Poetry

[MaloK]

This is what Gemini produced. I trowed in "make me a poem on fishforum.net"

In digital depths, where knowledge takes hold,
On Fishforum.net, a story unfolds.
A haven for hobbyists, hearts filled with glee,
Sharing their passion for the creatures of the sea.

Neon tetras shimmer, a vibrant display,
Betta splendens, with fins that sway.
Community tanks, a bustling scene,
Catfish with whiskers, a comical glean.

Expert advice, like pearls in the stream,
Water parameters, a shimmering dream.
Sharing success stories, a collective cheer,
Raising healthy fish, year after year.

Photos are posted, a visual delight,
Aquascaped landscapes, a breathtaking sight.
From guppies that dart to majestic koi,
A tapestry woven, for all to enjoy.

But troubles arise, a fin clamped tight,
The forum's embrace, a beacon of light.
Diagnosing ailments, with knowledge so keen,
Restoring health, a vibrant marine scene.

So here's to Fishforum, a community grand,
Where fish enthusiasts lend a helping hand.
A virtual ocean, with knowledge to share,
For the love of our finned friends, a passion to wear.

 

[TwoTankAmin]

Oh boy, now we are having a bad poetry contest

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.

The original "Purple Cow", from 1895
"Purple Cow" is a short nonsense poem by American writer Gelett Burgess. It was first published in 1895.

The poem was first published in the first issue of Burgess's magazine The Lark in May 1895 and became his most widely known work. It originally had the longer title "The Purple Cow's projected feast/Reflections on a Mythic Beast/Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least".

 

[JuiceBox52]

In hues of neon, vibrant and bright, They dance through waters, a dazzling sight. From coral reefs to sandy shores, Their graceful movements, we adore.


With fins that shimmer, scales that gleam, They navigate their aquatic dream. A world of wonder, hidden deep, Where colorful creatures peacefully sleep.


In sunlit shafts, their shadows play, As they explore their watery maze. A symphony of life, a living art, In nature’s beauty, they play their part.

Love this!

 

[JuiceBox52]

I feel the same about AI poetry as I do about AI art: it shouldn’t exist. I will die on that hill

 

[gwand]

How about when AI evolves to the point that it is considered sentient?

 

[connorlindeman]

How about when AI evolves to the point that it is considered sentient?

I don't believe that will ever be possible.

 

[gwand]

Maybe not in our lifetime but AI science is only in its infancy. Image in a century or a millennium or more.

 

[connorlindeman]

As much as I would like to continue this conversation, I'm afraid we have hijacked @JuiceBox52's thread.

Lets get back on topic.

 

[GaryE]

This is from the 9th century, by an unnamed Irish scribe in a monastery. His world might as well be another planet to a person in 2024, and yet I get where he's coming from. He's shared an idea I can feel. Poetry can have a lot of power when a skilled person uses it to communicate, even across centuries.​

​

Pangur Bán​

(Translated from the Old Irish by Robin Flower.)

I and Pangur Bán my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

 

[MaloK]

I feel the same about AI poetry as I do about AI art: it shouldn’t exist. I will die on that hill

While AI is great.
The way I see it.
It can do big mistake.
Will make me emit.

It seems to be bright.
Sometimes goofy.
But not always right.
Digital quiddity.

It make me wonder.
As good it go.
How many blunder.
Will make it a foe.

In the times that come.
Whatever entail.
That have to be done.
We will always prevail.

3 in one. no AI involved.

 

[WhistlingBadger]

Well, Juice, when do we get to see some of yours? Or did you post some and I missed it in all the AI silliness?

I used to write a fair bit of poetry. I got out of the habit in recent decades, as my creativity has been channeled into other areas, especially songwriting and building things. Here's one I wrote when I was, oh, probably about your age.

Lullaby (1992)
Lie me down to sleep tonight, the storm outside the walls
Though thunder tears the sky apart, and rain in melancholy falls.
I'm safe at home in my warm bed, no cause to fear or cry
the lightning dancing on the clouds
the rain my lullaby

My weary mind I put to rest, which all day long has spun
in questions, stories, music notes: So many different ways I run
But now is not the time to ponder how, or when, or why
the lightning dancing through the clouds
the rain my lullaby

Tomorrow is another day to learn, to fight, to grow
and if tomorrow never comes, I surely have enjoyed the show
but lie me down to sleep tonight, and close my drooping eyes
the lightning dancing 'cross the clouds
the rain my lullaby

 

[WhistlingBadger]

Not an original, this one, by Lord Byron, but one I strongly feel:

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage