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.
She about to go to university
To read philosophy.
I mention that I read Plato
Long, long ago.
I wonder, can she possibly know
That old Plato
Has no hold on my mind …
After booze, I have seen girls lose their shoes,
Socks and frocks.
I have lain awake at night listening to clocks.
Time moves on
And man’s youth is gone.
But, like moths to the flame
He returns again and again
To young women who
Play the old game.
But the clock mocks us all.
I am delighted to have had 5 of my poems published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal. To read my poems please visit https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/10/five-poems-by-kevin-morris.html
When my fun is done
You put your dress on.
We chat for a while.
You make me smile.
And then are gone.
I long for rain
To come and drum
On my window panes.
It speaks to me
Of the great sea
From whence I came.
In love or lust
We make the rain.
Our progeny swim in the sea
From whence all came.
I am man, sea and rain,
And the eternal dust
On an autumn afternoon
I change my jeans
In a cold bedroom.
My glass has seen scenes
Where girls barely known comb
Their hair, and then depart.
How often have I thought
I ought to make a new start.
Yet soon my glass has reflected back
A girl doing her hair
Before she leaves me
In sheets where strangers meet.
Sometimes my lust is satisfied
But my heart cries
Out for love.
Yet I continue to buy
What can not be bought.
And perhaps ought not.
K Morris - Poet 