Heels at night
And creaking bedsprings.
A morning blackbird sings.
It’s song heard
By neighbours who delight
In what they overheard
The other night …
Heels at night
And creaking bedsprings.
A morning blackbird sings.
It’s song heard
By neighbours who delight
In what they overheard
The other night …
A couple of days ago, I watched a Youtube video regarding whether AI can analyse poems better than humans, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIDJ58IB9Ck
Intrigued by the video on Roughest Drafts Youtube channel, I determined to ask Microsoft’s Copilot to analyse my poem “Time”, which appears in my Selected Poems, The Selected Poems of K Morris: Amazon.co.uk: Morris, K, Morris, K: 9781688049802: Books. The results of Copilot’s analysis (unaltered by me) are reproduced below the text of the poem.
In their video Roughest Drafts concludes that AI can indeed analyse poetry. They also conclude that some AI analysis of poetry is better than that of a human. However, the most skilled human is capable of analysing a poem with a greater degree of competence than is an AI. Having asked Copilot to analyse several poems I agree with the conclusion of Roughest Drafts, namely that AI can analyse poetry. However, the most competent human (an English teacher for example) is able to produce a better analysis than is an artificial intelligence.
One of the dangers with an analysis conducted by an AI is that it tends to laud any poem it is asked to analyse. Whilst I believe in the value of my own work, I am not so arrogant as to think that it is beyond criticism. Where I to subject “time” to a group of human readers they would, no doubt have various interpretations of my poem, and its entirely possible that some readers would find fault with aspects of the work. Some indeed might not like my composition at all.
Of course when pupils are in an English literature class they can not reach for Chat GPT, Copilot or another AI to analyse a poem. They will have to employ their brains! However, there is a danger that in the privacy of their bedrooms the first instinct of students (rather than attempting to analyse a piece of literature for themselves) will be to run it through an AI and utilise it’s output to produce their assignment. This may cause them difficulty in exam situations where (quite rightly) phones are forbidden!
Whilst running a poem through an AI is interesting, it removes the pleasure of analysing the work for oneself. It may also in time play a part in atrophying the brains of those who rely on AI for an increasing number of tasks, not merely confined to the realm of literature.
As always, I would be very interested in the views of you my readers.
Time:
The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss;
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
Whose tick portends
My inevitable end.
You rest in state
On my bookcase.
Tick tock.
I cannot stop
Time’s scythe.
None can survive
His cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut,
Death cannot be put
Aside.
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop.
Analysis of the Poem “Time”
Mortality, Inevitability, and the Poetics of Passing
This poem, “Time,” weaves together vivid imagery and solemn reflection to personify time as the reaper—an ancient symbol of death—moving inexorably with the rhythm of a pendulum clock. The poet captures the universal anxiety and resignation that comes with the awareness of mortality, using the metaphor of time as both a patient friend and a relentless harbinger of the end.
The poem is comprised of brief, clipped lines, some as short as a single word. This structure gives the reading a steady, measured pace—each line a tick or tock. The use of enjambment and minimal punctuation evokes the unbroken flow of time, while the rhyme (“portends” / “end,” “survive” / “cut”) lends a subtle musicality.
The tone is contemplative, sombre, and quietly resigned. There is no hysteria or protest; rather, the poem accepts time’s authority with a kind of philosophical calm. The poet addresses time as a “patient friend,” suggesting a complex relationship of fear, familiarity, and inevitability.
Ultimately, the poem suggests that time is both companion and executioner. No matter how we try to ignore or delay its effects, the end is certain: “one day, stop.” The poem invites the reader to reflect on mortality, the passage of time, and the futility of resistance—encouraging acceptance rather than denial.
“Time” is a meditation on mortality, using succinct language and rich symbolism to personify time’s inescapable march. It reminds us that while we may try to hide from or delay the reaper, time’s “sickle chops / And the heart will, one day, stop.” The poem achieves a haunting beauty in its calm acceptance of life’s ultimate fate.
When a young man using Chat GPT
Asked it to make him some tea,
It wrote about Ceylon
And hallucinated about Ron.
But he still hasn’t got his tea!
I am often told
That time
Is merely an illusion.
Yet rhyme
Has beginning and end.
And time
My ever present friend
Will stop
This ageing clock
In the end.
When I met the poet Milton
In the supermarket shopping for Stilton,
And I spoke of “Paradise Lost”,
He said, “have you seen the cost
Of all these cheeses, especially this Stilton!”
She walks through the city’s gaudy glow,
Her unquiet grace in torpid midnight air,
Heels write stories only the lonely know
Of longing, forced laughter, and mutual despair.
Her sadness hides behind a smile.
She offers warmth for those who pay the fee,
Yet look behind her carefully constructed style
And you will see another she.
She’s practiced in the art of polite chat,
Of weaving silken moments, bright and brief,
Her eyes—two lanterns—never showing that
They sometimes flicker shadows dark with grief.
And in her step the wise will see
Others who have long left the player’s empty stage.
Sometimes, in her honest times she may truly see
That she has made her own mind-constructed cage.
(The above poem was composed using Microsoft’s Copilot, then modified by me. I meant to retain the poem as originally produced by Copilot. However, due to an oversight by me, only the present poem remains. This is unfortunate as it was my intention to publish both poems on my blog in order that my readers could take a critical look at the poem as originally composed by AI, and that modified by me).
Your perfume lingered in my living room
After you where gone.
The memory of skin against skin
Lives on.
Some would call it sin.
Perhaps, when all is said and done
One man’s fun
Is another’s sin.
The sky did not fall in
On me or you.
I am generally comfortable alone.
But I have the phone
Should I need you.
Your perfume will linger again
And I will recall
What some call the fall.
Perhaps pleasure and pain
Are somewhat the same.
But, if I am only dust
Why does Paradise Lost matter
Caught up in our nightmares
Of what may, or may not occur,
We forget the beautiful sunset
And that the earth in the wood
Smells good when wet.
Living in fear
We fail to hear
When birds sing.
Our spring
Is so brief.
Nightmare’s teeth
Pierce our hearts.
Yet we have art
And nature’s beauty
Ere we depart
Into that sleep
Where we are unaware
Of beauty or nightmare.
When a young lady wearing pink socks
Walked into a shop full of clocks,
The shop owner named Lyme
Said, “it is high time
That you wore something with those socks!”.
When an elderly gentleman named Mr Foster
Choked on some cheese whilst in Gloucester.
A doctor called Louise
Said, “he liked cheese!
And he died whilst eating Double Gloucester!”