When the noble and erudite vicar Winning
Gave a fine sermon condemning all sinning,
Rose and Miss Spink
Gave him a wink.
And the congregation all fell about grinning!
When the noble and erudite vicar Winning
Gave a fine sermon condemning all sinning,
Rose and Miss Spink
Gave him a wink.
And the congregation all fell about grinning!
A magician who is known as Grace
Has made many men vanish without trace.
There’s a magic spade
And a secluded glade.
And the police are looking for Grace …
Today,
Waking early, I reached for Elizabeth.
But, finding Robert, I read of death
And how the May
Left him bereft.
I am drowning in envy of Browning
For he so well caught
How short
Is our May.
For all things must fade away.
Death leaves friends bereft.
Yet poetry remains
To soothe our pain.
Lost in thought
I walk
Through the evening wood.
Then I see
My shadow beside me.
In inner talk
I failed to see
The wood’s beauty
And my whirling words
Drowned out the birds.
My tomorrow may not come.
Yet the sun
Shines through the trees
And there is beauty
In these shadows and birdsong.
When a scantily clad young lady in Chester
Said, “sir, won’t you become my investor?”,
And I asked her why.
She said, “my name is Sky.
And I’m a very hot prospect in Chester!”
When a young lady that I once kissed
Said, “tell me, are you a moral relativist?”,
I said, “darling Lou,
Would that bother you?”,
She said, “I liked it when we kissed …!”
When a young lady wearing 1 spectacle
Said, “Kevin, tell me, are you respectable?”,
I said to her, “Ria,
I have been called insincere.
But I have never been called respectable!”
A summer rain falls.
And birds sing.
The earth smells fresh.
But I recall
I have bills to pay.
Yet returning home
To my working day
I carry birdsong
And the rich earth
In my heart.
Nature’s art
Feeds my poetry.
Yet she
Outshines all poetry.
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.