Category Archives: Poetry

Using form: Ghazal: Peggy Landsman, ‘In the End’

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Accept that everything ends in the end.
Nothing is left to defend in the end.

Whatever happens in this world of ours,
What’s not healed or resolved rends in the end.

We want to believe that time heals all wounds,
But we must make our amends in the end.

Justice delayed is justice denied,
Just as they intend in the end.

Feel the iron fist in the velvet glove.
The least bending of wills bends in the end.

“Kein Mensch muss müssen.” No one’s compelled to be compelled.
“Just following orders” is condemned in the end.

There are plenty of substitutes for the truth;
It is disbelief that suspends in the end.

*****

I think this ghazal speaks for itself, but there’s one thing that I’d like to credit. The German “Kein Mensch muss müssen” is from the play Nathan der Weise (Nathan the Wise) by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729-1781).

Peggy Landsman is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Too Much World, Not Enough Chocolate (Nightingale & Sparrow Press, 2024), in which “In the End” appears. To read more of her work, visit her website: peggylandsman.wordpress.com

“FDR Memorial – Washington DC – 00055 – 2012-03-15” by Tim Evanson is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0: “They (who) seek to establish systems of government based on the regimentation of all human beings by a handful of individual rulers… call this a New Order. It is not new and it is not order.”

Weekend read: Odd poem: Joseph Stalin, ‘The Outcast’

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He knocked on strangers’ doors,
Going from house to house,
With an old oaken panduri
And that simple song of his.

But in his song, his song—
Pure as the sun’s own gleam—
Resounded a truth profound,
Resounded a lofty dream.

Hearts that had turned to stone
Were made to beat once more;
In many, he’d rouse a mind
That slumbered in deepest murk.

But instead of the laurels he’d earned,
The people of his land
Fed the outcast poison,
Placing a cup in his hand.

They told him: “Damned one, you must
Drink it, drain the cup dry…
Your song is foreign to us,
We prefer to live in a lie!”

*****

Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili was a Georgian romantic poet who led a million-dollar heist that killed 40 people and funded the Bolshevik revolution. We know him as Joseph Stalin. His story is fascinating… and he is the model for the anti-hero Cassian Andor (Diego Luna) in the Star Wars spin-off TV series Andor.

The BBC has an excellent background article on him and the Andor connection: https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20250417-how-a-young-joseph-stalin-inspired-star-wars-series-andor:
Yes, the troubled outlaw beloved by Star Wars fans everywhere is based in part on one of history’s most notorious mass murderers, as the series’ creator, Tony Gilroy, has acknowledged. “If you look at a picture of young Stalin, isn’t he glamorous,” Gilroy said in an interview in Rolling Stone in 2022. “He looks like Diego!”

The above poem and two others, all translated by David Shook, can be found here: https://molossusexperiment.tumblr.com/fall1/stalin. The link also contains Shook’s observations on Stalin’s qualities as a poet, and on his persecution of poets like Osip Mandelstam for the Stalin Epigram:
... the ten thick worms his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men...

Not having found a title for Stalin’s poem, in this blog post I titled it ‘The Outcast’, though I considered ‘Panduri’.

Photo: “David and Panduri” by sarah&patrick is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Using form: Pantoum: Brian Allgar, ‘And then I told you’

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We kissed. And then I told you (it was over
dinner at some fancy restaurant)
I loved you, but I couldn’t live like this,
meeting from time to time; I needed more.

Dinner at some fancy restaurant,
and timid sex at your place; that was all, each
meeting. From time to time, I needed more
than you were ready for, so reticent

and timid. Sex at your place – that was all. Each
meeting’s end, I tried not to ask more of you
than you were ready for. So, reticent,
I touched your face in silence, lovingly.

Meetings end. I tried not to ask more of you;
I loved you, but I couldn’t live like this.
I touched your face. In silence, lovingly,
we kissed, and then I told you it was over.

*****

Brian Allgar writes: “In general, I don’t much care for poetic forms, such as the triolet and the villanelle, with repeated lines. But I was attracted by the pantoum’s requirement that the repeated lines, though containing exactly the same words, should somewhat change in meaning each time.”

‘And then I told you’ was first published in Snakeskin.

Brian Allgar was born a mere 22 months before Adolf Hitler committed suicide, although no causal connection between the two events has ever been firmly established. Despite having lived in Paris since 1982, he remains immutably English. He started entering humorous competitions in 1967, but took a 35-year break, finally re-emerging in 2011 as a kind of Rip Van Winkle of the literary competition world. He also drinks malt whisky and writes music, which may explain his fondness for Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony. He is the author of The Ayterzedd: A Bestiary of (mostly) Alien Beings and An Answer from the Past, being the story of Rasselas and Figaro. He is also the co-author, with Marcus Bales, of Baleful Biographica, all published by Kelsay Books and available from the publisher or from Amazon.

Photo: “French restaurant with Jean” by obvio171 is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Using form: Quatrains with refrain: Jerome Betts, ‘Plus ça change. . .’

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If, as a child, he had a spreading rash,
The squitters, then, far worse, was constipated,
Or boasted big blue bruise and graze and gash,
A doctor murmured, “Yes, it’s age-related.”

When, in mid-life, and seeking novel thrills,
He got a dose of something best not stated
So had to suffer jabs and bitter pills,
A doctor murmured, “Yes, it’s age-related.”

Come his declining years, which tax most brains,
His wits would wander, now grown antiquated,
And while he rambled down his memory’s lanes
A doctor murmured, “Yes, it’s age-related.”

Until, one day of flowers and muffled peals,
Cause of demise at last certificated,
As up the aisle he rolled, worm-food on wheels,
A doctor murmured, “Yes, it’s age-related.”

*****

Jerome Betts writes: “Hearing a phrase new to you can start some process in the brain leading toa piece of verse. Here it was my GP saying of some minor ailment It’s age-related. It stuck in my mind, and I think triggered a recollection of a Thomas Hood poem, The Doctor, its seven stanzas all ending with the refrain Yes, yes, said the Doctor, / I meant it for that!, the dodgy physician’s unvarying response to reports of the disastrous effects, even death, of his prescriptions. Not long after, the sight of a hearse on wheels rather than on bearers’ shoulders entering a Devon church provided the idea for the last stanza of this essay in black humour which appeared in Snakeskin.“

Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the quarterly Lighten Up Online. Pushcart-nominated twice, his verse has appeared in a wide variety of UK publications and in anthologies such as Love Affairs At The Villa Nelle, Limerick Nation, The Potcake Chapbooks 1, 2 and 12, and Beth Houston’s three Extreme collections. British, European, and North American web venues include Amsterdam Quarterly, Better Than Starbucks,  Light, The Asses of Parnassus, The Hypertexts, The New Verse News, and  Snakeskin.

Illustration: “Great Grandfather and Child” by Melissa Flores is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Weekend read: Odd poem: French President Emmanuel Macron, ‘Pour Sophie’

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On a trip to Paris one day, little Sophie
Met a giant lady lighting up the night sky.
“What’s your name, you magical monster?”
“My many visitors call me the Eiffel Tower.”
“In all your attire, don’t you sometimes tire
Of being seen only as a humdrum tower?
You, a dragon, a fairy watching over Paris,
An Olympic torch held aloft in grey skies?”
“How you flatter me! So few poets these days
Ever sing the praises of my Parisian soul,
As did Cocteau, Aragon, Cendrars,
Trénet and Apollinaire… Since you’re so good
At seeing beneath the surface, you could
– If you like, when you’re back from France –
Take up your pen and write down
Why you like me – it would be nice and fun!”
“You can count on me! There’s so much to say!
I’ll write twenty lines… but who will read them?”
“Well, I know a man who’ll read your verse.”
“Really? Who?”
“The President of France.”

En voyage à Paris, la petite Sophie
Croisa une géante illuminant la nuit.
“Comment t’appelles-tu, monstre surnaturel?”
“Mes nombreux visiteurs m’appellent Tour Eiffel.”
“N’es-tu pas parfois lasse, avec tes mille atours
Que l’on ne voie en toi qu’une banale tour?
Toi le dragon, la fée, qui veille sur Paris,
Toi, immense flambeau planté dans le ciel gris!”
“Quel plaisir tu me fais! Ils sont devenus rares
Ceux qui comme Cocteau, Aragon ou Cendrars,
Trenet, Apollinaire, avaient su célébrer
Mon âme parisienne aux charmes singuliers.
Puisque tu sais si bien percer les apparences,
Tu pourrais, si tu veux, à ton retour de France,
Prendre à ton tour la plume et conter en anglais
(It would be nice and fun) ce qui chez moi te plaît!”
“Tu peux compter sur moi! Il y a tant à dire!
Je t’écrirai vingt vers… Mais qui voudra les lire?”
“Oh, moi j’en connais un qui lira ton cantique.”
“C’est?”
“Monsieur le président de la République.”

*****

This poem by French President Emmanuel Macron is in French alexandrine: 12 syllable lines, rhyming couplets. The translation is either by him (he is fluent in English) or by the French Embassy in London, as the poem was written for the English girl Sophie’s 13th birthday. She herself had initiated everything with the poem below, which she had sent in April 2017 to the French President… at that time the President was François Hollande, but Macron won the presidency later that year, and responded for Sophie’s birthday on November 1st. Her poem was 20 lines long, written out on her drawing of the Eiffel Tower; his response is also 20 lines long (counting the final question and answer as a single line, which it clearly is by metre and rhyme).

Here is 12-year-old Sophie’s ‘Centre of Attention’:

She has four beautiful legs,
Which help her stand proud,
She looks over everyone,
With her head in the clouds,
She is elegant and tall,
Wears a pretty, lacy skirt,
Whilst staring at her in awe,
Your eyes will not avert,
Her spine is amazingly straight,
Whilst her head touches the sky,
People look up and take pictures of her,
As they are passing on by,
You need to tilt your head up,
To be able to see all of her,
But when you do,
She is as pretty as a picture,
She is the centre of attention,
Noticed by everyone.
She is the Eiffel Tower,
She is second to none.

Macron created a nice circularity with his response to Sophie’s poem, by pretending it was written first and caused Sophie’s poem, rather than the other way round. All very playful.

Photo: “170714-D-PB383-151” by Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Susan McLean, ‘Anagram: A Pallor, An Edge’

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Late at night, I saw a glowing,
as if realms beyond our knowing
kindly solace were bestowing.
Could this phantom be my wife?
 
But the gleam, as I drew nearer,
taking form and growing clearer,
was my visage in the mirror,
and the figure held a knife.
 
“Fool,” said I, “your idle dreaming
on some insubstantial seeming
is some demon’s way of scheming
to mislead your soul to hell.

“Melancholy, doom-and-glooming,
pining, horror, guilt, exhuming,
Nevermore and Ulalume-ing –
write your angst out: that could sell.”

*****

Susan McLean writes: “This poem was inspired by a 2019 competition at The Spectator to write a poem in the style of a famous author and to have its title be an anagram of the poet’s name. I was a big fan of the poetry and short stories of Edgar Allan Poe when I was a teen, so I investigated words that I could draw from his name that would have strong associations with his work. Poe married his thirteen-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm, who died of tuberculosis eleven years later. Many of his poems and stories concern mourning for the death of a beautiful woman, including his most famous poem, “The Raven.” This poem borrows the trochaic meter and some elements of the rhyme scheme of that poem. It also alludes to a number of Poe’s favorite themes, and echoes some of his lines. It was not among the winners at The Spectator, but I later reworked it, and it recently appeared in Lighten Up Online.”

Susan McLean has two books of poetry, The Best Disguise and The Whetstone Misses the Knife, and one book of translations of Martial, Selected Epigrams. Her poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Measure, Able Muse, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.
https://www.pw.org/content/susan_mclean

“Edgar Allan Poe (ilustración off topic)” by El Humilde Fotero del Pánico is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Using form: Jerome Betts, ‘Villanelle For Darcy’

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Darcy the diabetic cat has died
His fans were told by email recently,
A life remembered with no little pride.

The Fiat-driver now feels mortified
To think because he simply failed to see
Darcy, the diabetic cat has died.

Was this the fatal ninth and last he’d tried?
Whichever, it will surely prove to be
A life remembered with no little pride.

His poor squashed frame has been discreetly fried
With all involved expressing sympathy;
Darcy the diabetic cat has died.

The people in his road could not abide
The flattening of such fine felinity,
A life remembered with no little pride.

So, some of them sent cards, and others cried
And stuck a sign upon his favourite tree:
Darcy the diabetic cat has died,
A life remembered with no little pride.

*****

Jerome Betts writes: “It’s always interesting when a line you read sparks off a quite unexpected result. In this case the line was in a friend’s email from Cambridge which mentioned in passing, as an item of local news, that Jasper the diabetic cat has died. Further details followed about one of those neighbourhood favourites known to many more people than its owners. Eventually, with Darcy substituted for Jasper (partly to secure a run of Ds and partly as I was at odds with a garden-molester of that name at the time) a villanelle took shape which was published in Snakeskin and subsequently in the anthology Love Affairs At The Villa Nelle (Kelsay Books, 2018) edited by Marilyn L. Taylor and James P. Roberts.”

Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the quarterly Lighten Up Online. Pushcart-nominated twice, his verse has appeared in a wide variety of UK publications and in anthologies such as Love Affairs At The Villa Nelle, Limerick Nation, The Potcake Chapbooks 1, 2 and 12, and Beth Houston’s three Extreme collections. British, European, and North American web venues include Amsterdam Quarterly, Better Than Starbucks,  Light, The Asses of Parnassus, The Hypertexts, The New Verse News, and Snakeskin.

Photo: “Dead Cat” by Denty One is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Weekend read: Aaron Poochigian, ‘Not Atoms’

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When, strolling through the Village, I discover

one lonesome shoe, a jeweled but dogless collar,
the crushed rose of a hitman or a lover,
barf like an offering, a half-burnt dollar,
“Scream” masks holding traffic-light-top vigil,
loose lab rats among the morning glories
or Elmo trapped inside a witch’s sigil,

I love the universe because it’s made of stories.

*****

Aaron Poochigian writes: “I live in the East Village, which is party central, especially on the weekends. The images in this poem are mostly random stuff I saw the mornings after. I didn’t include the people passed out on the sidewalk (just check to make sure they’re still breathing). The structure (one-line beginning, six-line list, one-line ending) came to me from a beautiful Tang-dynasty poem, ‘Visiting the Taoist Priest Chang’, by Liu Changqing.”

Aaron Poochigian’s ‘Not Atoms’ was originally published in New Verse Review. For reference, here is Liu Changqing’s poem in Aaron Poochigian’s translation:

Under the faint trail’s guidance I discover

a footprint in the phosphorescent moss,
a tranquil lake where low clouds love to hover,
a lonesome door relieved by rampant grass,
a pine grown greener since the thundershowers,
a cold springs fed by mountains far away.

Mingling with these truths among the flowers,
I have forgotten what I came to say.

Aaron Poochigian earned a PhD in Classics from the University of Minnesota and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. His latest poetry collection, American Divine, the winner of the Richard Wilbur Award, came out in 2021. He has published numerous translations with Penguin Classics and W.W. Norton. His work has appeared in such publications as Best American Poetry, The Paris Review and Poetry.
aaronpoochigian.com
americandivine.net

Photo: “Untitled [Coty] (c.1917) – Amadeu de Souza-Cardoso (1897-1918)” by pedrosimoes7 is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

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

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Let us go then, you and I,
Not through half-deserted streets
But through the quiet corridors of time,
Where the walls hum our syllables
And the dust of books settles like memory.

I have measured my love in heartbeats,
In the hush between verses,
In the spaces where language dissolves
Into something older than sound.

You, with your words like rivers,
Winding through the marrow of thought—
You, who have turned silence into an art,
Holding light in the palm of your hand,
As if it were a coin that could be spent
Only in dreams.

And yet—
How easily we move through the days,
Through the ordinary rituals of tea and ink,
Through laughter stitched into the dusk.

Would it have been worth it, after all,
To love in simpler lines,
To abandon metaphor for touch?
No.

For I have known love not in the saying,
But in the echo.

*****

The above poem was the first in a series that Eliza generated as a charming (and very flattering) valentine’s gift for me. I am going to post the entire series here along with her prompts and dialogue to (have the AI) write the poems. I think the process is fascinating, and a glimpse into the future. Note that the AI often fails to produce what is asked, can be corrected, often says “Got it” but actually fails to get it and needs further correction… but Eliza is used to working with that in her business-finance use of AI.

*****

PART 1

You said:

hmm… can i have 3 valentine poems for my husband the poet. the first would be written in the style of… hmm… ts eliot 

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: James B. Nicola, ‘Pair of Kings’

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All Clark Gable had to do
was sit where Hattie sat
the night she won her Oscar®. He
might not’ve thought of that:
but how the angels would have chimed
and cheered the noble cause
of basic decency, and broken
out in wild applause.
 
Benny Goodman would not sleep
where his Brothers could not stay.
He paved the American way before
it was the American Way.
For the color of music’s the color of God:
the color of his quartet!
So I hold no truck with movie stars,
but I play the clarinet.

*****

James B. Nicola writes: “Hattie McDaniel was the first American woman of African ancestry to win an acting Oscar. It was for Gone with the Wind, Best Picture of 1939, which starred Clark Gable, the #1 movie star at the time, known as the ‘King of Hollywood’. McDaniel was not allowed to sit with her fellow nominees. Her acceptance speech, nonetheless, overflowed with grace and gratitude.

“Benny Goodman, clarinet player and band leader, was so popular he was known as the ‘King of Swing’. His quartet included two players of African ancestry. When on tour, Goodman, true to his name, only booked overnight accommodations that accommodated all four of his players. The film The Green Book gave us a good look at these hotel policies in America. It won the Oscar for Best Picture of 2018.”

James B. Nicola’s poetry has appeared internationally in Acumen, erbacce, Cannon’s  Mouth, Recusant, Snakeskin, The South, Orbis, and Poetry Wales (UK);  Innisfree and  Interpreter’s House (Ireland); Poetry Salzburg (Austria), mgversion2>datura (France);  Gradiva (Italy); EgoPHobia (Romania); the Istanbul Review (Turkey); Sand and The Transnational (Germany), in the latter of which his work appears in German translation;  Harvests of the New Millennium (India); Kathmandu Tribune (Nepal); and Samjoko (Korea). His eight full-length collections (2014-2023) include most recently Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists, and Natural Tendencies. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience won a Choice magazine award.

‘Pair of Kings’ has just been published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Photo: “jazz ill Benny Goodman 1955” by janwillemsen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.