I meant this poem to be a bit Gothic and a love story. It turned into something else, and I’m really not sure what. Regardless, it needs a lot of my work
Version 1.
She’s looking up at the house on the hill,
Is the hulk of the haunted house at home?
The rumours say that those he loves, he’ll kill.
She thinks him a mysterious man, some.
He looks from windows down towards the road.
He sees her looking up to him, this house.
He sees the fear that keeps her up, tip-toed.
Will questions win, or the heart of a mouse ?
A feather drifts, zigzagging in the wind.
An eagle flies o’erhead, and then it dives,
To drive her up the hill, but she stands, pinned.
He wonders, will she be the next of wives?
Down she looks, ashamed and sad. She can’t see
Adoring gaze through window panes up high.
Her fear so tasty, heartbeat so lovely,
Is she the one? He breaths softly, a sigh.
For Death, he is lonely, he needs his Queen.
So soft and timid, her spine to be made.
He swept down to her, uncaring of scene.
Come with me, dear, of her he softly bade
She gasps, a-tremble, unsure of her fate.
A courtly bow he makes, and softly speaks.
Be not afraid, please, step through the gate.
Mesmerised, she steps up, jumps when gate squeaks.
Two quick steps, a lift, she is in his arms.
Both gasp at the feeling of being home.
Shocked grins, muffled laughs, while her heartbeat calms.
A scene, so pretty, captured in a dome.
Oh, the imagination of a child.
The stories her toys and ornaments tell.
Her creative spirit left to run wild.
Which toys to give up, which ones ne’er to sell.
A good girl, a little lady, is she.
Always quick to please, but please, do not tease.
Melancholy job, gifts to charity.
But her mind screams, these I can’t release.
Please don’t make me; no I’m not being mean.
Others may want these, I do understand.
No, sorry, I don’t mean to make a scene.
But please, please, leave the lady and man.
But the girl gave up her toys and things.
Gifts of hope, fun, joy, offered to others.
No more muses for her, broken heart sings.
Wishing again, protectors, brothers.
And so the girls’ creativity soured.
Not another daydream came from her head.
While her heart broke, quivered and cowered.
Good girl, little lady, that’s what they said.
Chat GPT’s “help”
I went over to Chat GPT with a request to “make this poem better”. Its response:
Certainly, I can help you refine your poem. Let’s work on enhancing the flow and imagery:
Beneath the house atop the shadowed hill,
Does the haunted hulk in loneliness roam?
Whispers tell tales of love turned to ill,
A mysterious man, she sees in him, some.
Through windows, his gaze meets the winding road,
Her fear reflected in moonlit glass.
A dance of questions, a story untold,
Will courage prevail, or the timorous pass?
A feather glides, tracing the whims of the wind,
An eagle soars, then plunges in a dive,
Seeking to compel her, fate to rescind.
Is she the chosen, in this intricate hive?
Downcast eyes, she bears a burden of shame,
Unaware of the adoring gaze above.
Fear’s delicacy, a heartbeat’s sweet flame,
Is she the one to evoke Death’s soft love?
Lonely, he yearns for a queen to embrace,
Soft and timid, her spirit to bind.
Descends to her, uncaring of the space,
“Come with me, dear,” softly he opined.
She gasps, uncertain of her destined state,
A courtly bow, a soft voice implores,
“Fear not, step through the gate,
Enter a realm where destiny restores.”
Two steps, a lift, she’s cradled in his arms,
Gasps and laughter, a heartbeat finds home.
A scene, so pretty, devoid of alarms,
Captured forever in memory’s dome.
Toys relinquished, a child’s sacrifice,
Imagination’s stories set free.
The little lady, virtue her device,
Charity’s melancholy plea.
A good girl pleases, yet begs a reprieve,
Charity’s gifts, a bittersweet demand.
“No scene,” she pleads, attempting to cleave,
To remnants of youth, in her heart’s command.
Relinquished, creativity soured,
Daydreams withered, a heartache’s lament.
A good girl’s facade, externally powered,
Yet within, a struggle, deeply ferment.
I’m torn. It’s like my voice was taken and turned into something else.
This, then, is this what the SAG-AFTRA strike was about? I can see and understand that. I also wonder, whose writing gave Chat GPT those turns of phrase, the altered frame of reference? Whose writing was plundered, in a large block of literature given to a Large Language Model for learning.
There are those who say that AI are tools to be used, and will become as commonplace to us as electricity now is. I cannot but think, though, how a poem written in almost a child’s voice can be turned into something else. Something else of grander verbiage, using more elegant language, disregarding the simple, Germanic English that might be used by a girl of 8 or 9 years of age.
Or is my horrified response to the AI remodelling of something that was a little bit biographical, overwrought?
I am left with the consideration that, once again, just because you can doesn’t mean you should. And that tools are benign, that is the intent with which they are used that makes them dangerous or safe.
Another thing that is clear to me is that we need master-classes in how to engage with AI. As with all things, “garbage in, garbage out”.
I don’t like to think that my poem is garbage, though. It’s a first draft, and my poor engagement with ChatGPT may well be the instigator of my distress.
So, how do we better engage with AI? Is it a matter for the ethicists?
Back in February of 2023, Scott Stephens and Waleed Aly discussed “What is generative AI doing to our capacity to write – and think?”
https://abclisten.page.link/H3yqPDueGwRqSA1T7
These gents, and guest Naomi Baron do an excellent job of dissecting this issue.
Meanwhile, I’m going back to my poem, to edit, revise, redraft, several times, all by myself.
The Auld Skald's Fudgel 