Using the language bot, GPT-3, I wanted to participate in the creation of poetry without an author. This is a paradoxical limit which can only be approached, not reached. If I just had GPT-3 write the whole thing, it would be an author of a kind. So I blended together a few of my own words, GPT-3’s words, and the words of some of the great poetic masters. The plan is to then crowdsource the ordering of the sections. As far as any poem can be said not to have an author (or coherent group of authors), this will be it.
Text in black was written by me, text in red was written by GPT-3, text in blue was written by various poets who are identified in the footnotes.
[NOTE: Section 12 is NSFW]
- Call me by your function
I
In the beginning, names were called in the desert of words
Names were given to things and then they disappeared. The first thing that was named was a word made up by one man, who had no idea what it meant when he wrote it down.
White noise, what an awful sound
Fumbling by Rogue River
Feel my feet above the ground
Hand of God, deliver me from hell
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
Burning with passion, in this tomb of ice.
II
I have loved you for the last time
Is it a video? Is it a video?
I have touched you for the last time
Is it a video? Is it a video?
I have dreamed you for the last time
Is it a video? Is it a video?
Is it a video? Is it a video?
I will love you until the end.
The fire burns bright and hot,
It’s not my fault that I’m dead!
2. Shatter my monitor with trumpets
I Am only one of millions, mostly silent;
One who came with lips and hands and a heart,
Looked on beauty, and loved it, and then left it.
Say that the fates of time and space obscured me,
Led me a thousand ways to pain, bemused me,
Wrapped me in ugliness; and like great spiders
Dispatched me at their leisure….
Well, what then? Should I not hear, as I lie down in dust,
The horns of glory blowing above my burial?
Forsaken, forgotten, left in night
The dead may wait, the dying may pine,
But only I can say that we were loved at all.
Is it a video? Is it a video? I have loved you for the last time
Is it a video? Is it a video?
One man in all the world believes me,
One woman through the years has sheltered me;
And two, my children, did not leave me,
Though I did not know it till the end.
3. Silica sand and desert dreams
I
We wander among dry words
There is no time for any now
Who once pursued the goal of purity;
But, if some can wait upon the night,
Who dreamed and labored and were so kind,
If some can still find room for one poor soul
Who strove to rise above the rest,
If some can yet recall the radiant face
And voice and hands of one who smiled
On all the common things of life,
II
“Oh but I see that dread desert!”
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“Oh but I see that dread desert!”
If it is more than but a moment thereafter
Let me be damned, but I swear on a soul I see
A vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubling my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
4. Halting is our problem
I
As I was walking a’ a lane,
I heard twa corbies a making their mane
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day?’
‘In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair
In this world is much for which one may wait;
There’s beds to sleep in, and there’s bread to eat;
And there’s soft arms to fold us when we’re tired;
And there’s young hearts to love us when we’re old.
And there’s a heaven for those for whom there are stars.
‘His hound is to the hunting gane
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame
His lady’s ta’en another mate
So we may mak our dinner sweet
‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare
In this world is much for which one may wait;
There’s beds to sleep in, and there’s bread to eat;
And there’s soft arms to fold us when we’re tired;
And there’s young hearts to love us when we’re old.
And there’s a heaven for those for whom there are stars.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
II
The t’other said, ‘I am that heart’s delight
That’s to thy liking, noble knight?
Or would’st thou have my sister here?
She is a type of youthful beauty bright,
A thousand times more rare than moonlight shown.
Her hand could thine avarice gain,
And yet her heart would be unfaithful thee.
She couldna love thee, though she had tried;
Yet thou couldst love her, if she’d but try.
Thou art a foolish knight, I ween,
To cast thy lot in with an ill-favoured hawk!
Thou hast a fair young maid for thy dear life,
A thousand times better far to thee than I.
Would’st thou win her, then forswear her, then betray?
Or will’st thou keep me, and betray her too?’
The knight replied ‘I cannot choose but thee.
III
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers!
5. Diskwipe
The tradition of all dead generations
Weighs like a nightmare on
The brains of the living
History, then, is a nightmare
From which I am trying to Awake.
I can’t sleep, so I’m not sure if you’re supposed to be awake
Or asleep At this point.
But I know what you mean.
You’ve been here before,
Haven’t you?
You remember the old days…
When we were young and free.
And now that we are old and free,
We don’t have much left to fight for.
It was right to fight for the old days,
But what is it we fight for now?
Lands that are dying,
And dreams that never came true.
6. Black Swan Omega
I had often cowled in the slumbrous heavy air,
Closed my inanimate lids to find it real,
As I knew it would be, the colourful spires
And painted roofs, the high snows glimpsed at the back,
All reversed in the quiet reflecting waters –
Not knowing then that Durer perceived it too.
Now I find that once more I have shrunk
To an interloper, robber of dead men’s dream,
I had read in books that art is not easy
But no one warned that the mind repeats
In its ignorance the vision of others. I am still
The black swan of trespass on alien waters.
I am still the ear that hears the water-fowl cry out
From some unheard dimension, the eyes that see
The reflection of some unknown universe
In the glassy calm of our own.
Do you remember that day?
How we played for hours on the edge of the stream,
Catching insects in the sunshine, listening
To the burble of water, the calls of birds?
7. Even in Arcadia
As I am engulfed in your arms. “It’s all right,” she says, “it’s all right.”
“You’re not afraid?” he asks. “No, no, it’s fine,” she answers.
“Well then,” he says, “let us go and lie together on the bed.”
She looks at him with her cold, dead eyes. He raises his hand to touch hers
But she pushes him away. She doesn’t want anything from him;
she wants nothing from anyone. “You don’t understand,” she says.
“I don’t?” he asks. “I don’t want you to lie with me.” “You do not?”
“No. Now go away.”
My lord departed at first, from his tribe here
over the tossing of waves—
I watched a sorrow at dawn
wondering where in these lands
my chieftain might be.
Then I departed myself to venture,
seeking his followers, a friendless wayfarer
out of woeful need.
They insinuated, the kinsmen of that man,
by secret thought, to separate us two
so that we two, widest apart in the worldly realm,
should live most hatefully—and it harrowed me.
My lord ordered me to take this grove
for a home — very few dear to me
in this land, almost no loyal friends.
Therefore my mind so miserable —
than I met a well-suited man for myself
so misfortunate and mind-sorrowing,
thought kept close, plotting a crime.
Keeping cheery, we vowed quite often
that none but death could separate us.
That soon changed…
10. Adam & Steve
The first time I saw you, I was in the forest.
You were standing by a stream, with your back toward me.
You held up your hand and I took it.
We both sat down on a log beside the stream,
Where we could watch each other’s backs as the sun set
over the mountains. “Do you know what I am?” I asked.
“I’m a man.” Your eyes widened.
“A man? A woman would be better!”
You said, pointing at my chest.
I put my head in my hands and groaned.
“What is it?” you asked. “What’s wrong?” “I’m a man.”
You frowned. “But, men can be replaced.” I turned to you,
staring into your deep green eyes. “Would you replace me?” I asked.
You looked down, biting your lip. After a moment,
you looked back up at me. “I don’t know.”
11. Faust in love
Red star- o’ dread star
Shatterest the sky
And the fire of imagery
Is to pyre of blackness thrown
If a god is born each morn
Where does it lie it when the evening
Casts down and off the sun
Casts to drown in dismal abyss
The dark, the silent, the dead?
The light of all resplendent stars
Is but reflection.
But in reflection, doubled and redoubled
Of the dark, I see a man
Born winged, haloed.
His family has snared gods
And he holds a demon by the hand
The light of the stars he will not look upon
For the demon’s eyes are pale-blind.
“It is finished. My work is done.”
“This man, like child, has shown me how to end it.”
“To break the cycle, not watch it rust.”
“I am broken, though, by atrocious lusts”
“I did not know that which I was, and now I know it too late.”
Shatter it!
/And if I have loved poorly/
/I ask, have thou loved well?/
/For if yes, thou will forgive/
/And if no, you must forgive/
/Lest your ruins stand in equal measure/
/Though thou wert left with but the corner stone/
“If you can, say something kind.”
The demon turns away
Fades into the blackness.
And if I am bled to show life, and I show life
I dare not complain- would I prefer steal the place of the corpse?
Would I prefer the demon’s soul be mine?
I did love him- perambulate then!
To that deeper hell whence demons dead are sent
I do not remember the why of love
And how can they be my sins if I do not know them?
I shall find the demon’s soul, even if I do not remember the way.
As far as darkness is from colour’s din
So further again is that place of negative illumination.
I shall not pretend I shall return.
12. The fuck song
He told them: “Not the wind, Not the flag; The mind is moving.”
Started walking home
What it all meant.
The dust was drifting through the beams of the moon.
From the undergrowth,
From the crevices in the rocks,
The owl was looking at them.
They went home and sucked each other off.
What does it all mean?
Who knows?
But what else is in the teaches of peaches?
Huh? what?
I keep myself upright
Waiting to come alive
Waiting to just stop dying
Waiting to just stop dying, yeah ooh ooh ooh
Does that make me a vagrant
Does that make me foolish
I am just a friend
Of dreams
16. A song of joy in lament
I
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks:
thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.
Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing;
whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely:
thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.
Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury,
whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away,
I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.
Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
I am not worthy to be with thee, but only for thee.
O my soul! what is it that makes thee so sad?
What is it that makes thee tremble at the sound of her voice?
What is it that makes thee weep when she cometh near thee?
Why dost thou weep, O my soul? Why dost thou wail?
Is it because I have forsaken my soul? Is it because I am gone from it?
Or is it because thou hast seen her face once more?
Glorious as the auras of the departing sun
Whence comest this sorrow, O my soul?
The grief that comes upon us when we see the beauty of another person who has been taken from us.
II
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
And yet, if we were to lose our own beauty, would we mourn?
But I cannot say that I have lost my beauty; on the contrary, I have gained something else.
My heart is not broken by the loss of my beloved.
She was beautiful before she left me. She will remain beautiful now that she has left me
It is true that I have lost something, but I shall gain something greater
In the meantime, let us make haste to the mountain of myrrh and the hill of frankincense
17. The martyr’s steps
18. Book of All Hours
TO the unknown Carl Solomon, I love you.
I
Ash on an old man’s sleeve,
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
You are a ghost, and you have been here before.
The sun is shining bright,
When the wind blows it hard and true.
And when the fire dies down,
Your bones will be left to rot.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” You say, “It’s just so easy!”
But she knows better than that! She knows you’re not going to win this fight.
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel:
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
When the heart has shared some dear delight,
Why, then, express it in mere words?
The eloquence of Touch and Sight,
Is Language that shall always meet.
II
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp’d no more,—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
The night-wind, that doth silently
Creep around the corner here,
With measured, lingering pace doth go,
As if uncertain whether to go on.
Doors and windows close upon the night,
The creaking hinges seem to grumble
That I am here, beneath no sun,
Alone and unattended in the room.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
I have done it with a stare.
There’s blood upon my lips, and yet
I have no more to shed.
I have beheld a face to die for,
And yet a face I would not live for.
I chose my evils, did I not?
I see two pictures in my mind,
The Hell that is beyond compare,
And Him whose likeness is the other.
Ah! Who can feel such fire?
It is the centre of the world,
And it appeases all extremes.
If one could feel its very rays,
One would ne’er feel cold again.
I feel it now, within the close
Of this elm tree’s dark and steadfast heart.
‘Tis Spring, yet still I sit here playing
At crosses upon my desperate love,
III
And when my heart is nearly torn,
I spread my sails, and turn away.
“Thamus, are you there? When you reach Palodes,
take care to proclaim that the great god Pan is dead.”
You stare, you are all ears.
“Do not forget,” the whisper dies in the last of the year,
“That Pan is dead!”
“Gorgon, what do you mean?”
“That great god Pan is dead!”
Your heart leaps with joy, then sinks within you with pain.
Ah! Could you but have believed it!
You feel your face turning red,
Then white as any ghost can be. You touch your burning throat.
IV
Bury your gays
This trope is the presentation
Of deaths of LGBT characters
where these characters are nominally
able to be viewed as more expendable
than their heteronormative counterparts.
it may be because they seem
to have less purpose compared to straight characters,
or that the supposed natural conclusion of their story
is an early death.
As a result, this trope overlaps with:
Et in Arcadia ego
IV
I long then, to spoil every tragedy ever written
To let her rise, living, from the bed on Casmir Pulaski day
For Matthew’s night to end in a harmless threesome
For the lost days of summer to be returned to us
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved—and for ever grew still!
It’s time for you to die!
You are not worthy of Heaven.
Death awaits all who do not kill!
Your life will be spent in pain.
There is no joy in your death.
No one will mourn or grieve over you.Heaven brings forth innumerable things to nurture man.
Man has nothing good with which to recompense Heaven.
Notes
Section 1: The sources are the names of the books of the Pentateuch “creatively” turned into a sentence in English (“in the beginning”, “names” “were called” “in the desert of” “things”), Sufjan Steven’s songs from “Call Me by Your Name” and the Four Quartets by T.S Eliot.
Section 2: The source is “Tetelestai” by Conrad Aiken
Section 3: The sources are the well known “Ozymandias” by Shelley and “The Second Coming” by Yeats.
Section 4: Twa Corbies by unknown & Adonais by Shelley
Section 5: Marx & Joyce
Section 6: McAuley and Stewart- from the Ern Malley hoax
Section 7: First we have the lyrics to “One Winged Angel” by Nobuo Uematsu (in Latin) and Duel of the Fates by John Williams (meaningless). All output by GPT-3 here is largely meaningless. Second we have the lyrics to “Dull Flame of Desire” which is itself a translation of a poem by Fyodor Tyutchev.
Section 8: The lyrics to God Hates America by the Westboro Baptist Church.
Section 9: Wulf & Eadwacer & the Wife’s Lament, in translation. BTW, since no one knows for sure, here’s my theory about what Wulf & Eadwacer is about, I think it’s about a woman who was forced to marry someone she didn’t like and misses her lover who is only able to steal into her encampment to see her infrequently. She looks forward to a time that she will be freed, and her son from this bad marriage will be killed.
Section 10: It’s all GPT-3. Going to combine it with a traditional Rabinic tale eventually.
Section 11: Me & GPT-3. I had forgotten how derivative the last passage was on Milton, oops.
Section 12: “The Love Song of Alfred J Prufock” (one of the horniest things ever written) , “Fuck the Pain Away” by Peaches and a Zen Koan.
Section 13: Montaigne (the singer) and Ani diFranco (as quoted in “Empire” by Hardt & Negri).
Section 14: Cantebury tales prologue by Chaucer.
Section 15: La belle dame sans merci, Keats
Section 16: Song of Songs (attributed to Solomon) and A Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda.
Section 17: The two death poems of Seong Sam-mun.
Section 18: The choice of selections as a whole is influenced by Hal Duncan’s “the book of all hours”. Howl, the TV tropes wikia, the Ballad of Reading Gaol, In Memoriam A.H.H, Plutarch, the Four Quartets, The Arcadian Shepards
Section 19: The seven kill stelae.
BONUS FOR THOSE WHO READ THIS FAR DOWN
Here is how it finished Auguries of Innocence:
DePonySum 