I am a fan of the short poem. Below is a brief untitled poem by Walter Savage Landor, 1775-1864 Walter Savage Landor – Wikipedia.
—
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, and next to nature, art:
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
I walk amidst these
Windblown
Leaves.
How time has flown.
I shall in beauty drown
And think on these
Fallen leaves,
Which now strew the ground.
(Taken from “Light and Shade” Light and Shade; serious (and not so serious) poems eBook : Morris, K: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store).
The wind is eternal.
It blows and my thought goes
Scuttering like dead leaves.
I heard the clock’s tick tock.
Should I grieve
For lost time?
There is no time
Only my temporary body clock
Which will, one day, stop.
Will I always be
The man who recites poetry
To young women,
My mind half on poetry,
And half on sinning.
They may admire my poetry,
But I am told
I grow old
And girls who have time
For my rhyme
Will never love me.
Yet they love my poetry
And is not poetry
Part of me?
Often poetry is enough.
But sometimes I find my mind
Occupied by other stuff.
I see young women in heels
Slippery as eels.
Like eels they slip away.
Though some stay.
A moment in time
Caught in rhyme,
When they have gone away.
I find
Fantasies run riot
In my unquiet mind.
Sometimes in my dreams
It seems
That dark fantasy
Is reality.
But in unending dream
My fantasy
Will be clay.
My lone feet pass
Along the path
Were autumn leaves freeze.
My dog loves
Snuffling amongst dead leaves.
I wish I could be so easily pleased!
I love this wood
As my dog does. Yet I regret
That I am caught in useless thought
While he just loves
Both it and me. he sees no tomorrow
Nor coming sorrow.
While I see the cold sky
As I pass
Along this path of fallen leaves.
If we are going to hell in a handcart
Why should I be good?
Should my art be moral, when there is dark
In my imperfect heart?
When I am dead
I will not care what is said
Of me by she
Who must follow me in due time.
Poets leave clues in rhyme
To their misspent lives
And the literary critic thrives
By interpreting lost lives.
I try to be good.
But when nymphs call
I recall what is good
And yet still fall.
A thought provoking article in the Telegraph about the use of artificial intelligence in literary translation, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/authors/translation-artificial-intelligence-authors/. The author discusses whether AI can ever master the craft of the human translator.
Whilst I suspect that some simple texts may be more or less passable when translated by AI, even here errors will, I surmise occur. However, when it comes to Tolstoy’s War and Peace I can’t see AI being able to translate the novel from Russian into English with the craftsmanship of a top class translator for many years to come, and perhaps never.
Unfortunately the article is behind a paywall, but those with a subscription to the Telegraph will be able to access it.
I shiver in the churchyard on Halloween.
I have seen
No ghosts, just the open church door.
I am sure
There is nothing there to scare me,
Just ancient bones
Decaying under cold old stones.
It is said
The dead are forever dead.
Yet, when I leave the graves behind
I find the same mundane
Old suburban street, trodden by living feet,
Where quivering and shivering cease.
K Morris - Poet 