A British literary lad I know sent me a poem purportedly written by an artificial intelligence machine. He (the lad) asked the AI to “write a short poem in the style of Joe Linker.” The AI response contains a significant change to that writing prompt: “Certainly! Here’s a short poem inspired by the style of Joe Linker.” Stop the presses: “in the style” and “inspired by the style” are not the same prompt.
In any case, as these things go, I say purportedly to have been written by AI because for all I know the Brit lit lad wrote it himself. But whoever wrote it, the poem is a masterful piece of literary criticism in action. It appears to have been composed by MS Copilot, which, according to Wiki, “is a chatbot developed by Microsoft and launched on February 7, 2023. Based on a large language model, it is able to cite sources, create poems, and write songs.” Whoopee!
Before I reveal the poem, I’ll share a few responsive or reactive notes, which I sent to my Brit copilot this morning (before coffee): I find the poem encouraging for its critical honesty, because if true, what it says is that I should give up writing poetry – it’s the best criticism ever. But is it true? The dawn is not quiet. Those cars don’t hum, they snort and scream, honk and squeal. Pigs to market. No, wait – that’s my tinnitus acting up again. And the veins are pockmarked with potholes (but veins as metaphor for streets? I would never). There are however three w’s in the first stanza. The World Wide Web. No escape. The sun doesn’t peek in Portland. It either remains hidden or flouts itself in the raw. The third stanza might be me. I often find myself waltzing in the wind. Beats blowing in the wind. Ah, but I am too in search of the grand metaphor! Especially if it’s a baby grand! But whenever the universe comes up, I’m reminded of Annie Hall, where Alvy’s mom tells him: “What’s the universe got to do with it? You’re here, in Brooklyn!”
Anyway, here’s the artificial intelligence poem supposedly written in (inspired by) my style. I might add I rarely write poetry in the first person, and when I do, I usually try to persuade the reader the narrator is not to be confused with the author. I’ve made that argument till I’m blue in the gills, but I know readers who continue to disregard the advice. Finally, so that there’s no misunderstanding, this AI poem is very poorly written. It’s trite, self-centered (narcissistic), abstract with almost no reference to any of the five senses which might have brought it to life, cliched – words like stardust, pondering existence, fragility – have no place in poetry. Ah, gads! Maybe it is in my style!
The Coming of the Toads 