted, by others. They amused and surprised that ambitious, impetuous, blindly self-assured, and often overly critical person which I was, and to some degree still am. I knew the writer's name well enough — for while I read books generally, I gravitated toward writings about science fiction of the so-called Golden and Silver ages that were before my time, and of the New Wave that was perpetually ebbing; and from these sources I knew that this writer struck a nerve: for if others saw opportunity to invoke his name then they did so.

I knew and admired his writing before this — or thought I did. I stood where Van Wyck Brooks's Oliver Allston did, who "had known 'all about' writers before he knew the writings of the writers themselves." I think all of us, before older and more willing to admit our limitations, believe we encompass more within our personal spheres than we do within our hemispheres. I think moreover that among those who grew up liking science fiction in the late 1960s to early '70s, as I did, such an attitude arose in an utterly natural way — or a seemingly natural way, just as aquarium fish given their color-enhancing flakes display their "natural" brilliance. I believed in my own natural colors, as other youths do of themselves; and I think I was, indeed, brilliant — not due to my literary diet but due to my diet's additives. I had taken in my flakes and grown attractively reflective. As to my knowing and admiring this writer? These were more scales.

Fifteen years before this, The Best of C.M. Kornbluth had entered my life at age 17, just I before boarded a Greyhound leaving Kansas City for college. In my bag I packed the Science Fiction Book Club edition whose official publication date was September, 1976 — the month I left home and also left the fantasy small-press scene within which I had been finding my early identity as a writer. How much and how carefully I read that Best of I have small idea. That I had the book club edition stood in the book's way — for I would learn through the years how cheapness of presentation affects how eagerly I dip into text. That it was a collection, moreover, meant I could take it in portions and perhaps never take it in whole. That it had story introductions, too, offered a minor obstacle: for I had been maturing as a reader exposed to a publishing scene upon which Harlan Ellison cast a long shadow. I had the habit already of reading through a volume's introductions; and, feeling the satisfaction of that accomplishment, only later or sometimes never would read the works introduced. The introduction-and-story model, I think, had acquired its power from television. Printed-matter editors envied the impact of the Host before the Show: for the cumulative effect of the host's recurring appearances versus the one-time-only appearance of the particular show gave the host a fixed place in memory — no matter if greater care, effort, and artistry had gone into the individual shows themselves. With collections and anthologies of the 1970s and later, if I did read a story in a collection, it almost always meant I had just finished re-reading the introduction.

It remains strangely vivid to me that during my first term at Beloit my college friend Brian Klein borrowed this book and, when returning it, quoted humorously from "The Advent on Channel Twelve." What, I asked, about the famous "The Marching Morons"? He liked that and others — and unlike me had seen a televised version of "The Little Black Bag" — but at the moment he felt taken by "Advent." I re-read that story then — and ended up re-reading that adroit, seemingly lightweight miniature more times than I did any other in the collection. Poetry and Asian philosophy interested me. I had started studying Confucius and Lao Tzu already at Ottawa University in Kansas, and appreciated small forms and expressive compression. I had no idea, since not so informed by the introduction, that "Advent" came from among the writer's last crop of stories. Nor would I learn until decades had passed that his late stories included other such miniatures. His then-agent Harry Altshuler used the word "beautiful" in reference to at least one.

Similarly, over a decade later, on that eastbound Greyhound away from Wisconsin, I had no clue that the collection in my hand, A Mile Beyond the Moon, was another product of the writer's last year. I found no information on its cover beyond general evaluations. "Here is science fiction at its peak" — generic book-cover nonsense that, to my surprise, met with my agreement. "These stories have helped to set the highest standards of modern science fiction" — these words, too, appeared there, attributed to the New York Herald Tribune.

I find it sadly amusing, now, to re-read these words. They helped decide me on buying the Manor Books paperback at a Milwaukee used-book store before setting out on the next leg of my bus trip. Anthony Boucher wrote them. The Tribune fell within his territory. I know now that Boucher's help and influence were immeasurably important in that ending period of Cyril Kornbluth's life. Boucher, in fact, had helped Cyril devise small changes in "Advent" to answer an editor's quibbles. He helped Cyril through revisions of the strange and wonderful "Ms. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie" — and must have influenced likewise the story that first made me sit up and take serious, fascinated notice, there on the Greyhound: "The Events Leading Down to the Tragedy." Boucher must have been the force behind the act that should have saved Cyril's life — the act of giving Cyril compatible work to do at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. How eerily strange I find it now that, in that used bookstore in Milwaukee, Tony Boucher was there to reach out and open my soul just wide enough to let in a ghost.

This occurred in the late 1980s or early '90s. The delight I experienced in my Greyhound encounter turned easily into an abiding respect for the fiction.

I thought I should find an open door into the past, allowing me now to see, and to begin understanding, the man behind the words. I found only a few doors leading back, however — partially ajar, but not as if from opening. Shutting, rather.

That Cyril Kornbluth, not just his works, struck a nerve among readers became evident to me. Why, then, this sense of the closing door? For that matter, why this sense of a wall that required a door? The more I pursued my multiplying questions the more I discovered puzzles and contradictions swirling around his memory, still in motion despite his absence from our world for four decades and more. Some questions became what seemed my personal burden, by the time the '90s ended. As the next decade passed they lost none of their compelling nature and in some cases seemed more urgently pressing than ever. I committed myself, then, at last, to an effort to unravel what mysteries I could and to share my findings with readers.

End, Part One.