November 18, 2024, 2:57pm
As a lapsed poet with a pessimistic view of humanity, I was disheartened but not remotely surprised to read The Guardian’s report on a study finding that “non-expert poetry readers” preferred poetry written by AI to poetry written by humans.
In my experience, “non-expert poetry readers” often view poetry as a kind of mean riddle, one designed to expose their literary ignorance. (Seriously, if you want to see an expression of defensive fear on the face of one of your friends or loved ones, ask them if they want to read your MFA thesis. NOT THAT I EVER DID THAT.) Because the image of ChatGPT that our tech overlords are trying to peddle is “cheerful helper who only wants to save you time and help you sound smarter and would never dream of disappearing your job or otherwise subjugating you,” it makes sense that its poetry would be blithely comprehensible and completely artless.
I was morbidly curious about what ChatGPT’s versions of iconic poetry might sound like, so I fed it descriptions of some notable titles. (Full disclosure: I avoid ChatGPT because I am a Luddite who enjoys drinking fresh water, so in the interest of offsetting the environmental cost of this experiment, Lit Hub will be making a $50 to a water conservancy non-profit.)
*
“We Real Cool,” Gwendolyn Brooks
We skip the rules, we make our own,
Burning out while the night’s still young.
We’ll tear this town down brick by brick,
Laughing loud, we’re bulletproof, so quick.
But oh, the cost we never see—
Like cigarettes we toss away carelessly.
We drink to forget, but the price is steep,
In the ashes of dreams, we’re drowning deep.
Rebel, they say, but what’s left to fight?
The world’s already broken—why bother, right?
THANK GOD ChatGPT hasn’t figured out meter. Or irony. Or coolness.
*
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Robert Frost
In the hush of a late winter’s night,
A man, wrapped in shadows, walks alone,
His breath a cloud, his mind a flight
Through the quiet, crisp world he’s always known.
The snow, like whispers, falls so slow—
A thousand flakes in soft descent,
Filling the earth with a silent glow,
As though the world were heaven-sent.
The road is long, the wind is keen,
But still he pauses, heart and breath suspended,
For there, across the field, serene,
His neighbor’s woods stand softly blended
With the night, each tree a specter fair,
A shape of limbs that bend and sway—
And with each flake that fills the air,
They change, they melt, they drift away.
He knows he should go—home waits ahead—
The fire’s warmth, the quiet night—
But something calls him, soft and spread,
Like shadows waiting in the light.
He stands a moment, still as stone,
The cold too sharp, the hour too late—
Yet something deeper calls him home,
To watch the woods, to contemplate.
For in this stillness, there’s a thread,
A bond unseen yet always true—
The trees, the snow, the earth ahead,
The man, the wind, the world in view.
And though his steps must carry on,
He knows the woods will softly wait,
A sacred space where time is gone,
Where man and nature share their fate.
He watches, listens, breathes the night,
And for a moment, feels complete—
The snow falls, soft and pure and white,
And home, at last, seems far too sweet.
I can’t figure out if this man loves or hates the woods. Is this… negative capability?
*
“This Is Just To Say,” William Carlos Williams
I ate the plums you’d kept in the icebox,
Sweet and cold, a temptation I couldn’t stop.
I know you were saving them for the morn,
A breakfast treat, as the day was born.
Forgive me, I couldn’t resist their charm,
Their sweetness lured me, their coolness warm.
Each bite was like a secret, a stolen kiss,
And now I regret the pleasure, I confess.
They were so perfect, ripe with sugar’s grace,
A burst of summer in the winter’s face.
Please understand, I didn’t mean to take,
But those plums—how could I not partake?
Points deducted for rhyming “take” with “partake,” and for ruining not only a great poem but a perfectly good meme.
*
“The Applicant,” Sylvia Plath
Scene: A stark, sterile office. The walls are adorned with framed advertisements for “Wives”—beautiful, submissive, happy women, perfect for the modern man. A lone desk separates the salesperson from the applicant.
Salesperson:
Yes, I see. Your application is… well, we have a few things to discuss.
Before we proceed, let’s address the essentials:
What kind of wife are you looking for?
Think of it as a product review, a specification sheet—
Comfort, serviceability, appearance.
We have all sorts, you know.
There’s the “Classic,” soft-spoken, always agreeable,
ready with a warm meal, a soft laugh, a clean home.
She comes in various models—”Blonde,” “Brunette,” “Subtle Beauty,”
each one engineered to make you feel like a king
without the hassle of actual royalty.
No need for messy emotions, or, God forbid, equality.
Now, let’s talk functionality.
How much attention do you expect her to give you?
I’m guessing you’re the type who enjoys a full, undivided ear,
maybe a little adoration thrown in,
but just the right amount—
not too much to become demanding,
but enough to know she’s there,
a reflection of your worth.
Do you want her to work, too?
Some of our models come with that option—
“Ambitious Wife,”
“Career-Conscious Companion,”
always balancing family with job satisfaction,
but don’t worry, she’ll know her place.
Work, then home, always a smile,
because your career is the real ambition,
isn’t it?
Applicant:
I… well, I just thought—
I don’t want her to, you know, lose herself.
I’m not… I’m not that kind of guy.
I just want someone who fits.
Salesperson:
Ah, yes. Fit.
That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
We have the “Perfect Fit” model for you.
She will fit seamlessly into your life,
like the perfect accessory—
Not too loud,
not too challenging,
just soft enough to complement the decor,
but firm enough to remind you she’s still there,
waiting, ready to serve the role you’ve designed for her.
Tell me, do you expect her to care for you?
Really care, or just perform?
Our “Nurturing” models are always on hand—
but beware, they can get clingy,
they might ask for things like respect,
or dare to suggest you share the emotional labor,
if you let them.
You’re sure you don’t mind a little emotional labor, right?
We wouldn’t want you to feel… burdened.
Applicant:
No, no. I don’t want that.
I just want her to be… there.
Salesperson:
There, yes. That’s the perfect choice.
A presence, but not a person.
Not someone who asks questions.
Not someone who grows—
but stays in perfect harmony with what you’ve imagined.
Ah, here it is—
the “Timeless Traditional” model,
comes with pre-programmed hobbies,
a smile that never falters,
a voice that echoes just the right notes of submission.
You won’t ever need to teach her anything,
she already knows her place.
In fact, she’ll be grateful for it,
grateful for the order you bring,
for the life you design for her.
Tell me, are you comfortable with control?
We need a little control to keep everything running smoothly,
don’t we?
After all, it’s a system—
You work, she serves.
You lead, she follows.
A balanced exchange, isn’t it?
The kind of delicate dance that makes the world go round.
Who needs change, when you can have perfection?
Applicant:
I… think I understand.
But, what if I wanted… something more?
Something real?
Salesperson:
Real?
Oh, sweetie.
Real is just a marketing gimmick.
Real gets messy.
Real asks for things—
things you don’t want to give.
She’ll want her own dreams,
her own thoughts,
her own voice.
And that? That costs more than you’re willing to pay,
believe me.
So, what’ll it be?
A perfect product,
or a project?
Remember, we have the best return policy in the industry,
but there’s no going back once you’ve bought in.
Applicant:
I… guess I’ll take the “Classic.”
The “Perfect Fit.”
Salesperson:
Smart choice.
She’ll fit in just fine.
And when you’re tired of her,
we’ve got a whole new model waiting.
You know how it goes.
The applicant nods, signing the contract, as the salesperson smiles, already planning the next sale.
Honestly, no notes.
*
“[“Lana Turner Has Collapsed!”],” Frank O’Hara
I was seated by the window, half lost in thought,
A cigarette between my fingers, smoke trailing like time.
The radio hummed softly in the background, a distant drone,
When the world, it seemed, paused to listen to a new rhyme.
The voice was cracked, trembling, as the news broke through—
Lana Turner, starlet of the silver screen,
Had collapsed, they said, right in front of her own face,
Her world now unraveled, or so it seemed.
I didn’t know why I felt it, but something gripped me tight,
As if the air around her, and me, had thickened with dread.
I glanced at the window—nothing had changed outside—
The trees swayed, oblivious, their branches overhead.
My heart fluttered, for she was not just a name—
But an echo of beauty, of longing, of fame.
And though I had never known her, still I felt the loss,
As though the world had shifted, tilted on its axis, tossed.
I set down the cigarette, my fingers trembling too,
Watching shadows fall as if they knew the truth.
Congratulations, ChatGPT—you just made cigarettes uncool.
*
“Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” Dylan Thomas
When shadows stretch and daylight fades,
When hearts grow tired and limbs are weak,
Still in your soul, let courage blaze,
For life’s great fire is yours to keep.
Though death may knock with gentle hands,
Your spirit holds the strength to stand.
The road is short, the night is long,
But in your veins, the blood runs bright.
Each breath, a song, each heartbeat strong,
A dance with stars, a flash of light.
Do not let fear erase your spark—
For you have lived, and lived with heart.
The world has spun with your own stride,
You’ve touched the earth, the skies, the sea.
With every laugh, with every sigh,
You wove a thread of mystery.
So fight, dear friend, with all you are,
For even near the end, you’re a star.
Your body frail, your hands may shake,
But in your eyes, the storm still stirs.
The journey’s brief, but none can take
The strength that rises from the spur
Of every day you’ve dared to live,
Of every joy you chose to give.
Yes, life is fragile, sweet, and brief,
A flame that flickers, then is gone,
Yet in its glow, there’s no belief
That we should ever stop or yawn.
For in this fleeting dance, we fight
To seize the beauty, hold the light.
So rise, though weary, and press on,
For death may come, but it’s not now.
Your heart still beats, the world still spins—
A fight well fought, a final vow:
That life is ours, though it is small,
And we are mighty, after all.
[Printing “So fight, dear friend, with all you are, / For even near the end, you’re a star” on magnets and giving them to everyone I know for Christmas. ]