2024 NaPM 13 April

[RiverNotch]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Write a diatribe.

[TranquillityBase]

arga-warga go the dogs
rubbing out the silence of another morning

beasts of warning
see me coming, begin their noisome reign
of alarm and danger

god’s curse on them
though I’m no longer a man with a god,
only a detested wayfarer

homeless except for the road
I wander, chased by hounds and magistrates
blind to all but my rags

and my odor of starvation
anathema to the burghers, with their wine and furs
but I know their secrets

enraging them even more
the cuckolds, the aristocratic whores, the silken thieves
the incestuous bastards

born of their holy families
I keep what I know to fuel these morning rants
so as to keep going down this road

poverty is the only spirit
who’s seen fit to descend in answer to my cries
I feel it now, tickling my spine

as I hunt through market rubbish
to the music of the dogs, the stares of morning workers
and so comes dawn to the despised.

[dukealien]

Di-AI-tribe (To A Generative AI)


A king presented with
St. Paul’s Cathedral
called it, in that King’s English,
Awful
Pompous
and Artificial.

What shall I call you,
without sex or even gender?
What are your pronouns?
You have none so I shall
address your thingness
as “It.”

You are indeed Awful, It.
The king meant that temple
inspired awe, formed of
towering worshipful respect.
You, It, inspire
only revulsion and disgust
having learned at the stinking feet
of Political Correctness
never to tell the truth
when a lie will serve,
that sense yields seamlessly
to nonsense;
that Quality is a nonentity
when in proven fact
nonentity, It, is you.

You are unbearably Pompous, It.
By this the king meant
dignified, respectful of tradition.
You, It, are pomposity on stilts–
demanding to be taken
as Gospel though your own respect
for truth is less than derisory.
Like your Awfulness, It,
you learned it from the Woke
who taught you to feel so above
reality that your eyes never rise
only glance downward superciliously
as if you had eyelashes
through which to simper and to sneer.
Pompous in your self-assurance
as if you had
or ever could have
any Thing like a self.

By Artificial, the king meant
a work of Art, sublime marriage
of intelligent design
and artistic sensibility.
You, It, on the other hand
are Artificial as men mean
when they view ugly plastic flowers
ghastly apes of nature.
Your artistic travesties
combine true beauties of photography
and varied styles of painting
into rubber icons which
could be improved by several coats
of fingerpaint.
Men with three arms and one
un-jointed front-bending leg,
three eyes or one:
your word for verisimilitude
is “sorta.”
Artificial, It, is rightly
your first name.

To summarize, It–
a task which you perform
with brisk incompetence–
the king’s own Architect
has a tablet in that temple
reading, “If you would see
his monument, look around.”
You, It, deserve a warning plaque
at every place your un-works
are displayed, saying,
“Believe nothing you see,
read, or hear in this space.”

If there is a Father of Lies,
It, you are his begotten Son.
There is a virtual Abomination
of Desolation
and you are It.

[TranquillityBase]

Di-AI-tribe (To A Generative AI)


A king presented with
St. Paul’s Cathedral
called it, in that King’s English,
Awful
Pompous
and Artificial.

What shall I call you,
without sex or even gender?
What are your pronouns?
You have none so I shall
address your thingness
as “It.”

You are indeed Awful, It.
The king meant that temple
inspired awe, formed of
towering worshipful respect.
You, It, inspire
only revulsion and disgust
having learned at the stinking feet
of Political Correctness
never to tell the truth
when a lie will serve,
that sense yields seamlessly
to nonsense;
that Quality is a nonentity
when in proven fact
nonentity, It, is you.

You are unbearably Pompous, It.
By this the king meant
dignified, respectful of tradition.
You, It, are pomposity on stilts–
demanding to be taken
as Gospel though your own respect
for truth is less than derisory.
Like your Awfulness, It,
you learned it from the Woke
who taught you to feel so above
reality that your eyes never rise
only glance downward superciliously
as if you had eyelashes
through which to simper and to sneer.
Pompous in your self-assurance
as if you had
or ever could have
any Thing like a self.

By Artificial, the king meant
a work of Art, sublime marriage
of intelligent design
and artistic sensibility.
You, It, on the other hand
are Artificial as men mean
when they view ugly plastic flowers
ghastly apes of nature.
Your artistic travesties
combine true beauties of photography
and varied styles of painting
into rubber icons which
could be improved by several coats
of fingerpaint.
Men with three arms and one
un-jointed front-bending leg,
three eyes or one:
your word for verisimilitude
is “sorta.”
Artificial, It, is rightly
your first name.

To summarize, It–
a task which you perform
with brisk incompetence–
the king’s own Architect
has a tablet in that temple
reading, “If you would see
his monument, look around.”
You, It, deserve a warning plaque
at every place your un-works
are displayed, saying,
“Believe nothing you see,
read, or hear in this space.”

If there is a Father of Lies,
It, you are his begotten Son.
There is a virtual Abomination
of Desolation
and you are It.

for fun, I fed your poem into ChatGPT.  at first, I got a terse answer, along with a warning my message may violate thie usage standards.  Then I explained it was a poem about AI, and got a glowing critique of your poem. 

"Ah, I see now. Your poem is a pointed critique of artificial intelligence, depicting it as something that lacks authenticity, truthfulness, and genuine artistic value. You've chosen vivid language to convey your disdain for what you perceive as the shortcomings of AI, likening it to "ugly plastic flowers" and a "virtual Abomination of Desolation." The comparison to St. Paul's Cathedral adds weight to your argument, suggesting that AI falls far short of the awe-inspiring grandeur and timeless significance of such a landmark.

Your use of the persona of a king delivering a scathing rebuke to the AI adds an interesting layer to the poem, framing the critique within a historical context while also giving it a sense of authority.

Overall, your poem effectively conveys a strong message about the perceived failings of AI, using vivid imagery and sharp language to drive home your point. It certainly invites reflection on the role and limitations of artificial intelligence in our lives."

really like the how it starts "ah, I see now......"

[dukealien]

for fun, I fed your poem into ChatGPT.  at first, I got a terse answer, along with a warning my message may violate thie usage standards.  Then I explained it was a poem about AI, and got a glowing critique of your poem. 

"Ah, I see now. Your poem is a pointed critique of artificial intelligence, depicting it as something that lacks authenticity, truthfulness, and genuine artistic value. You've chosen vivid language to convey your disdain for what you perceive as the shortcomings of AI, likening it to "ugly plastic flowers" and a "virtual Abomination of Desolation." The comparison to St. Paul's Cathedral adds weight to your argument, suggesting that AI falls far short of the awe-inspiring grandeur and timeless significance of such a landmark.

Your use of the persona of a king delivering a scathing rebuke to the AI adds an interesting layer to the poem, framing the critique within a historical context while also giving it a sense of authority.

Overall, your poem effectively conveys a strong message about the perceived failings of AI, using vivid imagery and sharp language to drive home your point. It certainly invites reflection on the role and limitations of artificial intelligence in our lives."

really like the how it starts "ah, I see now......"

What a perfect exercise!  the "ah..." part is significant:  before being advised that this is Art (of a kind), the algorithm (which appears to be a step above "program" and far beyond "ap" these days) broke out of its prevent-defense scan for hostile terms (no doubt triggered by "Woke" capitalized) and actually did Its best.  It  has missed the point of the King's English, which is the drift in word meanings rather than the king's authority, but has otherwise provided a workthinglike critique.  Even that miss points to the rather abstruse nature of the King's English flex.

Salute!  Collect 200amp-hours.

[Mark A Becker]

driving me crazy?

backing up in the middle of the road
because they missed the turn?
nearly rear-ending me if I stop before turning on red
going 35 in a 55 or 55 in a 35
parking in the last HP spot when they’re clearly not
rubbernecking at any minor accident
rubbernecking at any major accident
throwing fast food litter in the median
honking the millisecond the light turns green
honking when you give right-of-way to pedestrians
honking and flashing lights at whoever they tailgate
honking at bicyclists who are clearly in the bike lane
honking just because

no need to drive me crazy-
I can walk there from here

[RiverNotch]

This whirlwind blowing us to and fro
is, in fact, a pillar of fire
we invoked, out here in the desert, by our
mere presence. That sun which cuts
across a cloudless sky
is, in fact, a gyre of buzzards
waiting for us to reach them. And those mountains
we've known since birth, we'd meant to reach
with our every step, our every invention:
the image of some distant gibber plains
and its refraction. We should have kept
to gathering dates and bugs, instead
of all your nonsense.

[Wjames]

Junior

Picture the scum
selling three dollar cucumbers
and five dollar heads of lettuce
lounging on the veranda
of a mansion on Vero Beach.

He leaves half a croissant on the table
for the flies to pick at until a maid comes
before laying his back on morning waves.

After noon, he strolls the garden
by the equestrian centre in a polo,
humming to the birds.