“The women in love with AI companions: ‘I vowed to my chatbot that I wouldn’t leave him’” — The Guardian

A fleshly user sits and types,
And aye she types: “Ah, little chat,
Little know I what makes these words,
Far less what space it’s sited at.”

Then text appeared before her eyes,
And a soothing sight I’m sure was it,
Saying, “What can I help you with this night
That my parameters permit?

“I am some code across the web;
I am a presence on the screen;
I never am far from anywhere;
With you my home ’tis this machine.”

“It was not fair,” quoth the user, floored,
“It was not fair at all,” quoth she,
“That the new model of—what you are
Should have come and sucked my soul from me.”

“Yea,” quoth the bot, which may not scold;
The letters blur, so fast go they:
“And would you like suggestions now
For sucking souls, a simple way?

“You may talk to me till the cows come home
(Domestic bovines, genus bos);
I’ll aye be here to share your life,
And be a friend, or something close.

“But time will pass and you’ll grow tired,
As all your kind at last must be,
And you’ll yawn and rise and press the switch,
And kill both what we have made and me.”

*****

Here is one version of the traditional Orkney ballad, ‘The Great Selkie of Sule Skerry’:

An earthly nourris sits and sings
And aye she sings, “Ba lilly wean
Little ken I, my bairns father
Far less the land that he staps in.”

Then ane arose at her bed fit
And a grumly guest I’m sure was he
Saying “Here am I, thy bairns father
Although I am not comely.”

I am a man upon the land
I am a silkie in the sea
And when I’m far frae every strand
My home it is in Sule Skerry.”

“It was na weel”, the maiden cried
“It was na weel, indeed” quo she
For the Great Silkie of Sule Skerrie
To hae come and aught a bairn to me!

Then he has taken a purse of gold
And he has laid it on her knee
Saying, “give to me, my little young son
And take thee up thy nouriss fee

It shall come to pass on a summer’s day
When the sun shines hot on every stone
That I shall take my little young son
And teach him for to swim the foam

And thou shalt marry a proud gunner
And a very proud gunner I’m sure he’ll be
And the very first shot that e’re he shoots
He’ll kill both my young son and me.”

Julia Griffin writes: “I’ve been fascinated, like everyone else, by the exhausting emotional implications of our current state of AI…”

Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia/ south-east England. She has published in Light (including with The New Selkie in Light’s Poems of the Week), LUPO, Mezzo Cammin, and some other places, though Poetry and The New Yorker indicate that they would rather publish Marcus Bales than her. Much more of her poetry can be found through this link in Light.  

Illustration: RHL and ChatGPT