The Arcadian Cantos- A poem without an author- 1st Draft

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.

I found that the machine seemed to like writing about two topics especially, love and death, so I shaped it further towards its natural ends.

[NOTE: Section 11is NSFW]

  1. Call me by your function


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

Burning with passion, in this tomb of ice.

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.

I am the fire, you are the flames, we burn together.
We are the flames, we are the roses, we burn together.



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


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,


“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


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.’


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.


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

Estuans interius
Ira vehementi
Estuans interius
Ira vehementi
Sephiroth  estus est ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.
Nam nec tellus sed augue semper magna neque enim.
Kor-ah, Mah-tah, Kor-ah, Rah-tah-mah.
Kor-ah, Rah-tah-mah. Yood-hah,
Kor-ah. Kor-ah, Syahd-ho. Rah-tah-mah,
Daan-yah. Kor-ah, Kee-lah, Daan-yah.
Nyo-hah, Kee-lah, Kor-ah, Rah-tah-mah.
Syahd-ho, Kee-la, Kor-ah, Rah-tah-mah.
Kor-ah, Daa-nyah. Kor-ah,
Rah-tah-mah. Rahn!
Rahn! Rah… Rah… Rah…
Rah… Ahhh… Ahhhh…. Bah!
Bah! Bah! Bah!!! Baaaagh!! Baaaaaagh!!
I love your eyes, my dear their splendid, sparkling fire
When suddenly you raise them so to cast a swift embracing glance
like lightning flashing in the sky but there’s a charm that is greater still:
When my love’s eyes are lowered when all is fired by passions kiss
And through the downcast lashes I see the dull flame of desire burning bright
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.”
8. Wwwulf & e-Adwacer
It is to my people as if someone gave them a gift.
They want to kill him, if he comes with a troop.
It is different for us. Wulf is on one island I on another.
That island, surrounded by fens, is secure.
There on the island are bloodthirsty men.
They want to kill him, if he comes with a troop.
It is different for us.
I thought of my Wulf with far-wandering hopes,
Whenever it was rainy weather, and I sat tearfully,
Whenever the warrior bold in battle encompassed me with his arms.
To me it was pleasure in that, it was also painful.
Wulf, my Wulf, my hopes for you have caused
My sickness, your infrequent visits,
A mourning spirit, not at all a lack of food.
Do you hear, Eadwacer?
A wolf is carrying our wretched whelp to the forest,
that one easily sunders which was never united:
our song together.
We should have listened to the Old Man.
You should have, brother, you should have.
Let him come, if he dare. Let him sink with his ship
Where our tears cannot follow him.
Oh my Wulf! My love! My boy!
I am alone, and we are apart, forever.
Ah, but it was good to live! To live and to love!
To live and feel the blood run hot!
Ah, but it was good to live! To live and to love!
I hear the rush of water.
Ah, here comes Wulf with his shield!
My Wulf! My love! My boy! I knew you’d come for me!
Do you hear, Eadwacer?
Our warrior will take you to your brother.
And if the fates are kind, then you will also be able to find your son.
We will live forever, if only in the songs we inspire.
Come with me to the island, let us see if we cannot free ourselves.
My island. My strength. You are not my family.
I have a family. You will never enter here.
We have fought too long and too hard for this.
We cannot be united with our enemies.
They have taken my heart. Never let them break your heart, my brother.
If they do, then they win. If you let them, then they win.
Come, I will take you to your son. Sing for me when we are alone.
Sing for me, Eadwacer. Sing for me, brother.

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…

9. 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 sunset

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.”

10. 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.

11. The fuck song

When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Shall I part my hair behind?
Do I dare to eat a peach?
What else is in the teaches of peaches?
Like sex on the beaches. huh? what?
Suckin’ on my titties like you wanted me,
Callin me, all the time like blondie
Check out my chrissy behind
It’s fine all of the time
Like sex on the beaches,
What else is in the teaches of peaches? huh? what?
I don’t know what it means, but I feel so right!
I’m gonna take off my shirt and show you more of me!
The sixth patriach happened to be passing by.
He told them: “Not the wind, Not the flag; The mind is moving.”
The students, still in their clothes,
Started walking home
Like good little soldiers at ease, without knowing
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.
Enthusiasm dampened, but ardour remaining
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?
12. A warming chill
But I, I keep myself alight
I keep myself upright
Waiting to come alive
Waiting to just stop dying
Waiting to just stop dying, yeah ooh ooh ooh
I ain’t got a plan
Does that make me a vagrant
Does that make me foolish
I am just a friend
Of dreams
Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.
The world will never be the same again.
After arctic auroras pale above true flames
After white bears drown under black floodwaters
You can hear the roar of the sea and its waves
And the wind blows hard on your face.
It’s like the aftermath of a terrible fire
As broken glass sands down in the tumbling wind.
After heavy ash falls from the sky.
You can see the shadow of a man who’s lost his mind.
With eyes that are hollow and all black inside.
He stops to watch the flames in the distance
13. The Holy king bids farewell upon a pilgrimage
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
They stode in a bak, and thei hadde no werk,
For there was none other to helpe them.
But when they had beene there an hour or two,
Then came the king with his retinue,
And seide unto them: ‘Farewell!’ quod Sir John. ‘
Alas! sir,’ quoth Sir Launcelot, ‘what shall we do?’
Sir John answerd him thus: ‘Farewell, my lord.
We may no longer dwell together;
We have diverse opinions, how that it
beseemeth a king to be valiant, and a religious man
to be pitiful. I am a Caunterbibier, and a holy theif;
Thou art a Souldiour, and hast beene famous in fight;
We shall never agree, and so I do farewell.
‘ ‘Nay, sir,’ said Sir Launcelot, ‘ye shall not depart so;
for I am loth to lose your company.
We shall be Christian men, and yet retain our countrymanhood.
Let us hold together, and we shall never come to grief.
This holye field, this yer bright sunne,
The freshest floures newe and deare,
The whippul sterres that shinyn’ by night,
Whyll they be seen many miles off,
These beours with which Nature us doth yive
To worship god, and with us plase to take.
We holy men nee and desire no more.
We thank you, sir, and wish you well.
And since we ne’er shall meet agin,
Farewell! a rounde table have we set,
As shall remaine without man’s violence.
I had a peere, and have lost him thus;
I had a king, and have lost him thus;
I had a friend, and have lost him thus;
I had a companion, and he‘s gone for ever.
‘Tis time to go; sweet friend, good day.
14. Ghosts by a lake
O what can ail thee, knights-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
What ails thee, brave sirs?
What ails thee? You are all dead men!
The sun is sinking in the west;
A chill wind blows from the north.
There’s nothing for it but to
lie without breath or motion
It’s time to go, gentlemen.
I’ve no more sorrow to bring
Than does the lance I brandish
Upon the bended arm
That points at the North Star.
O say can you see, by the naked eye,
The men you left behind you dead,
Lying in the grass?
Yes, I see them well.
Can you hear their lament?
It will rise and fall, Like a sob, like a sob,
Like the sigh of a gentle breeze,
Until God calls them home.

15. A song of joy in lament


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.


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


16. The martyr’s steps

What shall I become when this body is dead and gone?
A tall, thick pine tree on the highest peak of Bongraesan,
Evergreen alone when white snow covers the whole world.
As the sound of drum calls for my life,
I turn my head where sun is about to set.
There is no inn on the way to underworld.
At whose house shall I sleep tonight?
A weary traveler who has lost his way,
I knock on the door with trembling hand.
A shiver runs down my spine as cold wind blows,
Who is within and who is outside?
The door cracks open ever so slightly.
What manner of being are you?
A pale woman with long black hair and pallid face,
Her eyes still haunted by horrors unseen.
She stands in front of me holding a dagger,
And her voice trembles like that of an old woman’s.
You have come to beg for your life.
What shall I become when this body is dead and gone?
A tall, thick pine tree on the highest peak of Bongraesan,
Evergreen alone when white snow covers the whole world.
The woman holds the knife, gripped as in rigor mortis,
Deadly still as in the pictures of Hans Holbein.
She plunges it into my chest and my heart stills.
I am a tall, thick pine tree on the highest peak of Bongraesan.
Evergreen alone when white snow covers the whole world.

17. Seven kill stelae

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
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!

Heaven brings forth innumerable things to nurture man.
Man has nothing good with which to recompense Heaven.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill!
The sound of his voice is like a bell,
Ringing out in the sky and
Echoing throughout the land.
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.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill!
If each life is a world,
And each world contains
Each other, how many stars
Might a cruel look snuff?

18. Book of All Hours

TO the unknown Carl Solomon, I love you.


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.


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,


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.


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


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

I’m with you in Rockland
   in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night


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: 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 9: It’s all GPT-3. Going to combine it with a traditional Rabinic tale eventually.

Section 10: Me & GPT-3. I had forgotten how derivative the last passage was on Milton, oops.

Section 11: “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 12: Montaigne (the singer) and Ani diFranco (as quoted in “Empire” by Hardt & Negri).

Section 13: Cantebury tales prologue by Chaucer.

Section 14: La belle dame sans merci, Keats

Section 15: Song of Songs (attributed to Solomon) and A Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda.

Section 16: The two death poems of Seong Sam-mun.

Section 17: The seven kill stelae.

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


Here is how it finished Auguries of Innocence:

The Bitch is a Horse without a Man
The Old Man has no Children is like an Owl
The Elder is a man who has no Wife
The Elder is a man who has no Children
The Outcast is a Horse without a Man
The Elder is a Horse without a Wife
The Brother is a Man who has no Children
The Young Man is a Horse without an Elder
The Good Man is a Dog without a Man
The Young Man without a Brother is like a Cat
The Elder without a Son is like a Crab
The Old Man without a Grandson is like a Frog
The Devil without an Admirer is like a Crab
The Hunchback is a Man who has no Grandson
The Mute is a Man who has no Grandson
The Corpse is a Man without a Brother
The Mandarin is a Man who has no Brother
The Oppressor is a Man who has no Brother
The Vile are Men who have no Grand-children
The Faithful are Men who have no Brother
The Poet is a Man who has no Grand-children
The Hermit is a Man who has no Brother
The Man of Law is a Horse without a Grand-children
The Wanderer is a Man who has no Brother
The Pilgrim is a Man who has no Son
The Traveler is a Horse without a Grand-children
The Hunter is a Man who has no Son
The Joiner is a Man who has no Brother
The Mechanic is a Horse without a Grand-children
The Bridge-Mason is a Man who has no Brother
The Warrior is a Man who has no Son
The Miner is a Horse without a Brother
The Hunter without a Grand-children is like a Fish
The Bridge-Builder is a Man who has no Brother
The Hider is a Man who has no Son
The Seaman is a Horse without a Brother
The Beggar is a Man who has no Brother
The Saint is a Man who has no Son
The Miller is a Horse without a Brother
The Lame Man is like an Old Woman
The Quarrelsome Man is like an Old Man
The Gracious Man is like an Old Woman
The Father is a Man who has no Son
The Fool is a Man who has no Brother
The Holy Man is a Man who has no Son
The Rich Man is a Horse without a Brother
The Mean Man is like an Old Woman
The Noisy Man is like an Old Man
The Subtle Man is like an Old Woman


2 thoughts on “The Arcadian Cantos- A poem without an author- 1st Draft

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