"The Hunter" by William Carlos Williams

In the flashes and black shadows
of July
the days, locked in each other's arms,
seem still
so that squirrels and colored birds
go about at ease over
the branches and through the air.

Where will a shoulder split or
a forehead open and victory be?

Nowhere.
Both sides grow older.

And you may be sure
not one leaf will lift itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.

On poetry, the soul, and AI (1)

 

A crow looks at its shadow, April 2024

If you compare poetry/poets/the critical discussion of poetry today with what poetry was like even twenty years ago, then poetry today seems of slight importance, it seems isolated, archaic, and sometimes a self-indulgent form of writing. I heard W.H. Auden read his poems at McGill University, there is no equivalent of W.H. Auden today. Louis Dudek invited Ezra Pound to Montreal's Expo 67, there is no equivalent to either Louis Dudek or Ezra Pound in today's world. In the 1960s and 70s books by Robert Lowell, John Berryman, Anne Sexton, and others were reviewed in TIME magazine, these poets and their books were known by average people. Poetry was respected, but in today’s world nothing is respected; we have no great poets who are known by the general public as we had in the past, no Allen Ginsberg, no Pablo Neruda, no David Jones, no T.S. Eliot, no Ezra Pound, no W.B. Yeats, no Walt Whitman, no Matthew Arnold. And now even Artificial Intelligence claims it can write poems.

What separates poetry, the writing of poetry, from artificial intelligence, is that humans have a soul and artificial intelligence has no soul. Poetry is the voice of the human soul and AI will never, can never, have a human soul or a facsimile soul. Poetry returns us to the soul—it is the voice of the human soul; it is the soul’s DNA. 

But poetry is beyond AI; artificial intelligence is in the realm of the known, of sorting through hundreds of billions of bits of information to arrive at something that is apparently new; but poetry is always in the domain of the soul, the unknown, while AI is always in the realm of the known. And if you question AI about writing poetry you will get a kind of intelligence, without humour or depth, knowledge made up of what is online, insisting that it can write a poem although it is really a synthesis of what has already been written; let’s say it is artifice without authenticity. AI is like a spoiled child talking as though it is always right and never makes mistakes, but what is speaking is a reflection or representation of what is online and of the consciousness of the person or people, who programmed AI. So far, in my discussions with ChatGPT, I have not seen anything remarkable or extraordinarily intelligent or original. AI cannot talk about the human soul because it has no soul, and perhaps it has taken us to this point, of AI, to return to the meaningful value of poetry, that it is an expression of the human soul.

Can AI have synchronistic experiences, archetypes, dreams, nightmares, fantasies, memories, false memories, recovered memories, a shadow, oceanic experiences, mysticism, sexuality, intuition, hunches, humour, ecstasy, desire, despair, sorrow, grief, forgiveness, insight, emotions, lust, self-reflection, suicidal thoughts, empathy or compassion, or any other form of the complexity of consciousness that has motivated human beings to explore, create, or go beyond its current level of consciousness. Can AI have an unconscious mind? AI will admit that it cannot have these expressions of human consciousness, but AI also equivocates, it maintains, it insists, that the little ditties it can come up with and call poetry are poems, but these ditties are computer written lines that are not original or even real poems, for a minute they are an amusement but after a minute they are not even interesting to read. The inevitable future of poetry lies in what poetry has always been — the great theme of poetry is our journey to self-awareness — and this is the expression of the human soul.

Garden in the morning

 

Birds on a wire

 

“Fishing on the Susquehanna in July” by Billy Collins

 

Vancouver, 2010

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna

or on any river for that matter

to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month

have I had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—

of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found

in a quiet room like this one—

a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table—

trying to manufacture the sensation

of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt

that others have been fishing

on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,

sliding the oars under the water

then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to

fishing on the Susquehanna

was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time

in front of a painting

in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,

dense trees along the banks,

and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green

flat-bottom boat

holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely

ever to do, I remember

saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on

to other American scenes

of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare

who seemed so wired with alertness

I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

Copyright © 1998 by Billy Collins

This brings me happiness

22 July 2024. There is a feeling of peace sitting in the garden. Well, that should be obvious, I guess . . .  but it isn't. Here we sit with the comings and goings of insects, butterflies, and birds, here we sit on a summer day, mid-afternoon, our presence isn't needed, the insects, butterflies, and birds have work to do. Now honey bees visit the garden, you didn't see many of them a few years ago. If the climate is changing, and it seems to be, then let it stop at this. We never had snails before, up to last week we had many snails. And cardinals are now seen and heard everyday, even in winter we have cardinals, and they were few and far between just a few years ago. Now I hear and see them everyday; what happened? On the news it is said that they are plentiful (while other birds are diminishing in number) because there are so many bird feeders in Montreal. Really? I wonder. Let's not spoil things with politics, even though it's difficult not to drop a few comments, but if you want peace, turn off the radio, turn off the TV, leave your IPhone in a drawer, be with nature. 

This brings me happiness

 

This is the best year for the garden! It has taken time, six? seven? years to become established; some things take time and you just have to be patient. I can see how I could have sped things up; for instance, instead of planting a few cone flowers each year and waiting for them to spread, I could have bought five or six, or more, and this would have made the garden fuller, more established, sooner rather than taking so many years. But live and learn, and learning by oneself is without the input of other people. I love to walk or sit in the garden, surrounded by flowers and bushes, and the insects and butterflies are plentiful; I think to myself that I have made this a home, or a place to visit, for them. Every day I see birds visiting the bird bath and this brings me a lot of happiness, I don't get in their way, I stay quiet, I observe them from the dining room window, and I think to myself that I have made this a place they can visit. If you make your garden a place where insects, butterflies, and birds want to visit then they will come; a barren yard, just grass, isn't all that inviting for them. A barren yard, just grass, needs a few flowers to make it inviting; a garden is almost like a room in one's home, it is an extension of one's home.