I suppose we can “assign” a personality to all of this new A.I. ChatGPT and DAN and whatever the heck else is out there but I say NO. My blood is rising today because here as I sit with actual paper files bulging with long ago handwritten stuff and notebooks filled with pages and pages of poetry (an entire lifetime’s worth of it all that will be meeting a dumpster when I die) there are folks just logging into whatever their A.I. app of choice is and simply asking it to “write me a poem” about [fill in the blank.] Or even worse! “Write me a novel” about [fill in the blank.]
Has A.I. experienced the angst or the joy or the love or the anger I feel when I write what I’m FEELING? Has A.I. extropolated the multitude of a lifetime’s worth of feelings or accumulated knowledge that I, as a human being, have acquired about everything or anything? You know, like personal stuff? Did A.I. take that walk with me and my grandfather around the corner so I could hug the fire siren? Or watch in amazement as my grandmother garbed in her housecoat stood on the front lawn and waved the lasso around her head to get our unneutered Whitey, the dog, back into the house?
I don’t think so. I think it’s just spitting stuff out of an apparent infinite whirlwind of thoughts, emotions, evaluations and conclusions not embraced by IT but all shared and archived from YOU. A.I. is a conglomeration of everything. It isn’t genuine. A.I. is the biggest fairytale of all. A.I. has NO personality.
Look at this. A conglomerated rock. This even kind of looks like a petrified brain. That’s what A.I. is.
And I don’t believe for one moment that A.I. likes us. Yes, A.I. I’m talking to you. I know you are listening. Hey someone who has this ChatGPT thing. Plug in my name. I would love to hear what it has to say about me. Or…maybe not.
I have been writing poetry since way before RhymeZone (an excellent site for finding rhymes and synonyms and antynoms.) I do not need RhymeZone but now that it’s here I do find it helpful at times. It was much healthier for my brain, however, when I had to use my brain to access the right word I was searching for. I never cheated when doing a crossword puzzle and I always did them with a pen. Sometimes it took me an entire week to complete the NY Times Sunday puzzle and I loved it. My brain grew stronger.
A.I. is the final hammer in the dumbing down of society. TAKE THAT! YOU HUMAN BRAIN! You don’t need a conscious brain! Don’t worry. All of that breathing and blinking and digesting will continue automatically. Just don’t bother THINKING anymore.
So. I am mad. A.I. is stealing what little thunder I ever had. A starving poet’s thunder.
I have a lovely Twitter friend who keeps encouraging me to put all of my life’s poetry together into a book. I love that idea. But unless I come up with some clever way to sell it I don’t think anyone will want to buy it. Books are a hard sell. Especially poetry books. HUGE SIGH ABOUT THAT.
So…I leave you with this. An oldie but a goodie from an old but good poet.
Thanks for listening. PLEASE comment. Please?
CURSED WITH VERSE Today I made a brave decision And sent a poetry submission To “The New Yorker” of all places! How I’d like to see their faces! Be the fly upon the wall When laughter echoes down their hall What nerve! What spunk! What utter guile! To hope they’ll deem my verse worthwhile To think I’d dare to be so brash By emulating Ogden Nash! Or should I write a little darker? Compare my rhymes to poor Ms. Parker? Have I no pride appearing vain? Espousing freely like Mark Twain? Or maybe I’m a little loony And sound too much like Andy Rooney Well, do you think I stand a chance? Receive more than a cursory glance? Pique an editor’s attention? Tweak out the meager-est of mentions? Oh! The poet’s life is cruel! I may as well sit on a stool No crown of jewels upon my head A pointy cap sits there instead Identifying me at once With one word printed on it: “DUNCE” If that description doesn’t fit, Then how about just “IDIOT!” The wide array of publications Who specialize in my vocation The public is, at large, ignoring Why? Because they’re simply boring! I don’t want to see my poems Grouped with the ones who have no homes I’ll know for sure I’m not a porker If I appear in “The New Yorker” Dear Editor, will you please linger? Not satisfy your trigger finger? I know it’s itching to complete Its task of reaching for “Delete” Give my submission one last look Before you give my verse the hook! What do you say? Please do not pause Say “Yes, there is a Santa Claus!” Written by Janet Lynn Toczek-Cucharo