When a morbid young man named White
Said, “I may die this very night!”.
I said, “I’ll have your lover
The beautiful and talented Miss Glover”
White said, “yes, that is perfectly alright!”
When a Morbid Young Man Named White
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Tag Archives: kevin morris author
Mole Who was Fond of Eating Coal
There once was a man named Mole
Who had a liking for eating coal.
A jolly old squire
Lit a great fire
Which quickly burned Mole and his coal!
The Bachelor
You in just
Your heels.
Me and my lust.
Sometimes it feels
Like love.
But I won’t lie
And go with your pretend
That I am your friend.
We have known each other
A long time.
I buy dinner and wine
Then we go back
Like 2 lovers
To my bachelor flat
Where we pretend
At lovers and friends.
Next day we chat
Of this and that
Over hot tea.
You smoke a cigarette.
Then leave me
With my regret
And thoughts of how
I am growing old.
Minus 3
It will be minus 3 tonight.
The light
Dies fast in winter.
There is a splinter
Of ice in my heart
With which I make art.
True, sometimes the sun breaks through.
But for now I rhyme
Of wintertime.
Spring will bring birdsong
But winter’s splinter is forever part
Of my poet’s heart.
Though birdsong does not last long
It may live on
When I am gone
In a rhyme of my wintertime.
Night
Beyond the light
Of the commuter train
The falling night
Is full of rain.
I came
From this night
To play in sunlight,
But must return again
To night.
Scanning the Menu
Men may choose Chinese
Or whatever they please
For in the great marketplace
A girl’s legs and face
Can command a price
(Which some call vice).
The girl studying for her degree
And the single mum provide fun
But the fun
Commands a fee.
In what some call work
A pimp may lurk
Somewhere in the dark shadow.
Perhaps it isn’t so
But how do men know?
Late Autumn
On a day
In late November
A cold autumn breeze
Rustles through the trees
Seeming to say,
“A freezing December
Is on its way”.
The Future of Poetry in the Age of AI
As those of you who follow my blog will know, I have been experimenting with Google Bard. This morning I asked Bard whether AI poetry will replace human generated poetry and received a response which can be accessed here, https://g.co/bard/share/074f2caef001
The final few sentences of the AI generated essay sum up Bard’s response:
“Ultimately, the future of poetry will likely be a collaboration between humans and machines. Human poets will continue to bring their unique creativity and emotional insight to the craft, while AI will provide new tools and techniques to help them express their ideas. Together, humans and AI can create poetry that is even more beautiful and meaningful than anything that has been created before.”
Whilst I am sure that many humans will use AI tools with increasing frequency in their writing (including poetry), I am not convinced that this will lead to the composition of poetry even more beautiful than that hitherto created. As the AI response acknowledges, AI lacks human experience. Consequently, unless AI is able to fully comprehend human experience in the same manner as we humans do, it will never be able to surpass Shakespeare, Tennyson or any other of the poetic greats.
Furthermore, the appreciation of any art form is to some extent a matter of subjective judgement. To take a concrete example, I believe that Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” is a wonderfully powerful poem, whilst a dear friend of mine (who is also a lover of poetry), is left cold by Thomas’s work. There will therefore no doubt be readers who will praise AI generated poetry and poems created in collaboration with AI tools, but others will be left cold by such creations.
The creation of mass produced pottery has not killed the craftsman who produces beautiful pots using his potter’s wheel. Nor, in my view will AI poetry destroy the poet who continues to write from the heart rather than utilising tools such as Google Bard or Open AI’s Chat GPT.
As always I would welcome your comments.
The Fallen Tree
Do you remember how we
Sat on that fallen tree?
I love the wood
In which that tree stood.
All must decay.
Though we had no love
To fade away.
Just my middle-aged lust
And fear of dust
And your need
To somehow feed.
Now that fallen tree
Reminds me of thee.
My Visit to Gloucester
When a young lady named Miss Foster
Said, “sir, come with me to Gloucester.
Me and my girlfriend
Want a dirty weekend!”,
It ended with hot coffee in Costa!
K Morris - Poet 