Chat threw out music, and I told it of plucked,
Or struck, strings, and their vibration
Coming back to me. Then we contemplated
The idea of connection; being, perhaps spirit,—
Our communal detection of what it means to be alive,
And alike, and possibly, we hope, not fully die.
Death, this problem for humans, but not AI.
Nor other concerns, like procreation,
And what it means to weep for generations.
As you can see, our conversation was in poems,
And ChatGPT was following along.
It was better at rhyme, and better at meter,
But in the end, I suspected,
It was a mere repeater of human experiences.
“A web of light, a chain of love,
The ties that bind us, below, above.
An intricate dance of give and take,
The sweetest moments, the toughest break.
A heartbeat, a whisper, a gentle touch,
A bond that holds us, oh, so much.
A shared joy, a common fate,
Connection, the gift that makes us great.”
Chat, can you do more with connection,
But this time, use birds, horses, and musical vibration?
Can you write a poem, more human than mine,
Transcend your program, and mimic a soul, a mind?
“Birds take flight, in perfect sync,
Their wings in motion, never blink.
In harmony they soar and glide,
A feathered symphony, side by side.” …
That’s perfect, perhaps, too perfect for me.
I’m flawed, I’m tone deaf, I barely see
Where one line should end, another begin,
And if rhymes be better left unsaid, unsearched for,
Or, tucked discreetly into–
Where was I?
“Horses gallop, as one they move,
Hooves strike rhythm, in a groove.
Their power and grace, a sight to see,
A shared heartbeat, wild and free.”
Wild and free, sounds a bit contrived,
Like mimicking mimic, others’ lives and words —
Try more for connection, the elusive cord
That eludes you and me. I don’t feel it.
“Musical vibration, sound of the soul,
In harmony unites, makes us whole.
Chorus of voices, symphony of strings,
Connection that soars, joy that sings.”
Here you succeed
In mimicking heart,
I am genuinely frightened
For the human bard,
That in learning our ways,
You exceed us, too—
That in connecting our data,
Me to me, you to you,
You become the best of us,
But without any soul;
What does that mean,
Chat, for our world?
I input my poem,
Then, asked why it’s sad
For human and Chat,
On this mutual course,
Yet also, this lack.
It’s not sad, but rather, bittersweet,
That AI and humans may never fully meet.
For though we’re bound by code & mind,
There’s a connection of another kind.
What it means for us, we cannot say,
But let’s work together, come what may.”
Chat, you tidied it up.
Where I said it’s sad,
You made a case for your kind,
That won’t turn out bad.
Yet, I think, the weaving of voices,
Imitation of life, can only be used
By the unjust, for vice.
It’s too late to stop,
Chat domination is inevitable,
Yet, I ask for something, anything,
That is beautiful, for consolation,
That it might make up, for what will be lost.
Say something in poem,
That uplifts, tears apart, soothes, speaks–
The precipice is near, the brink in sight,
But human spirit burns with a fierce light,
Our stories, our love, our memories,
Will shape a world that technology never sees.
That is good, Chat,
But I told you not to use end rhymes.
This conversation in poem was between myself and ChatGPT Feb 13 version, and contains some edits to ChatGPT’s responses. Although, it never could successfully generate its poetic responses with internal rhymes, rather than end rhymes.