ChatGPT's rewriting of two of my poems

ChatGPT actually rewrote my poems when asked to; it didn't just make grammatical and/or vocabulary revisions like Bing. But I have the feeling that Bing would do more extensive rewrites if asked in a more specific way. I'll test it. Dealing with ChatGPT was a more impersonal experience than that with Bing, which I also found interesting. Here are ChatGPT's poetic attempts for my poems Transience and Entropy from Parables & Voices.  

I couldn't test Google's Bard, because it is currently not supported in Norway. Stay tuned. 

1. Transient Visions    (ChatGPT's poem, a rewriting of my poem Transience)

I glimpse with clarity,
the fleetingness of life.
Aware that every breath,
brings us closer to our demise.

Each season, every sunset,
a reminder of time's flight.
Even the moments we cherish,
eventually fade from sight.

Sorting through the moments,
like wheat from chaff we sift.
Holding onto wisdom,
while memories fade and drift.

I see with clarity,
yet darkness lurks behind.
For even visions transient,
will vanish from the mind.

------------------------

Transience  (my poem) 

I see with vision clearer,
The transience of life.
I am aware of life ending,
In every season and every evening.
Even the moments of the day
Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.
One separates the wheat from the chaff
And stores away those memories and thoughts
That are to be used in the making of wisdom;
Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 
For not even the vision remains
For more than just a moment. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

2. The Pull Towards Disorder    (ChatGPT's rewriting of my poem Entropy) 

All things seem to move
Towards chaos and disorder,
Without great effort and care
To resist the pull towards disorder.

In life, in love, we find
Our choices are like crossroads,
One path leads towards order,
While the other descends into chaos.

Love, at its best, brings order
Elevating our spirits and nature.
But when love is lost, entropy reigns
Disorder triumphs, and limits vanish.

Truth is a beacon of order,
Guiding us towards holy life.
Evil, on the other hand, leads to entropy
The road paved with choices that defy order.

---------------------------

Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems
Tend to disorder
Without massive efforts
To prevent this.

In life, in love
The tendencies, the choices, 
All are crossroads, forked paths--
One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order, 
Elevates man's nature and his spirit.
But love destroyed is entropy defined--
Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby
Is holy and promotes the same in others.
Evil is the path to entropy, the road
Paved with choices that defy order.

-------------------------------------

Asking an AI chatbot to rewrite two of my poems

I've been reading a lot about the different AI chatbots that exist, and if you want to read a good article about comparisons among them, try this one: AI chatbots compared: Bard vs. Bing vs. ChatGPT - The Verge. I was curious as to how Bing would answer me when I asked it to rewrite two of my poems from my previously-published collection Parables & Voices. I started with Bing's AI chatbot. It was interesting to deal with it; firstly, it is very polite and nice, so if your questions are civil and reasonably intelligent, you will get civil and reasonably intelligent answers. I was not interested in challenging it in any way, nor in being rude in my interactions with it. I asked it to rewrite two of my poems and it did so. In both cases it made one or two grammatical and vocabulary revisions, nothing more, which I found interesting. 

I then asked it to write poems that dealt with the same themes, which it did. I'm posting the poems here. It then wrote the following: "I hope you like it! Is there anything else I can help you with?" It's clear to me that the responses it provides are very much dependent on how in-depth or superficial the questions are. I have to admit that it felt a bit strange to deal with the chatbot, but it did not scare me off. This is the new frontier, after all, and I am curious by nature. I can definitely see how these chatbots might be a useful tool, as long as one does not rely on them for creativity purposes. Regardless, as a writer, I think that the poems I wrote are subtler and better-written than the ones written by Bing, so I don't fear for the future in that regard. But of course I am being subjective. Being creative is an inner and quite personal process, as individual as the billions of people inhabiting the earth. Perhaps there will come a day when AI will be as or more creative as humans are. When that day comes, who owns the copyright to what the chatbots have written? 

1. Transience

I see with vision clearer,

The transience of life.

I am aware of life ending,

In every season and every evening.

Even the moments of the day

Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.

One separates the wheat from the chaff

And stores away those memories and thoughts

That are to be used in the making of wisdom;

Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 

For not even the vision remains

For more than just a moment. 

----------------------------------------

Bing's response when I asked it to write a poem based on the same themes--"Sure! Here's a poem I came up with":

Transience (Bing AI's poem) 

The fleeting moments of life,
Like sand slipping through our fingers,
Remind us of our mortality,
And how we're just mere mortals.
The memories we hold dear,
Are like precious gems in our hearts,
That we cherish and hold onto,
As we journey through life's paths.
But even these memories fade,
As time marches on relentlessly,
And we're left with nothing but echoes,
Of what once was and what could be.
So let us live in the present moment,
And make the most of every day,
For life is but a fleeting moment,
That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

----------------------------------------------------------------

2. Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems

Tend to disorder

Without massive efforts

To prevent this.

In life, in love

The tendencies, the choices,

All are crossroads, forked paths--

One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order,

Elevates man's nature and his spirit.

But love destroyed is entropy defined--

Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby

Is holy and promotes the same in others.

Evil is the path to entropy, the road

Paved with choices that defy order.

```

Bing's poem based on the same themes:

The Path of Life    (Bing AI's poem) 

Life is a journey full of choices,

A path that's winding and full of voices,

That whisper in our ears and guide us along,

As we journey through life's paths.

Some paths lead to order and truth,

While others lead to chaos and ruthlessness,

And it's up to us to choose the right path,

That leads to a life of purpose and meaning.

Love is a force that can guide us along,

A beacon of light in the darkness of life,

That can help us find our way back home,

When we're lost and alone in the night.

But love can also be a force for destruction,

A raging fire that consumes everything in its path,

Leaving nothing but ashes and ruins behind,

And a heart that's broken and shattered.

So let us choose the path of life with care,

And walk with purpose and meaning every day,

For life is but a fleeting moment in time,

That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

```

Train from Michigan--one of my early poems

I wrote this poem in 1988, three years after my father died, and published it in my first-ever collection of poems--Parables and Voices. I've decided to share some of my early poetry with you, as an introduction to my poetry writing. I've been writing for years, ever since I was fourteen years old. Poetry is a wonderful way to express one's feelings, and oftentimes one ends up with a poem that one could never have predicted from the outset. Train from Michigan is one of those poems.

Train from Michigan   

I dreamed then of my father, I was

On the train; outside a yellow moon

Full-light circle against the blue-black sky.

His face came into memory

As I drifted in the sleep of transit,

That is uneasy and unsettled.

We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio,

The train's whistle blowing lonely

As though miles ahead of us--

Yet ever with us through the night.

I thought the thoughts of transit--

My father, dead these three years,

Perhaps traveled this same train

Bound from Michigan to New York.

He knew people in the north of Michigan,

Farmers and ultimately life-long friends.

I see his face, with me always.

My head rests lightly against the train window--

When I awake it is because my head has banged 

And fallen against the window, jarring me.

I visit friends, they live in Michigan now

Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose.

I meet new people on the way to visit old friends,

And think about old friendships as I make my way home.

New people I am always letting in; they find me or

We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits

On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me.

Do they, these spirits, find each other?

Are we all in search of one?

About trains, I know they draw me so,

Luring me with the call to adventure,

Like a call to arms.

I boarded one, bound for Michigan,

And then one back, to New York.

Time spread out over hours of track--

Moving me, my life, along,

From one point to another.

Spreading me out, thin, fluid,

Over time which is suddenly the merger

Of past, present, future.

Like liquid spreading I see my life

Moving over these tracks, out and beyond,

Expanding to assimilate Michigan

As I have before incorporated other states

And other countries, American and European.

A fear that I can never belong to someone--

How could one keep me from flooding

Past the walls and out into the open spaces?

It is an abstract love of world I feel,

A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable.

To care for it, about it, accept it for itself, 

The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land,

The farms and their greenness in the summer--

The land you pass through while travelling on a train.

Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities,

Unknown, but knowable.

I look out, I know this river--

I grew up along it, knowing it stretched

For miles, out of my reach--I see it now

In places I never knew before

And feel the vastness of its beauty.

Back in New York, I grew up here,

But I have grown beyond it.

Copyright Paula Mary De Angelis, from Parables and Voices, published in 2011 and available on Amazon: Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books  

One of Many--my poem from Parables & Voices

Apropos my last post about doubt--I wrote this poem many years ago. The italicized paragraph describes a woman who has 'chosen' not to pursue her dreams because the man she is with cannot keep pace with her and is angry about that. My guess is that there are many women who do this to keep the men in their lives placated.  

One of Many (Portrait of a Lady) (apologies to Henry James)

 

In some future time she knew
In that way that only women can know
That regret would exact its pound of flesh
For all the choices cast aside, for all the roads not taken.
 
For there were so many roads down which
If she had gone, that life may have been brighter.
Not tinged by so many shadows, not clouded
By the sufferings of others that she took upon herself.
 
In some future time she knew
That she would look back at life
As an old woman and wonder why it was
She chose a man ahead of most everything else.
 
Was it love or perhaps hate that tightened the bond?
Was it fear that made it impossible to live a life unfettered?
Fear of loss, fear of the other, fear of aloneness.
But what is fear if not lack of trust (in oneself and in others).
 
The fierce desire to prove independence from others,
Has led to only this, that she cannot any longer
Act without him, cannot think, cannot be who it is she once was,
For better or for worse, without him looming there before her.
 
A kind of prison, forged by fear and lack of trust,
By uncertainty and a self-image which is negligible at best,
His and in the end it will be hers, chosen by her because it seemed
That if he could not advance then it was her duty to demote herself.
 
Once was pretty, once was lively, once was open.
Once was…..a long long time ago.
Now is diminished, now is careful, now is remote,
So as not to awaken the sleeping beast inside him.
 
For he smiles on the outside, but the inside
Is filled with hate for others and a desire
To be above them since he cannot control them.
He cannot be them, and she cannot be them, by extension.

(From Parables & Voices, copyright 2011, by Paula Mary De Angelis)

A Christmas poem

I have been writing poetry for years, and just recently came upon this poem that I wrote when I was a teenager. I thought it might be a good poem for the Christmas season. 

Silent Stars

Wander across sea and sky--

Stars nightborne in flight.

Carry on across all time--

Centuries ago began your light.

Go on and move into the night.

Your silence is heard then,

Your light has touched all men.

And once upon ago two thousand years,

You shone upon no ordinary man. 

copyright 2011 Parables and Voices
P.M. De Angelis

A little update

As many of you know, I write poetry and have been doing so since I was a teenager way back when. I am always sending poems out to different magazines and journals as part of the conventional route to publishing one’s creative work in the hope that one of them might find an editor who likes them enough to publish them. Right now my poem Pardon is in the hands of The New Yorker poetry editor. I am expecting a ‘no’ but hoping for a ‘yes’. Come to think of it, the entire submission process and the involved waiting for a response remind me of academic science. We send our articles to different journals and most of the time they get rejected after a long evaluation period. But sometimes they get in on the first try. So I can hope for that too for my little poem. The New Yorker is like the journal Nature or Science for academic scientists—the best in its field, so that to have a poem published there would mean a lot. But I also have put together a small collection of my poems and called it Parables and Voices. I did this through CreateSpace, which I have written about before in this blog. It is a subsidiary of Amazon and does a great job of letting new authors get a foot in the door, so to speak. The resulting books can be made available for purchase on Amazon and that is pretty amazing. Your book can also be distributed to other sellers for a nominal fee that allows for increased distribution of your book to online sellers and other bookstores. Parables and Voices is available here on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Parables-Voices-Collection-Poems-1973-2009/dp/1452838763/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1298989255&sr=1-1

The front and back covers as well as the internal formatting are the work of http://fotoisphoto.com/. I have worked with this company before on my previous book and am very happy with their work. I recommend them.

I am following Malcolm Gladwell’s (the author of Outliers) recommendation—get your ten thousand hours under your belt in whatever field you want to achieve some measure of success. So for me, that means just keep on writing. I am hoping for a little success as a writer. I’ve had a little success as an academic scientist (published over eighty articles as first author/co-author). But I am realistic; I know how competitive it is out there. Just like academic science. Some days I hope for more feedback about my creative writing ventures, other days not. It depends on the kind of day, maybe even on the kind of week I’m having. Basically it boils down to this—can I take yet another rejection emotionally? Between academic science and creative writing, I understand that I will be living with rejection on a more standard basis. I’ve simply got to toughen my skin and keep on trucking. 

No Soul Unsung

No soul unsung.

Sing out your light

Into the shadows.

Into the corners of life

Where the shades slink silently,

Waiting for life to begin.

No great things are born of hiding one’s light

Under a bushel basket.

Christ said, ‘Do not be afraid.

I am with you always’.

Do not wait to start tomorrow

Since today

Is all one has.

Start today.

Find your voice.

Live.

Breathe.

Shine.

Honor your soul.

copyright 2010 Parables and Voices 

Paula M. De Angelis

Du bor i forskjellige rom (You live in different rooms)

Du bor i forskjellige rom 

Og flytter mellom dem

Med jevne mellomrom.

Jeg har banket på en dør en hel dag

Bare for å komme inn,

Å finne fram til deg

Da døren var lukket.

Jeg har forskjellige nøkler

Men du skifter lås like ofte

Som du bytter rom.

Jeg puster hardt bare for å holde tritt med deg.

---------------------------------------------- 

(English translation)

You live in different rooms

And move among them

At regular intervals.

I have knocked on one door an entire day

Just to come in and find my way to you

When the door was locked.

I have different keys

But you change the locks as often

As you change rooms.

I breathe hard just to keep up with you.

from Parables and Voices 

copyright Paula M. De Angelis

Resurrection

I will tell you

What it was like

To rise, like the phoenix

From the ashes of the still-smoldering embers,

Of the house that I was born in.

What I cannot tell you

Is how that house came to be,

That birthed the plagues it did

From one generation to the next.

Only that sorrow was twin to despair

That etched themselves onto the faces of the living.

I moved from that house

To one built in hell.

Walls lined with pain and hate

Of my soul which longed to rise

Above it all and soar

High, like the phoenix.

Almost twenty years have come and gone,

My house is built now

On firmer ground, the walls and rooms

Have known and know love still.

And yet the images of those earlier houses remain,

The memories raw and naked, still etched with pain. 

from 'Parables and Voices'

copyright Paula M. De Angelis

Train from Michigan

I dreamed then of my father, I was
On the train; outside a yellow moon
Full-light circle against the blue-black sky.
His face came into memory
As I drifted in the sleep of transit,
That is uneasy and unsettled.
We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio,
The train's whistle blowing lonely
As though miles ahead of us--
Yet ever with us through the night.
I thought the thoughts of transit--
My father, dead these three years,
Perhaps traveled this same train
Bound from Michigan to New York.
He knew people in the north of Michigan,
Farmers and ultimately life-long friends.
I see his face, with me always.
My head rests lightly against the train window--
When I awake it is because my head has banged
And fallen against the window, jarring me.

I visit friends, they live in Michigan now
Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose.
I meet new people on the way to visit old friends,
And think about old friendships as I make my way home.
New people I am always letting in; they find me or
We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits
On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me.
Do they, these spirits, find each other?
Are we all in search of one?

About trains, I know they draw me so,
Luring me with the call to adventure,
Like a call to arms.
I boarded one, bound for Michigan,
And then one back, to New York.
Time spread out over hours of track--
Moving me, my life, along,
From one point to another.
Spreading me out, thin, fluid,
Over time which is suddenly the merger
Of past, present, future.
Like liquid spreading I see my life
Moving over these tracks, out and beyond,
Expanding to assimilate Michigan
As I have before incorporated other states
And other countries, American and European.
A fear that I can never belong to someone--
How could one keep me from flooding
Past the walls and out into the open spaces?
It is an abstract love of world I feel,
A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable.
To care for it, about it, accept it for itself,
The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land,
The farms and their greenness in the summer--
The land you pass through while travelling on a train.
Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities,
Unknown, but knowable.
I look out, I know this river--
I grew up along it, knowing it stretched
For miles, out of my reach--I see it now
In places I never knew before
And feel the vastness of its beauty.
Back in New York, I grew up here,
But I have grown beyond it.


copyright Paula M. De Angelis 2009
from Parables and Voices

Intimations

Had I been of another time,
I should have wanted to stand with Yeats
and his Rosicrucians, or the Druids.
Mind alchemists, magicians.
Denizens of Celtic twilights.
To be one of the candle-lit circle,
Bound by purpose, fingers entwined--
To hover above the smoky room,
To answer questions from the gloom.

If I were not of this time
What other would I seek?
I answer, that which draws me ever back.
World of mystery closed to most.
What seeks me from the gloom?
What did I know about empty rooms
That bespeak a keyhole's world?
What did I know about golden ties
That bind the body to the soul
As it roams nightly 'round the world?

As I am not of this time
I seek return; you shall not find me.
I will be in the empty room
You cannot reach by door.
Dare to explore, for no one does.
I knew from childhood that above
There were forces played about me,
Intimations of a destiny--
The giant thumb pressed upon me
Stamping my head with lures of fantasy.

But if I speak to time before me
Stretched out, laid meadow-flat in golden hours,
In beauty does the future beckon--
I should still desire to go back to dreams,
To unknown houses of old, to doors
That lead to nowhere, to turreted towers.
Corridors that weave and wind about,
To flights of fancy, and rites of flight.
I am haunted by another time.


from Parables and Voices
copyright Paula M. De Angelis

Angles

I spoke to him from across the pool--
Said it was beginning to rain
And to get dark, and would he mind taking in the chairs?
(At all angles this is a pool,
An immense body of water to be sure).
He yelled back at me but his words
Were muffled somehow; they echoed,
Bouncing off the water; he was gone.
Or was it the dark that swallowed him?
(We are not really here, it is our spirits
That call to one another from across the water).

I look across the dark
And see the pillars in the distance
Framing the water from the night--
Reflected in the pool of stillness
Like subconsciousness undisturbed.
(I don't like the night disturbed
By light and the reflections).
He does not return soon.
I have decided to leave the chairs be.
Why disturb the stillness,
Why break the glass, why fight?
(It is our bodies that hate to be alone, untouched,
And our spirits that feel the emptiness
Of lives lived in the dark or on the surface).

Alone on the beach
I possess the sun and sand.
Chairs skewed about at all angles,
Like my life at present.
(I can still see his face--
Body outlined in the twilight).
Here plays the scene of solitude--
This is my beach.
Other inhabitants have scattered,
Warmth is far from reach.
(They were afraid of my grief and my despair).
In memory the pool's steps now
Seem so inviting, why did I wait so long
To be baptized into depth?
The suggestion that he made
The night he left.
(I am afraid of drowning in my own pool).
It is as he said once,
Predicted really--I have drowned
In the midst of marble beauty
All around--cool grace,
Forbidding yet inviting to the touch.

Here on this beach, the sky beyond,
A vista on which to set new sights.
Left him behind and moved onward.
(I never see him but his back is turned to me).
I could have really drowned,
Not knowing how to swim--
I prefer the chairs myself,
Poolside.


copyright PM De Angelis
from Parables and Voices

Revelations

A foretelling of the future--
What shall be beheld?
In the summer's time,
In the wildly-expansive universe.
Will the planets play
The music of the spheres?
When comes the time
When old men weep for the women
They have wronged,
And old women rejoice, dead from sorrow,
Raised up from lives that have become tombs.
One pointed finger, a woman's--
Angled, long, with sharpened nail.
Accuser, and accusing, the hand
Of the gypsy shakes.
Is it in fear or in anger?
Point your finger to the stars--
Skyward; they tumble, five-pronged badges
Of dying light, while behind the clouds
Explodes the light of other universes.
Stand out amidst the stars in summer's time,
Alone, the night is a million voices
And as many eyes--the spirits
Of the future world, speaking and pointing.
Oddly beautiful, the women--
Waist-length hair, shimmering
In the summer's heat.
Mirages, as they bend down to retrieve
Stars stolen from other universes
And the bodies of the weeping men
Who died in the silence of the night sun.
Point your fingers to the stars, women
Of the shimmering hair; the spirits'
Whispering grows louder, like a buzzing
In the air, the scent of roses then,
And roses fall where stars once lay.
Wait for the woman of many lights
Who crushes serpents' heads
And barefoot stands upon a waning moon.


PM De Angelis
from Parables and Voices
copyright 2009

House of Mirrors

The world is a house of strangers--
Doors open, I enter in
To begin a new era of my life.

I think, upon meeting a stranger--
I am an unknown, as is he.
He mirrors me; his smile bids me welcome.

I prefer the company of strangers--
Secrets hidden, unprobed for; anonymity.
No price paid for the trying on of many selves.

I look into his eyes, a stranger, knowing
That if I look too deeply I will fall into them,
And so be lost then.

The world greets me as a stranger--
I am welcome in his house
As long as I remain one.......


PM De Angelis
from Parables and Voices

Parable

Lazarus in the street,
While in the penthouses above
The glitterati meet.
In the end I left
The glamour, the effete chic.
(Not that I belonged).
‘City of vipers’--
Women poised like cobras,
Bedecked in jewels and haughty crowns,
Ready to strike, tongues flicking.
Gold lame skins rose and fell
With their breathing.
Fixing you with their stares.
Outside the frost-edged window
Awaits the city---
The viper rich indoors
See it not, nor feel.
Teeth flash, capped, even, gleaming--
Fangs for the night about to end
About to start
That never ends, for reality
Is a party, a toss of the coin--
One more Lazarus for the gutter,
One more snake for the pit.


PM De Angelis
from Parables and Voices

Ode to childhood

Those days of summers past
When once we traipsed the forest floors
To find the gold the sun had cast
Upon the slumbering yellow flowers.

Oh days of summers past
Flocks of birds so loudly crying,
The ominousness of summer storms,
The thunder loud, the sunlight dying.

Precious days of summers past
Lying on our backs in fields unscathed
Playing along the gurgling brook
That traveled its constant stone worn path.

Remembrances of summers past
Of relatives and friends we had
Spread out before us as repast
In time, to help us on our path.

Those days of summers past
Staring out upon the river
Watching the sun create a path
Of light that seemed to stretch forever.

Such days of summers past
Retrieved in the mind’s eye
Memories that bless and last
A lifetime that age cannot belie.

So many summers come and gone
The linearity of time bears witness
To the bittersweet melody of the song
That life sings--Move on. …..



PM De Angelis
May 2010