The Rubaiyat of a Science-Fiction Fan
| Fanwork | |
|---|---|
| Title: | The Rubaiyat of a Science-Fiction Fan |
| Creator: | Sam Youd |
| Date(s): | Dec. 1938 |
| Medium: | |
| Fandom: | Science Fiction |
| External Links: | Hosted online. Novae Terrae #28 supplement #2, pp. 1-4. |
| Click here for related articles on Fanlore. | |
The Rubaiyat of a Science-Fiction Fan was a 1938 poem by Sam Youd, modeled after the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. It covered a number of happenings in pro science fiction and fandom, including Raymond A. Palmer taking over as the editor of Amazing Stories, and the politics of the Futurians.
Text
Awake! For Campbell from the Bowl of Night / Has flung the Stone that puts our Fears to Flight /And Lo! Astounding's Editor has caught / A brilliant Halo and a Crown of Light.Dreaming when Dawn's Left hand was in the Sky / I heard a voice within Astounding cry, / "Awake, my Little Ones, and read your fill /Before with Top-Notch from your ken I fly."
And as the Dawn broke, those who lounged about / Requested with a rather vulgar shout / Williamson and McClary once again / And Lo! The Rabbits from the Hat came out!
Now M.S.S. reviving old Desires / The high-brow fan to Solitude retires /Where the deft Hand of Stanhope from his Desk /Puts out, and Gillings on the Ground expires.
Gernsback, indeed, is gone with all his wiles, / And Sloane no longer on his Children smiles, / But still Astounding keeps its rosy Way, / And H.G.Wells still takes a 9 in tiles.
And Weinbaum's Lips are lock't; but in untrue / And furious Criticism the faithless Crew / Would sell again their Master for a Fee / Ten lines well-prominent to the Public View.
Come take a Pen, and with the Fire of Spring / Caustic remarks at Raymond Palmer fling. / The new Amazing has flown but little Space / And yet already 'tis a hateful Thing!
And look - a thousand Authors with the Day / Came, but of that thousand few did stay / And that first Summer Month that heralded one, / Snatched Lovecraft and the well-lov'd Howard away.
But come with Uncle Sam, and leave the Lot / Of Gernsback and of Hornig quite forgot: Let / Wollheim lay about him as he will / Or Griffiths howl for Vengeance - heed them not.
With me reclined in some quiet Country Spot / With merry Comrades and a brimming Pot, / Where name of Ego Clarke is yet unknown, / And pity Wollheim and his scurvy Lot!
Here with a Science Book beneath the Bough / A Fountain-pen, a Book for Notes, and Thou, / Giving Advice and Criticism in full, / And Lo! My Story is an Epic now!
"How sweet the Days departed," whisper some: / Others - "How blest the Paradise to come!" / Ah, take the Cash in Hand and waive the Rest; / Nor heed the rumble of a Nazi Drum.
O Thou who didst with Wollheim and with Lowndes / Beset our not-so-happy Hunting Grounds, / Wilt not with Michelistic lunacy / Create more deep, if not more lasting Wounds?
O Thou who fans from Baser Things didst lead, / Thine own inspired Prophecies to read, / For all the BOSH wherewith this Fantasy+ / Is blackened - much Forgiveness shalt Thou need.
+ No reference to the magazine intended
II.
Listen again. One evening at the close / Of Gernsback, ere the Better Moon arose, / In editorial Offices I stood, / With the Clay Population round in rows.
And, strange to say, among the Earthen Lot / Some were quite literate, though most were not: / And suddenly one more intelligent cried - / "They must be fools to buy this blinking rot!"
The Editor no Question makes of Noes / But with Advertisement and Profits goes, / The Publisher who trims our Edges neat, / He knows about it all -- He knows -- HE knows!
The Tale that can with Logic absolute / The basic Laws of Being quite confute / The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice / Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
And that introverted fool we call the Fan / Who, crawling coopt, the Universe would plan / Thou canst not help him back to Sanity, / For he is something less -- or more -- than Man.
But leave the Fools to wrangle, and with me / The Communistic Squabblers let be / And in some Corner of the Hubbub couch't / Make Game of that which would Game of Thee.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! / The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, / Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows? /
Lo! Some we loved, the loveliest and the best, / Who still in Summer's joyous green were dressed / Have left this barbarous and garish World / And ta'en their Talents to the Land of Rest. /
They say the Schachner and the Kuttner stay / Upon the page where Weinbaum once held sway / And Lovecraft, dark Romancer, too is gone; / The works remain, the Master leaves the Play.
Ah Friend, could thou and I with Fate conspire / To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, / Would we not shatter it to bits -- and then / Create the Magazine of our Desire? /
Ah, Source of my Delight, that cannot wane, / Financial Funds are falling once again, / And soon the greedy Editors shall look, / Through this same Fandom after me, in vain. /
Ah, Source of my Delight that soon must wane / My Temperature is rising once again: / Some day my bitter Wrath must find Release / And falling Fragments shall bedeck the Plain! /
And when another Youth, too daft to learn, / To Fancy's perfumed Nothingness shall turn / Let him for me perform one solemn Rite, / A reverent word of praise for J. R. Fearn!