I asked AI to write a poem…

I had an idea to ask AI to write a poem in the style of a particular poet. There’s a lot of talk about AI and how it can easily write things. These poems took about 10 seconds each. Interestingly, they don’t have an urge. Poetry always has some deep urge. They are rhymed, and have a simple idea, but complexity, argument, urge are all missing. They take a style and diminish it into treacle. Very interesting, though. At the moment, they’re a clever high schooler without much depth, but I would doubt if the unexpected, surprising and soulful voice of a poet could be so easily mimicked. Certainly it seems AI sees “poem” and reads “rhyme.” Unsurprisingly, there is not a personal point of view, in this most personal of arts. We’ll see. I would think the more the personal urge is attempted, the more word salad it would become. It is more than likely a real threat to ideas being explored moving forward, though, like how Powerpoint has stopped people from teaching more complicated texts that can’t be easily summed up. We probably should worry in general, but perhaps not in specific. I put them next to some verses of the poet I asked to copy the style of.

AI in the style of T.S. Eliot

In shadows deep, where whispers sigh,

An era wanes, its virtues die.

Through veiled illusions, truth obscured,

Lies the wasteland, once revered.

A city lost, its soul decayed,

Muffled cries in the masquerade.

Faces worn, with vacant stares,

Inhabiting this realm of despair.

The modern man, devoid of grace,

Caught in a labyrinth, a desolate space.

Fragmented thoughts, fragmented lives,

Where time and purpose slowly dies.

Beneath the neon glow’s deceit,

Fading dreams and hearts that bleat.

Fractured voices, hollowed chants,

Resound in empty parlors, askance.

Behold the ruins of our dreams,

Shattered visions, silent screams.

Hollow men, bereft of fire,

Striving towards what they desire.

The river flows, a lifeless stream,

Reflecting a world stripped of gleam.

Desolation’s grip, a heavy weight,

Crushing hopes, sealing fate.

Yet within this wasteland’s reign,

A flicker glows, a spark of pain.

A seeker seeks, a pilgrim roams,

To unearth truths, to find new homes.

Amidst the rubble, echoes sound,

Whispers of hope, rising from the ground.

A phoenix rising, from ashes gray,

To breathe new life, to light the way.

In this wasteland’s mournful song,

A chance to mend what’s gone so wrong.

To rebuild, revive, and reinvent,

A world once lost, but never spent.

So let us wander, let us dream,

In this T.S. Eliot-esque theme.

For from the ashes, beauty thrives,

In the hearts that dare to be alive.

Doesn’t really capture much, not the ideas, or the meter. Also, seems like it has no choice but to be cheerful. T.S. Eliot by Reader’s Digest.

Excerpt from Hollow Men

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

AI as Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oh, to be caught in the autumn’s embrace,

Where nature paints its hues with tender grace.

Edna’s spirit whispers through the trees,

Her voice, a melody carried on the breeze.

In golden meadows, where the wildflowers bloom,

Her words dance lightly, dispelling gloom.

A poet’s heart, like a bird in flight,

Seeking solace in the depths of night.

With delicate verses, she weaves a spell,

Capturing moments, where emotions dwell.

Her pen, a brush, strokes of vivid dreams,

Unveiling truths in the moonlit streams.

In sonnets penned, love’s secrets unfold,

Passionate verses, bittersweet and bold.

She treads the realms of desire and pain,

Unafraid to delve into love’s wild terrain.

Her voice, a symphony of tender yearning,

Mingling with echoes of heartache’s burning.

Yet within the sorrow, a resilience gleams,

A spirit unyielding, defying life’s extremes.

She sings of freedoms, unbounded and vast,

Breaking societal chains of the past.

A feminist flame, unyielding and fierce,

Her words, a battle cry against injustice’s pierce.

Oh, Edna, your legacy we still hold dear,

In the corners of our hearts, forever near.

Your poetry, a testament to the human soul,

A timeless anthem, where emotions console.

In the style of Millay, we too aspire,

To let our voices soar, to set the world afire.

To weave our stories, like threads in a loom,

And carry on the spirit of beauty in bloom.

It’s sweet, right? An ode to Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was also much more fiery, passionate, and out of control.

Dirge without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains, — but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, —

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Shakespeare Sonnet by AI

Upon the stage of life, we dance and play,

A tapestry of dreams, both bright and gray.

Through realms of love and sorrow we traverse,

With verses spun in poetic, rhythmic verse.

As morning sun with golden rays ascends,

Awakening the world, its beauty lends.

So doth thy love, my heart, with warmth imbue,

A tender flame that sets my soul anew.

In thy fair eyes, I find a boundless sea,

Reflecting depths of love that captivate me.

Thy touch, a gentle breeze that stirs my heart,

Igniting flames that ne’er shall drift apart.

Thus, let this sonnet be a timeless vow,

To love thee till the heavens cease to bow.

Yeah, no. And no reverse of the argument in the third stanza.

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
4And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

We may have to worry about the lack of complex ideas and critical thinking, but I don’t think Shakespeare has anything to worry about.