From the dark heart
Oft flows great art,
And behind sunlight
Oft hides night.
From the dark heart
Oft flows great art,
And behind sunlight
Oft hides night.
There was a young man named Giles
Who walked around wearing nothing but tiles.
When he fell with a crash,
All the tiles they went smash,
And the girls wore very big smiles …!
There was a young lady named Gale
Who made all her money through blackmail.
When she blackmailed Lee
While out at sea
It ended in a large killer whale …
When a young lady known as Hurd
Went and used a very bad word,
A vicar called Hocking
Said, “that is shocking!
But do cover me in lemon curd …”.
I have been playing around with Chat GPT, https://openai.com/blog/chatgpt/. Below is a poem wholly composed by the artificial intelligence (AI), followed by my much shorter poem, which draws on that created by the AI.
The Poem as Composed by Chat GPT:
continue this poem: all love and lust ends in dust
All love and lust, like fleeting gusts, May lift us high, but then they must Descend to earth, to join the rust And crumble into grains of dust.
Though passion’s fire may burn so bright, It’s but a spark in endless night, And soon it fades, like dying light, To leave us empty, void of sight.
For all that’s born will surely die, And all that lives must say goodbye. No matter how we try and try, We’re bound to fall, to fade, to lie.
So let us love with open hearts, And let us cherish every part Of those we hold, before we depart And join the cycle, where we start.
For though all love and lust ends in dust, It’s in the moment, in the trust, That we find joy, that we find lust, That we find life, before we’re thrust Into the endless, timeless gust That leaves us naught but grains of dust.
My Rewrite of the Poem:
Though passion’s fire may burn so bright,
It’s but a spark in endless night,
And soon it fades, like dying light,
To leave us lost, to human sight.
For all that’s born will surely die,
And you and I must say goodbye.
No man can the great leveler deny,
And dust must take both you and I.
My coffee grows cold,
And I old.
And here I sit
Playing the wit,
Until death calls time
On wit
And rhyme.
Playing around in cyberspace
We come face-to-face
With the vanity
And utter banality
Of our flawed humanity.
Walking through the churchyard
On a freezing evening,
I consider progress. ,
And pass by
Fading inscriptions
On tombstones.
There was a young lady named Flow
Who lived in a fine old bureau.
When they said, “what an antique!”,
She would awake from her sleep
And say, “no, I’m young Miss Flow!”.
When a young man eating a trifle
Got shot by an old-fashioned rifle,
A policeman named Ted
Said, “he is dead!
Which is serious, and no mere trifle!””.