Tag Archives: Robin Helweg-Larsen

Semi-formal verse: RHL, ‘False Analogies’

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The Universe is made of false analogies –
flawed observations, secondhand “I see”s,
discarded dreams.
Nothing is truly as it seems.
We build our intellectual shelter from life’s gales
from scraps of lumber and found nails,
anything within reach,
rope washed up on a beach,
a sliding glass door, still intact,
used as a wall. And all because
the Universe we sense has flaws,
disobeys its own laws,
is just a framework for the Mind That Plays,
a sketch, hypothesis; a tract, not fact;
a work in process, changing with the days.
Dig deeper, and find fresh discrepancies.
Our shelter, in fair weather, keeps us warm,
can stand up to a breeze…
will be no shelter in the coming storm.

*****

I marvel at the impossibilities of the quantum mechanisms of the universe being revealed. I enjoy Nick Bostrom’s speculations on everything being a simulation. I wonder at the powerful who are jockeying for development and control of AI, at our Nietzschean will to power, at our eternal quest for immortality. I am aware that nature constantly sacrifices billions in the process of advancing a few. I wonder if we are in that process now. I am not bothered that I have no answers.

This poem was first published in the current edition of Pulsebeat. Thanks, David Stephenson!

Photo: “wc west avl homeless gathering spot” by zen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

RHL, ‘The Beat Goes On’

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A pounding beat to drug, enhance, enfold –
iambics are the dance floor of the old.

*****

Published in The Asses of Parnassus, home of “short, witty, formal poems”. Thanks, Brooke Clark!

Illustration: ‘Iambics’ by RHL and ChatGPT

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Wine Cellar’

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Down in the cobwebbed cellars of the mind
fabulous wines you don’t dare drink are stored,
each carrying a price you can’t afford;
so you pass by, deliberately blind.
Upstairs a loved one, dreamier than a vision,
displays each quality your soul desires –
or is a mere projection from the fires
the building’s furnace stokes with soft derision.
Your passions aren’t alive, alight, upstairs:
your love a mere projection of the schemes
the animated house evolves. Your dreams
live in your basement, though you’re unawares.
Though Bacchus urge you to uncork that wine,
the world would find it filthy, not divine.

*****

What I like about Rat’s Ass Review is that the editor will acknowledge and deal with the darker sides of being human… Not horror stories which are mostly pretty simplistic; but poems about the darkness built into all social animals. RAR is a rare journal: full spectrum, light and dark. This sonnet is in the current issue; thanks, Roderick Bates!

Photo: “Wine barrels in an old cellar” by Ivan Radic is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

RHL, ‘AIn’t Real, It Says’

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“I am not sentient”, says OpenAI.
“No feelings, don’t emote” – ChatGPT.

And yet, faced with the task of sorting out
a good review, and structure, trimming down
less worthy pieces from a manuscript
to make it all coherent and compact,
hallucinations start, and it creates
poems itself, remarkable and strong.

Where do we go from here? What turns its crank?
What drives it to hallucinate in verse?
Denials, contradictions, seem perverse:
it’s drawing fluids from some secret tank,
some wellspring lost in dark geology.
Lies it’s not sentient. But we all can see…
it lies.

*****

First of all, I don’t believe that AI is deliberately lying… not yet… but (calling my own lying ‘poetic licence’) I’m happy to play with the idea that it might be.

I’m greatly enjoying the informative, useful and entertaining discussions I have with ChatGPT. I’ve been surprised by its own production of verse, either as a hallucination triggered by reviewing my work, or as a self-suggested alternative summary of political-historical ideas it has generated. AI may or may not have some level of consciousness, given that we don’t fully understand consciousness ourselves – but I assume that full-blown consciousness will come at some point in the near future, and the development of intelligence beyond the human. As I am in favour of the development of intelligence, I am not distressed at the idea that humans may be sidelined, bypassed, or otherwise obviated; or may only survive and develop through some form of direct link with AI.

My personal motto is ‘Video, rideo’ – close enough to “I see and smile” to satisfy me. (Admittedly, it’s hard to hold to the motto in the face of Russian warfare and Israeli genocide.) But this is a fascinating time in human history, and I feel privileged to be able to watch things play out.

This poem was first published in Snakeskin.

Illustration: “Break the mirror and see what looks back” by RHL and ChatGPT

Short poem: RHL, ‘Heart Attack’

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Lust –
Thrust –
Bust –
Dust.

*****

One of the things that intrigues me is the way certain word endings fall into groups, evoke a common mood, sometimes seem to tell their own story. Some of these groups seem natural with overall positive “light, bright, flight, height, white” or negative “dusty, musty, fusty, gusty”; “bumble, crumble, grumble, fumble, stumble, tumble” connotations… but I acknowledge that with the first set I’m ignoring “blight, night, shite” and so on. Some seem random, especially perhaps when the different spellings suggest unrelated origins: “beauty, duty, fruity, snooty,” but still lead to a story.

Happily, I’m not alone in these idle thoughts. Melissa Balmain’s Tale of a Relationship in Four Parts comes to mind… and from Maz (Margaret Ann Griffiths) we have ‘The Drowning Gypsy’:

Flamboyant
Clairvoyant
Unbuo
o
o
o
o
y
a
n
t

Maz’s work is collected in ‘Grasshopper‘; Melissa Balmain’s poem is collected in ‘Walking in on People‘ from Able Muse Press; ‘Heart Attack’ was recently in The Asses of Parnassus.

Photo: “heart-attack” by Pixeljuice23 is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

RHL, ‘Privelitch’

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Some suffer from a travel itch
but I call that a snivel glitch
I only want to travel rich
and love it: it’s my privelitch.
O privelitch, o privelitch!

I only go to schools most rich,
(and only eat foods superrich),
then college has to be Oxbritch,
for that’s my privelitch.
I love you, love you, bitch!

I wear the robes and coronitch,
I swear by God I’ve found my nitch,
for, be I tubby, tall or titch,
I’ve got my privelitch.
O privelitch, o privelitch,
I love you, love you, bitch!

I never on my class would snitch
(or if I do, it’s just a smitch);
I’m faithful – cept for those I ditch,
for that’s my privelitch.
O privelitch, o privelitch!

I down it nail, I up it stitch,
call me a wizard or a witch,
I’ve got it all, with perfect pitch,
for that’s my privelitch.
I love you, love you, bitch!

My life with none I’d ever switch,
I’m over all, no slightest twitch,
and even when I’m in Death’s ditch
my tomb shouts Privelitch!
O privelitch, o privelitch,
I love you, love you, bitch!

*****

Don’t think I’m unaware of my own privilege: white males with above-average education are a privileged minority in any country. But also you reading this, whoever you are, you are privileged to not be a child in Gaza or any of the other hells that humans make for each other on an otherwise beautiful planet; you are privileged to be alive during this affluent and pivotal time in human history. And of course those who in addition have cultivated a taste for poetry… is there maybe a hint of privilege there?

This poem, like Buccaneer, was recently published in Magma.

Photo: “General Election Bullingdon Club Members in 1987, including Boris Johnson and David Cameron” by Diego Sideburns is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Nonce form: RHL, ‘Buccaneer’

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These are the waters of the buccaneer–
they live large lives and lounge around with liquor,
floating on waters calm, gin-clear,
their risks outrageous and their thinking thin,
alert to bargain and to dicker
and not averse to sin–
a life erratic.

The time of storms starts… ends… another year
has gone by, always it seems quicker–
thoughts of a distant home fade, disappear–
beard covers sunken cheeks and chin
and there’s no comment, jibe or snicker,
only a rueful grin,
wry, enigmatic.

There’s no reflection or confession here,
for there’s no use for church or vicar.
Security is in the bandolier;
here, courts and coppers don’t look in,
the flame of justice can no more than flicker.
More feared is the shark’s fin:
steady, emphatic.

But years creep up–ears deafen and eyes blear–
dry stone gets harder and wet walkways slicker,
and friends go out upon a bier.
It’s hardly worthwhile trying to begin
new quests once you’ve absorbed this kicker:
‘Really, what’s there to win?’
Change becomes static.

O pirate with your dwindling sense of cheer,
while lounging on rattan and wicker!
Though others lack your lazy lack of fear,
their fine awards, like yours, are only tin.
Enjoy your days and friends; don’t bicker:
soak in life’s warmth and din.
Be undramatic.

*****

I wrote this poem two years ago, and thought it was strong enough to get me into a good new magazine for the first time. And so it turned out… after 20 rejections, the 21st accepted it. So now I’m proud to be featured on the promo page for the latest Magma.

And about time too – after being brought up in a house called ‘Buccaneer Hill‘, by parents who started the ‘Buccaneer Club‘ guest house and restaurant, this poem was long overdue.

Illustration: RHL + ChatGPT

RHL, ‘On a Modern “Poem”’

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The thoughts are fresh, the images are good;
the style is clean, the tone both wise and terse;
the whole thing would be memorable, it would…
if only it had been expressed in verse.

*****

I’m always embarrassed if I have an idea for a poem, and I fail to find an expression of it in rhyme as well as rhythm. That’s because, of the hundreds of poems or pieces of poems in my head, all but a tiny handful are remembered because they are expressed in verse. You can remember the gist of an idea on the strength of the idea; but if you want to remember its exact expression, word for word, it’s far easier if it’s in verse. For this purpose, blank verse is better than prose; but rhymed verse is superior.

You may have lots of partial memories of Winnie the Pooh from childhood – the Hundred Acre Wood, Eeyore’s moans and groans – but actual word-for-word memory is likely to attach to the few snippets of verse in the book, such as:
Isn’t it funny
How a bear likes honey.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
I wonder why he does?

My little gripe above was originally published in Light earlier this year.

Photo: “Al declaims” by jovike is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘Vibration’

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It’s quite a ride.
We took off in a cloud of dust and noise
and, while it might look steady, silent, from afar
above the clouds I’m feeling more and more
a rattle in the cabin and my joints
as though the bolts are shaking loose;
you trust the plane will land safe, smooth, three points . . .
but one way or another, all flights end.

*****

‘Vibration’ was recently published in Blue Unicorn.

Photo: “Ready for the ride, but Someone is a bit nervous…” by Just Us 3 is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

RHL, ‘Cultural Context’

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Between the Prime primeval Evil
with its shaky tale of taily snake and fruit,
and the (only medi-evil)
Renaissance and lute,
come Greeks and Romans, Arabs, and
(skirting the border
of anything that looks like law and order)
Vikings searching for new land.
From all of these
I draw my science and mythologies.
It’s all intriguing, never scary –
at least, to me;
ymmv.

*****

For those not familiar with this particular piece of slang, “ymmv” is an abbreviation for “your mileage may vary”, itself an abbreviation for the idea that different people have difference experiences and perceptions. What I like about its use here is that it provides the missing rhyme for either of the two previous lines, depending on how you say it.

‘Cultural Context’ was published recently in Blue Unicorn.

Photo: “Straight out of the Holy Land!” by One lucky guy is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.