Category Archives: experimental

Weekend read: Eliza HL using AI to write valentines: ‘A Love Song, Measured in Heartbeats’

ChatGPT said:

Sure! Here’s a Valentine’s poem in the style of T.S. Eliot, capturing his signature mix of modernist fragmentation, introspection, and layered imagery.

A Love Song, Measured in Heartbeats

(then follows the poem posted above)

Would you like the next two poems in contrasting styles? Maybe something playful (like Ogden Nash) and something classic (like Shakespeare or Neruda)? 😊

You said:

i think you have missed out on rhyme scheme… am i missing something?

ChatGPT said:

You’re right! Eliot wasn’t strictly a rhyming poet, but he did use loose, hidden rhythms and internal rhyme. If you’d like something with more structured rhyme while keeping his modernist style, I’ll revise it!

Here’s a T.S. Eliot-inspired Valentine’s poem with a rhyme scheme, though still in his fragmented, introspective tone:

A Love Song in the Cracks of Time

Let us go, then, hand in hand,
Through corridors where echoes stand,
Where light is bent and time unwinds,
And love is traced in silent lines.

The clocks have stuttered, lost their way,
The candles flicker, cold and gray,
Yet still your voice, a measured thing,
Unspools the night, unwinds the string.

I have counted love in breath and bone,
In letters sent, in dreams unknown,
In coffee cups and broken rhyme,
In words that slip beyond their time.

But tell me—was it worth the wait,
The fractured steps, the hand of fate?
To stand with me, where moments blur,
Where love is neither lost nor sure?

And yet, my dear, still here we stand,
No need for maps, no need for plans.
For time will twist, and stars will dim,
But I am yours, and you are him.

This keeps Eliot’s meditative tone but brings in structured rhyme. Does this feel more like what you had in mind? Or would you like me to tweak the style further? 😊

You said:

no, this is good. the next one should be in style of ee cummings

ChatGPT said:

Great! Now for an e.e. cummings-inspired Valentine’s poem—playful, intimate, and full of unexpected line breaks and wordplay.

(love is more than words or breath)

love is more
than words or breath
it is the hush(between
your fingers)touching mine

it is the moon(hushed
& laughing)when you turn
your face to me

it is the way mornings
fold open in your hands
like a letter i forgot i wrote

love is more
than always or never
(it is now it is now it is now)

& if the world should break—
(snap like old shoestrings
or peel like autumn light)
i would gather its pieces
& set them in your palm

for love is more
than time or space
it is you & me &
(always)

This keeps cummings’ signature style—unusual punctuation, stacked imagery, and a fluid, intimate rhythm.

Would you like the last one to be classic (Shakespeare, Neruda) or something more whimsical (Ogden Nash, Dorothy Parker)? 😊

You said:

i think it should be style of robin helweg-larsen

ChatGPT said:

Ah, an excellent choice! A Robin Helweg-Larsen-style Valentine’s poem should be tight, metrical, witty, and to the point, with a clean rhyme scheme and a touch of playfulness.

Valentine (In the Style of Robin Helweg-Larsen)

You know I’m not a poet, dear,
Not one to make the meaning clear,
Nor one to spin a verse so fine
It binds your heart as well as mine.

But here’s the truth: I look, I see,
And every road still leads to we.
Through love and time (both hard and fast),
You are my first. You are my last.

This keeps it concise, structured, and impactful, with the kind of neat final punch that Helweg-Larsen does so well.

Do these three poems feel like a good mix? Or would you like any refinements? 😊

*****

PART 2

You said:

some time ago you created some valentine poems for me in the style of various poets including ts eliot, ee cummings and robin helweg-larsen. can you do a valentine poem for me? in my style…. what ever that is

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Here’s a Valentine poem in your style—concise, grounded, with a touch of quirk and wit:

Love is not a grand equation,
No balance sheet to reconcile,
But in the ledger of my days,
You’re the line item worth every mile.

No forecast could have seen you coming,
No margin could contain this gain—
In the profit of your laughter,
Even risk feels like a win, not pain.

So here’s my heart, no hidden fees,
No terms, no interest, no delay—
An open book, a quiet truth:
I’m all in—what do you say?

Would you like me to refine this or try another version? 😊

You said:

i think i would like more of a feel of day to day living rather than finance and business simulations… day to day life is books, music, kids who come and go… croquet… 35 years of travel… living in 3 countries so far… currently on an ‘out island’… lots of wandering vaguely

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Here’s a Valentine poem inspired by your day-to-day life:

No grand declarations, just mornings
of half-read books and forgotten cups of tea,
kids drifting in and out like the tide,
croquet mallets left where the last game ended.

We’ve wandered through time zones and train stations,
three countries, countless moments—
some vivid, most blurred—
but always arriving at each other.

Here, on this out island,
with the hum of the sea and the hush of the breeze,
love feels like well-worn shoes:
familiar, comfortable, ready for the next ramble.

Would you like to explore another tone or style? 😊

You said:

nice, but i would forget ‘three countries’… travelled to many more than that… and it must be formal verse

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Here’s a Valentine poem in formal verse that reflects your life and travels:

Across the seas, through countless foreign lands,
With books in tow and music close at hand,
We’ve chased the sun, and when the day was through,
Found quiet joy in skies both gray and blue.

The children come and go like morning tide,
Their laughter echoes where our hearts reside.
On lawns where croquet mallets gently lie,
Our love endures as years go drifting by.

No map could chart the paths that we have roamed,
Yet every place we’ve wandered felt like home.
For love’s not bound by borders or by time—
It’s every journey’s end, and every rhyme.

Would you like any tweaks or another version? 😊

You said:

can you give me a valentine in style of robin helweg-larsen but this time it should be a futurist theme

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Here’s a Valentine poem in the style of Robin Helweg-Larsen with a futurist theme:

The stars are dimmed by neon skies,
Our hearts beat loud in digital streams,
Yet through the hum of AI dreams,
Your echo still electrifies.

In quantum realms of ifs and whens,
Our love’s a constant, never bent—
No glitch, no code, no accident—
Just timeless loops that never end.

Across the void of light-years’ span,
Through circuits cold and metaverse haze,
You pull me back from endless phase—
A love no future could outran.

Would you like to explore another tone or refine this one? 😊

You said:

is futurist a word for rhl?

ChatGPT said:

Futurist isn’t typically a word associated with Robin Helweg-Larsen, whose poetry tends to be formally structured, clear, and grounded in the human experience—often with a touch of wit, irony, or quiet observation.

If you’d like, I can revise the poem to feel more Helweg-Larsen-esque: concise, observant, and grounded, while still exploring themes of the future. Would you like me to give that a try? 😊

You said:

i thought he did a lot with future themes

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Got it! Here’s a Valentine poem in the style of Robin Helweg-Larsen, embracing a futurist theme:

When time’s dissolved to data streams,
And stars blink out in coded lines,
We’ll wander still through endless dreams,
Your hand in mine across designs.

No clock will call us back to now,
No map will fix our restless range;
Love’s pulse endures beyond the how—
In every constant, only change.

Does this version capture more of what you’re aiming for? 😊

You said:

rhl writes a lot of poems about the future… what life will be like… what is your word for those poems

ChatGPT said:

Ah! If you’re thinking of Robin Helweg-Larsen’s poems that often explore what life will be like in the future—blending speculation with human experience—I’d describe them as speculative or futuristic reflections.

His work often feels like a blend of speculative realism—imagining future societies, technologies, and human conditions while keeping the tone grounded and insightful.

Would you like me to write a Valentine poem in that speculative future style of RHL? 😊

You said:

yes, thank you

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Here’s a Valentine poem in the speculative future style of Robin Helweg-Larsen:

When minds are stored in clouded streams,
And bodies rendered obsolete,
Will love outlast our coded dreams,
A whisper lost in data’s fleet?

If hearts are apps, and touch is rare,
Will longing fade, or still remain?
In endless loops of ones and pairs,
I’ll seek you through the endless main.

No age or realm will dull my view—
In every timeline, I’ll find you.

Does this fit the tone you’re looking for? 😊

You said:

can you add another quatrain to make a formal sonnet

ChatGPT said:

Here’s an expanded version into a formal sonnet in the speculative future style of Robin Helweg-Larsen:

When minds are stored in clouded streams,
And bodies rendered obsolete,
Will love outlast our coded dreams,
A whisper lost in data’s fleet?

If hearts are apps, and touch is rare,
Will longing fade, or still remain?
In endless loops of ones and pairs,
I’ll seek you through the endless main.

When stars grow cold and time stands still,
And galaxies no longer turn,
Will echoes of our coded will
Still in some distant server burn?

No age or realm will dull my view—
In every timeline, I’ll find you.

*****

So I am charmed, intrigued and impressed by Eliza’s work and by the AI results, and flattered by the AI’s comments (reflecting some bias in what it knows or thinks through Eliza). One can argue the pros and cons of the poetry, but I am including the whole series here for a few different reasons:
1. It shows the remarkable amount of improvement in Artificial Intelligence in the past few years, with the speed of improvement constantly increasing and implying an unpredictable near-future in all aspects of our lives.
2. Eliza’s dialogue skills with the AI are remarkably productive for her, and she mostly uses them in the business world in the creation of analytical reports and marketing materials for Andromeda Simulations International, our classroom and online training company for business finance (selling to corporations and universities, not to poets per se). Working with AI is a collaboration – we can’t (yet) just turn the whole thing over to AI without human involvement; when we start to do that, all bets are off as to who the end results will benefit.
3. But does this make Eliza a poet? She says not. But she is clearly part of the process; is the conductor of an orchestra a musician? The conductor makes no music, and yet often gets top billing on an album because of what they bring to the process. It is an interesting issue.
4. Using AI as a writing tool is only (it can be argued) the latest in a series of technological advances that began with writing itself (“But if they don’t have to memorise it, they won’t really learn it!”), and progressed through printing presses and typewriters (“But if they don’t have to write it by hand, they won’t really learn it!”) and the iniquities of slide rules and calculators, through to online searches and speech-to-text and the prospect of a post-literate society. Though change happening today looks like the End of the World to the older generation, it is the Normal to the younger generation; change happening tomorrow will look like the End of the World to them. That’s the way it’s always been.
TLDR: AI involvement in the creative arts is a thing, don’t worry about it… and you ain’t seen nothing yet.

*****

(and Eliza’s dialogue with her AI friend continued:)

ChatGPT said:

Would you like me to refine or adjust anything? 😊

You said:

what is a good title for this

ChatGPT said:

Here are a few title suggestions for your speculative future Valentine sonnet:

“Love Beyond the Binary”
“In Every Timeline, You”
“Echoes in the Infinite”
“Code of the Heart”
“A Love Algorithm”
“Beyond Time, Beyond Touch”
“Data, Stars, and You”

Do any of these resonate with you, or would you like more options? 😊

You said:

what does this mean: A whisper lost in data’s fleet?

ChatGPT said:

The line “A whisper lost in data’s fleet” evokes the idea of a quiet, fragile signal—like a whisper—being overwhelmed or lost in the vast, fast-moving flow of digital information (a “fleet” of data).

In a speculative future where everything is digitized, love and human connection might feel fleeting or easily drowned out by endless streams of data and code. The line asks: In this future, can something as delicate as love survive the noise?

Would you like me to tweak the line for clarity or a different effect? 😊

You said:

i think the line needs tweaking, can you keep the rhyme scheme

ChatGPT said:

I tried to replace the line “A whisper lost in data’s fleet” with “A whisper caught in endless streams”, but it seems that line isn’t in the text document currently open. Would you like me to update the poem with this new line manually? 😊

You said:

i need the new line for the poem, can you paste it here in chat?

ChatGPT said:

Here’s the revised line with the same rhyme scheme:

“A whisper caught in endless streams”

This keeps the original intent but feels clearer and more evocative. Let me know if you’d like more options or any other edits! 😊

You said:

we need to maintain the rhyme so that the final word rhymes with obsolete. can you try again?

ChatGPT said:

Absolutely! Here’s a revised line that maintains the rhyme with obsolete:

“A whisper kept in code discreet”

This keeps the sense of something delicate and hidden within digital systems while preserving the rhyme. Would you like me to refine further or integrate it into the full poem? 😊

*****

Illustration: by RHL and ChatGPT

Weekend read: Songs as poems: Ned Balbo, ‘Shirts of the Distant Past’

1 Reply

I remember you some mornings in the midst of getting dressed
Surprised that I recall exactly when I wore you last

The paisley patterns spilling over sleeves
The Nehru collars nobody believes
… were popular
The turtlenecks no turtle ever wore
Those V-neck disco shirts that dance no more
… Spectacular!

Are you lurking in the closet among other clothes I own?
I gently touch your shoulder—a brief flash, then you’re gone

The concert souvenir shirts we outgrew
The obligation gifts we always knew
… were wrapped in haste
Thick cotton plaids lost lumberjacks would covet
That college T tossed out, but how we loved it
… still, such a waste

You promised transformation, but what else did you require
The full ensemble led us toward transcendence or desire
(Attire of another age, accessories all the rage)

Bell-bottom flares that took flight as we walked
Embroidered jeans so tight that people talked
… of nothing else
Those bomber jackets earthbound boomers froze in
Those leather wristlets grunge guitar gods posed in
… with death’s head belts

You folded in your fabric everyone I used to be
Now that you’re gone, I realize I’m left with only me
But if I run across you in some thrift shop bargain rack
Or rummaging recycling bins, what else would you bring back?
Who else will you bring back?

Some nights I see you in my dreams of places far away
I’m wearing you as if I haven’t aged a single day
Shirts of the distant past, shirts of the distant past

*****

Ned Balbo writes in Rattle #85, Fall 2024 (where you can hear the song performed): “I’ve played guitar since I was 5, keyboards since I was 13, and ukulele since I was 42, but my time as a ‘professional’ musician—someone paid to play—is scattershot and humble. Ice rinks, a Knights of Columbus Hall, a campers’ convention in Yaphank, a crowd of disco-loving retirees at Montauk’s Atlantic Terrace Motel, company picnics, school dances, private parties, and more—these were where I played guitar, sang, and devised versions of the Beatles, Bowie, et al. in two Long Island cover bands. The Crows’ Nest or Tiffany’s Wine-and-Cheese Café hosted noise-filled solo acoustic gigs, with more receptive listeners for original songs and covers of Elvis Costello or Eno at my undergrad college’s coffeehouse. More recently, I’ve written lyrics to Mark Osteen’s preexisting jazz scores (look for the Cold Spring Jazz Quartet on Spotify, Amazon, CDBaby, and elsewhere) and returned to solo songwriting and recording with ‘ned’s demos’ at Bandcamp. As a relic from the age when lyrics were sometimes scrutinized with poetry’s intensity, I listen closely to the sonics of language, whether sung or spoken, and look up to lyricists whose words come alive both aloud and on the page.”

Balbo: Robin, thanks for posting ‘Shirts from the Distant Past’, my little song-poem hybrid. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.

Editor: For myself, I see a continuum from womb heartbeat to dance to music to song to formal verse. I would love to have any additional comments on the subject in general, or on the creation of this poem in particular, related to these elements.

Balbo: I love what you’re saying about womb, heartbeat, and dance. A formative text for me is Donald Hall’s essay on poetic form’s psychic origins, ‘Goatfoot, Milktongue, Twinbird‘. You probably know it. Hall proposes three metaphors for poetry’s deepest sources: Goatfoot, the impulse toward dance, rhythm, movement; Milktongue, the pure pleasure of language, the texture of words when spoken; and Twinbird, our desire for form, symmetry, wholeness, which is complicated and energized by the contradictions it contains and reconciles. To me, Hall’s terms just sound like different ways of envisioning exactly what you’re talking about. They apply as much to song as they do to verse. The meter varies by stanza or section: iambic heptameter (seven iambs) in the couplet verses—not so different, after all, from the tetrameter to trimeter shifts we find in many ballads. The “shirts” title refrain, which doesn’t appear in print till the last line, are two trimeter phrases. It was fun to find surprising rhymes to hold the whole song together.

Editor: Regarding ‘Shirts’, quite apart from the charming idea, I like the work that has gone into the metre, rhyme, idiosyncratic structure.

Balbo: Thank you. I wrote and sung ‘Shirts’ as a poetic song lyric—one that could be read and enjoyed but, ideally, would be heard. I view its structure as that of a call-and-response song in traditional format. (In rock, for example, I think of George Harrison’s ‘Taxman’ with John and Paul harmonizing “Taxman, Mr. Wilson, Taxman, Mr. Heath” in answer George’s lead vocal.) In ‘Shirts’, the call-and-response comes from using the title as a refrain: it explains who the “you” is in each verse (when you hear it, anyway—I cut it from the visual text for fear it would seem repetitious without the music). Sometimes the title refrain answers a statement in the verse: “I gently touch your shoulder—a brief flash, then you’re gone” sounds like I might be talking (or singing) about a person, but it turns out to be those long-lost shirts—a playful fake-out.

Then there are the brief call-and-responses of the bridge sections which comment on the previous line or complete an unfinished thought: “Those V-neck disco shirts that dance no more…spectacular!” or “Embroidered jeans so tight that people talked…of nothing else.” They’re in iambic pentameter, with the second and fourth changing to heptameter if we count the two extra beats (set off on their own line) answering them.

The so-called “middle 8” (usually eight bars used to break up the verse-chorus/verse-chorus model) is delayed till just before the end: “You folded in your fabric everyone I used to be, etc.” That’s meant to set up the payoff: it’s not the shirts but our lost selves— along with loved ones, lost ones, everyone—we’re missing or mourning. But writing or singing about shirts—clothing that shapes and defines us—makes the lyric less depressing, leavens it with wit (I hope) so that what’s more poignant comes at the very end where more dramatic music can counterbalance the mood—the contradictions reconciled, as Donald Hall might have put it.

Of course, the very end is quieter – wistful again.

As I mentioned in Rattle (thanks again to Tim Green for giving both words and music a home), I grew up in the era when lyrics were often analyzed as seriously as poetry (and not just by undergraduates in long-ago dorm rooms under black light posters). Whether I’m writing poetry or songs, I listen closely to the different ways words sound—what works when sung doesn’t always work as well when spoken or encountered on the page—so when I do write lyrics, I try to make them both readable and singable.

Poems and song lyrics operate differently, but there’s lots of overlap between them. I wanted ‘Shirts’ to operate on both levels, even if it tilts more toward song lyric than poem.

*****

Ned Balbo’s six books include The Cylburn Touch-Me-Nots (New Criterion Prize), 3 Nights of the Perseids (Richard Wilbur Award), Lives of the Sleepers (Ernest Sandeen Prize), and The Trials of Edgar Poe and Other Poems (Donald Justice Prize and the Poets’ Prize). He’s received grants or fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts (translation), the Maryland Arts Council, and the Mid Atlantic Arts Foundation. Balbo has taught at Iowa State University’s MFA program in creative writing and environment and, recently, the Frost Farm and West Chester University poetry conferences. His work appears in Contemporary Catholic Poetry (Paraclete Press), with new poems out or forthcoming in Able Muse, The Common, Interim, Notre Dame Review, and elsewhere. He is married to poet and essayist Jane Satterfield.

Literary: https://nedbalbo.com
Music: https://nedsdemos.bandcamp.com
‘Fluent Phrases in a Silver Chain: on finding poetry in song and song in poetry’ (essay in Literary Matters): https://www.literarymatters.org/14-2-fluent-phrases-in-a-silver-chain-on-finding-poetry-in-song-and-song-in-poetry/

Latest book: The Cylburn Touch-Me-Nots (Criterion Books): https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1641770821/thenewcriterio

Photo: “December 22-31, 2009” by osseous is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Semi-formal: RHL, ‘Terminal’

3 Replies

Christian culture’s crucifixation
nails us to our seats as, station by station,
we travel the trammelled line
until we find
that terminal
more primal.

The humanstrain’s end-of-line stop
is Ragnarok.
Everyone please disembark
into the dark–
no light, no map.
Mind the Ginnungagap.

*****

This is as close as I get to religion: existential uncertainty. I’m a Militant Agnostic: “I don’t know… and neither do you!” Yet this attitude is apparently compatible with religion, being not that different from Eliot’s ‘East Coker‘:
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters
(…)
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God.
But Christianity? I think not. Altogether too unlikely, with so many impossibilities packed into such a small understanding of the cosmos. We don’t know where we are headed, not just as individuals with finite lives, but as a species that is simultaneously developing space travel and genetic modifications… the possibilities are endless and the future, dark as well as light, is unknowable.

The poem is semi-formal with its loose iambics and paired rhymes or slant rhymes, but no structure beyond its natural flow. It was originally published in the Experimental section of a 2019 issue of Better Than Starbucks, and republished as part of work being spotlighted in The HyperTexts in August 2024.

Photo: “London Holborn tube station in Black and White effect” by Patrick Cannon Tax Barrister is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Using form: Experimenting: Ann Drysdale, ‘When Mister Nifty Plays the Bones’

2 Replies

With things like tongs in the palm of his hand
Tongue-depressors or langues-de-chat
He tappets the rhythm of his one-man-band
As he struts in the gutter with a tra-la-la.

He twinkles his fingers and he flicks his wrist
Hey-diddle-diddle and fiddle-de-dee
And his two tame twiddlesticks jump and twist
With a click-click-clackety, one-two-three

For Nifty’s bones are made of wood
And they click like sticks with a restless chatter
His brass as he passes is loud and good
But his rattling bones are a different matter

His drum tum-tums and his trombone groans
And his hi-hat cymbal softly sighs
But all I can hear is the homely bones
That sing out the song in his small sad eyes

He dances a foxtrot, quick-quick-slow
And the hi-hat hisses with a whispered yes
But the bones, bones, bones with their no-no-no
Tick-tock to the tune of uselessness

When Mister Nifty dances by
His fingers flicker and his brass bells shine
But a part of my heart feels cold and dry
As his lonely bones call out to mine.

*****

Ann Drysdale writes “I made this poem because I wanted to see if I could turn words into music, with assonance and dissonance, chiming and clashing like the components of Mr. Nifty’s one man marching band. Laying aside conventional metre and putting boom, boom, boom alongside tum titty tum titty tum. I wanted it to sing and to dance to itself, and for the reader to dance along with it.”

The poem was collected in Miss Jekyll’s Gardening Boots, Shoestring Press, 2015.

Ann Drysdale still lives in South Wales. She has been a hill farmer, water-gypsy, newspaper columnist and single parent – not necessarily in that order. She has written all her life; stories, essays, memoir, and a newspaper column that spanned twenty years of an eventful life. Her eighth volume of poetry – Feeling Unusual – came together during the strange times of Coronavirus and celebrates, among other things, the companionship of a wise cat and an imaginary horse.

Illustration – supplied by Ann Drysdale

Using form: Experimental: Edmund Conti, ‘Solace’

Edmund Conti, ‘My Son the Critic’

2 Replies

Read me a bedtime poem, said my son.
So I read him this:

We say hippopotami
But not rhinoceri
A strange dichotomy
In nature’s glossary.

But we do say rhinoceri, he said. Look it up.
So I read him this:

Life is unfair
For most of us, therefore
Let’s have a fanfare
For those that it’s fair for.

I smell a slant rhyme, he said, sniffing.
So I read him this:

While trying to grapple
With gravity, Newton
Was helped by an apple
He didn’t compute on.

My teacher says that’s not poetry, he said.
So I read him this:

René Descartes, he thought
And therefore knew he was.
And since he was, he sought
To make us think. He does.

That made me think, he said. But not feel.
So I read him this:

My hair has a wonderful sheen.
My toenails, clipped, have regality.
It’s just all those things in between
That give me a sense of mortality.

Did the earth move? I asked. Anything?
Nothing moved. He was asleep.

*****

Edmund Conti writes: “This is one of my favorites today. Tomorrow I might have different ones. I like it because it makes me nostalgic for an event that never happened. (My persona has a better life than me.) It came about after I sent the following quatrain to John Mella of Light Magazine (with appropriate punning title, of course).

We say hippopotami
But not rhinoceri
A strange dichotomy
In nature’s glossary.

John liked it and accepted it. I few weeks later he wrote and said he couldn’t use. Talking to a fellow editor, he learned there is such a plural as ‘rhinoceri.’ But now I was in love with my little piece and wanted to salvage it. But how? All I could think of was to take advantage of the poem’s failing. I came up with the idea of showing several possibly flawed quatrains to my son and having him disparage each one. And lo, the poem! I have 2 sons and when either one questions the reality, I just say it was the other one.”

Edmund Conti has many reasons for wanting his poems published—Power! Fame! Money!—but not (as you can see) as a venue for his bio notes.

Photo: “grandpa reading nick a bedtime story – MG 6291.JPG” by sean dreilinger is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Odd poem: AI-generated poem in answer to “Can you write a poem about AI in the style of Robin Helweg-Larsen?”

6 Replies

Silicon and code,
A symphony of thought,
A machine mind unfolds.

A spark of electricity,
A flicker of light,
A new form of intelligence,
Is born tonight.

A labyrinth of algorithms,
A dance of ones and zeroes,
A new kind of consciousness,
Is ours to discover.

The future is here,
A fusion of man and machine,
A symbiosis of intellect,
A cosmic dream.

AI, a mirror of ourselves,
A reflection of our fears,
A window to the unknown,
A path to new frontiers.

Robin Helweg-Larsen is a Danish poet and author known for his poems that express a sense of wonder and reverence for the natural world. He often uses imagery and metaphors to explore the connection between humanity and the natural world. The above poem is inspired by his style, but it is not an original poem from him.

*****

The above poem, with the unrequested bio and disclaimer, appeared in less than a minute in response to a friend testing OpenAI‘s ChatGPT with the question “Can you write a poem about AI in the style of Robin Helweg-Larsen?”

I am intrigued. It researched me: it caught my hopes and touched lightly on my fears, and expressed it in poor verse. Fair enough! But actually it’s not yet capable of good verse. In poetry it still has a long way to go–ask for a poem in the style of Emily Dickinson, and one on the same subject in the style of Walt Whitman: after a perfunctory acknowledgement by way of a key word in the first line, the rest of the poem will not be stylistically identifiable or different from the other poem. Picking those two poets seems a reasonable test: you can’t exactly sing Whitman’s poetry to the tune of ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’. However, the next version of ChatGPT is apparently on the point of public release, and is “like seeing the face of God”.

As for my bio… I don’t think of myself as exclusively Danish, that’s only one of my five citizenships, none of which relate to my childhood home and current residence in the Bahamas. But I’ll take it. I’m also not sure about being “known” for anything as a poet! But I’ll take that too. ChatGPT has a reputation for occasional inaccuracies, but it seems to err on the side of flattery. An interesting trait. We’ll just have to wait and see if its good nature continues past The Singularity, when AI takes off into explosive self-development beyond human capabilities…

Ray Kurzweil forecasts The Singularity to take place by 2029. This is the end of the world as we know it. As with all life anyway, enjoy it while you can!

Photo credit: AI-generated by OpenAI’s Dall.e 2 from my request: “Robot writing a poem in 1940s SF style”.

My own favourites: ‘No No Nse Nse’

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No
No
Nse
Nse
And things like that
May look like nonsense
But there is
No
No
Nse
Nse

*****

I know, I know… it’s not formal verse, but it’s one of my favourite pieces.

“Ecstatic Posture” by Dreaming in the deep south is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Experimental Poem: ‘Pumpkins’

Experimental Poem: ‘Pointillist’

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(Note: this poem is so named because if you look at it closely you may not find as much meaning as if you step back, let it flow past you, and see an outline of a story.)

Awake
Anew
Awhile
Askew;
Afoot
Among
Amass
Along;
Abet
Aback
Ado
Alack;
Alas!

Abroad
Again
Astride
Amain;
Atop
Alight
Aglow
Afright;
Afar
Ahead
Aloft
Abed;
Alone!

Aware
Amused
Affair
Accused;
Away
Aboard
Affray
Abhorred;
Aground
Alive
Abound
Arrive;
Ahoy!

Array
Await
Assay
Abate;
Appraise
Accord
Amaze
Adored;
Apprise
Appoint
Arise
Anoint;
Adieu!

This poem started (if I remember correctly) as four or five of the early words coming into my head with a sense of rhyme and rhythm when I was on the point of falling asleep. I roused myself enough to write the words down, doing what I consider an essential part of the communication I long for with my unconscious, my Muse–acknowledge the Muse by writing whatever is offered to you, whether or not it is complete or makes sense.

The next day I wrote more, keeping to iambic monometer and words of Anglo-Saxon derivation beginning with A. As a hint of a story took shape, I kept writing. After the first two stanzas I moved over into words of Latin derivation and went for more intense rhyme. Long lists of words were involved. After four days I had the whole poem.

As for the story itself… I see a hero setting out, failing, trying again, under threat, escaping by boat, shipwrecked, and finally rewarded. Are they male or female, and of what age? Did they have a love affair? Did they end up at home or in foreign lands? If you look at the poem sideways you may find an answer that suits you. Or (of course) not.

‘Pointillist’ was the second of five poems recently published in the Poetry section of The Brazen Head.

“Pointillistically abstracted” by readerwalker is marked with CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

ChatGPT said:

A Love Song, Measured in Heartbeats

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A Love Song in the Cracks of Time

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(love is more than words or breath)

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Valentine (In the Style of Robin Helweg-Larsen)

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