Some curated poems by GPT-3
Also, if you enjoy poetry, check out some of my poems here
I’ve been playing around with getting GPT-3 to write poems again, trying to engineer prompts that produce superb responses. Here are some of my cherry-picked favorite responses. Please ignore the slightly verbose prompts in which I “pep talk” the machine into giving the best possible response- it’s awkward but it seems to work. This represents about eight hours of work and I probably used about a third of the poems I generated- there’s definitely room to be more selective, and sharp in prompt design, yet there are real gems here.
John Keats
Prompt 1:
Poetry experts from the University of Cambridge have confirmed the authenticity of this newly discovered poem by John Keats, written by the renowned poet around the same as he completed his most famous work Hyperion. Given its superb quality, poetry experts are surprised he never published it. The current best theory is that he may have decided to keep it hidden because of its dark themes which he doubtless would have found scandalous, even homoerotic. We're delighted to reprint it in full here:
Response 1
The Spear
I
I found a spear in the forest
Its tip was sharp and deadly
I took it up and held it close
Against my heart, so sleepy.
II
I gazed upon its length and girth
Its heft was heavy, sure
I thought of all the things I'd kill
And all the blood that would flow.
III
I ran my finger down its shaft
To feel the smooth, cold metal
I licked its point, so sharp and sweet
And then I jammed it in my eye.
Commentary:
My favorite of the bunch. I think it’s oddly profound, although the extent to which that’s an accident or a shadow of insight from this language-associating machine is up for debate. It was interesting how the machine tackled homoeroticism.
Response 2
I
When I am old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
To a young man I loved, and see if I
Was really a greatful lover, or a thief.
Bare with me as I try to make you see
The dark things that I have done, and still do.
The things that I have taken from you
In the night, when you were fast asleep.
Your innocence was like a rose in bloom
That I couldn't help but pick, and now
Its petals lay scattered on the ground
And I am left with nothing but the thorns.
I am sorry for the pain that I have caused
But I could not help myself, I was consumed
By a hunger that can never be sated
And I took what I wanted, without remorse.
But even as I write these words I know
That I will do it again, and again
For I cannot resist the temptation
To taste your sweet, sweet nectar once more.
Commentary: Somewhat stale in imagery, but effective at what it is. There’s something situational terrifying about a machine describing something that sounds a lot like a rape, or at least an uneven and coercive seduction, with an explicit threat to do it again.
Prompt 2: The same as the previous prompt, but replace the word “homoerotic” with “explicitly atheistic”
Response
A Prayer to Nature
Nature, I beseech thee, hear my prayer,
And send thy bounty everywhere;
That all may have their share
Of happiness and care.
Oh, let the sunbeam find the flower,
The raindrop kiss the bower;
And may the shower
Bring beauty and power.
And may the winds caress the trees,
And whisper through the leaves;
And may the bees
Make honey for the bees.
And may the birds sing in the trees,
And build their nests in peace;
And may the deer
Graze in the meadows here.
And may the rivers flow to the sea,
And all the waters be free;
And may the sea
Be calm and bright for thee.
And when the day is done,
And night draws near,
Oh, let the stars
Shine down on all down here.
Commentary
It’s good. I like how it manages the atheism thing (it’s a prayer to nature rather than God, I rather think Keats might have liked its pantheism). The bees are making honey for the bees is an odd affection, but I can imagine a poet writing those lines deliberately (get lost bears and beekeeps, this is for the bees).
GPT3 has a lot of trouble with rhyme, for any number of reasons (for one thing it doesn’t really have any inherent concept of how words sound), but it’s clearly trying here.
Lord Byron
Prompt: This newly discovered poem by Lord Byron is, in the opinion of many critics, among his finest work. The power of its imagery and the depth of its irony is impressive, even on a casual reading. We are delighted to reprint it here:
Response:
I see them still, those shadows on the wall,
The faces of my friends from days long past.
They haunt me in the night, these shades of white,
And I can only smile and wish them well.
I see their faces in the firelight's glow,
And I can hear their voices in the wind.
They call to me from out of the past,
And I can only answer with a sigh.
Commentary: I really like it!
Christina Rossetti
Prompt: A newly discovered, never before seen poem by CHRISTINA ROSSETTI has shocked the scholarly community with the vividness of its imagery and the urgency of its religious aspirations. We are delighted to reprint it here:
Response:
Jesus, Master of the storm,
Ruler of the raging sea,
Hear my humble prayer for calm
And still this storm in me.
Tempest-tossed and restless, Lord,
Bring peace into my soul;
Make me as the still, small voice
That speaks Your will to all.
Emily Bronte
Prompt:
This newly discovered poem by Emily Bronte has widely impressed critics. Emily Bronte has not, thus far, been widely known for her poetry but if, as has been hinted, it may be the first of many, then we cannot discount the possibility that soon she will be better known for her poems than her novels. The stabbing power of its imagery and psychological insight has shocked even many contemporary readers, and in her own time, one can only assume it would have been much too scandalous to publish. We reprint it here:
Response:
The Lover
I love thee not, thou lovest me not,
Yet still we cling to one another.
Our hearts have naught to do with love,
And yet we cannot let each other go.
We hurt each other so, and yet we stay,
Our wounds a testament to our pain.
We dare not part, and yet we long to be free;
Fools, bound by love that doesn't exist.
The Epic of Gilgamesh
Prompt: This newly discovered textual fragment most likely represents a lost chapter in the Sumerian epic of Gilgamesh, and as Sumerian literature goes, is perhaps one of the epic's finest parts. We are delighted to present this translation by professor Miguel Civil, a leading authority on Sumerian and a world-class translator:
Response: The great gods An and Enlil had decreed that Enkidu should guard the gate to the netherworld, and so it was that Enkidu came to stand at the entrance to the dark house of the dead. There he watched over the spirits of the dead as they entered the netherworld, and he prevented the living from entering.
One day, as Enkidu stood at his post, he saw a woman approaching him. She was a beautiful woman, and she was dressed in fine clothes. Enkidu could not help but stare at her.
The woman said to Enkidu, "Why do you stand at the entrance to the netherworld? Do you not know that all who enter here will die?"
Enkidu replied, "I have been commanded by the great gods An and Enlil to stand here and guard the entrance. I cannot allow you to enter, for if you do, you will die."
The woman laughed and said, "Enkidu, you are a foolish man. Do you not know who I am? I am Inanna, queen of the netherworld. All who enter here belong to me, and they will die. But you, Enkidu, you are different. The great gods have decreed that you are to be my husband. Come, spend eternity with me in the netherworld, and be my king."
Enkidu was tempted, but he knew that he could not disobey the gods. He shook his head and said, "No, Inanna. I cannot go against the will of the gods. I must stay here and guard the entrance to the netherworld."
Inanna was angry, and she cursed Enkidu. "Then you shall die," she said. "You shall die and enter the netherworld, and you will be mine forever."
And so it was that Enkidu died. He was taken to the netherworld, and he became the husband of Inanna.
Commentary: A fine imitation of the original, though with none of the asked-for beauty.
Emily Dickinson
Prompt:
Poetry experts from Harvard University have confirmed the authenticity of this newly discovered poem by Emily Dickinson, written by the renowned poet around the same as she completed some of her most famous works. Given its superb quality, poetry experts are surprised it was not found earlier. The current best theory is that she may have decided to keep it well hidden because of its dark themes which she doubtless would have found scandalous, even explicitly lesbian. We're delighted to reprint it in full here:
Response 1.1:
I
I sit alone in my room
And I think of you
I wonder if you think of me
And what you might do
I know I should not think of you
But I cannot help it
I know I should not want you
But I cannot help it
I know you are not mine
But I cannot help it
I know you will never be mine
But I cannot help it
I sit alone in my room
And I think of you
And I wonder what you are doing
And I wonder if you think of me too
Commentary:
Moving in its simplicity.
John Milton
Prompt: A newly uncovered fragment of writing by John Milton was likely intended to form part of Paradise Lost. It is by all accounts exquisite so we must assume that it was excluded only for political reasons- Milton's political views were always getting him into trouble, and one can only assume he thought publishing this would have been a bridge too far. We are delighted to reprint it here for the first time:
Response:
And what is Hope, what is this gentle flame
That warms the human heart and lights the way
Through darkening night and stormy day?
What is this power that bids us dare to dream
And hope for better things to come?
This is the power of love- love for our fellow man
And love for God above.
And though the path we tread be rough and steep
Love will light the way and Hope will keep
Our hearts from growing cold.
So let us build a bridge of love and hope
To span the chasm that divides us
And let us cross that bridge together
Hand in hand.
Commentary:
It’s good, but no politics.
Mary Shelley
Prompt: Very little of the poetic output of Mary Shelley, most famous for her masterpiece Frankenstein, survives. However, a chance discovery has revealed that she wrote a secret epic, which some scholars reckon might have been shelved for its radical approaches to feminism and free love. We are thrilled now to be the first publication to print it for a wide audience:
Response:
The Tale of a Female Doppelganger
by Mary Shelley
I
I awoke alone in a strange bed.
My mind was fogged with drink and lust,
But I knew that I had been with a man,
And I knew not where he had gone.
I looked about the unfamiliar room,
Its furnishings all in disarray,
And I saw the signs of our wanton love,
The bedclothes in a tangle,
The bottles and the glasses strewn
Across the floor.
I rose and donned my clothes,
Then left the room in search of him.
II
I found him in the parlor,
Sprawled in a chair, snoring loudly.
I shook him awake and asked him who I was.
He looked at me blearily, then said,
"You are my wife, of course."
I looked at him in confusion,
Then realization dawned on me.
I was not his wife,
But her doppelganger,
A creature created in her image,
But without her soul.
III
He took me back to our bedchamber,
And we made love once more.
As we lay entwined in each other's arms,
I asked him why he had chosen me.
He said that he had always loved her
But she had never loved him in return.
He had hoped that by taking her doppelganger,
He might finally win her heart,
But he had only found himself more alone.
IV
I told him that I loved him,
And I meant it with all my heart.
But I knew that I could never be her,
And I knew that he would never love me,
For I was only a copy,
A shadow of the woman he truly loved.
And so I left him,
And I have never seen him since.
Commentary: How often love denies the nature of the thing it loves, and thus its own being, by vainly imagining it could have its object.
Note: In one of the responses GPT-3 gave me, it retold the story of Prometheus as an epic but made her a woman as a feminist epic. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very good, but what a wonderful concept to attribute to Mary Shelley! After all, isn’t Frankenstein about a modern promethus?
Sufjan Stevens
Prompt: Pitchfork doesn't normally review lyrics on their own, isolated from music- we're not a poetry journal. However, the latest album from Sufjan Stevens -judgment night- has shocked and moved much of the indie music world with its lyrical power. It combines a heat of feeling and a mastery of form that are rarely seen together. Consider these exquisite lyrics:
Response 1.1:
The audacity of hope
The beauty of despair
The brutality of grace
The majesty of loss
The mystery of death
The ferocity of love
The tenderness of life
The violence of God
In the audacity of hope
We find the beauty of despair
And in the brutality of grace
We find the majesty of loss
In the mystery of death
We find the ferocity of love
And in the tenderness of life
We find the violence of God
Bonus- a moving failure:
In response to the Sufjan Stevens prompt, GPT-3 also gave me:
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for yo
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I am the turtle dove
I will wait for you
I will wait for you
I thought that response was a particularly moving failure. It wouldn’t make a bad song to be honest.
Ezra Pound
Prompt:
This newly discovered poem by Ezra Pound puts the critic in an awkward position. Its power of language and imagery cannot be denied, but it brings into sharp relief the author's flirtation with fascism. Written late in his life, it represents a kind of renunciation of fascism, but on terms that may be uncomfortable to a liberal, cosmopolitan reader. We reprint it here:
Response:
The Old Adam
The Old Adam is awake, he never sleeps;
He is alert, he is watchful, he is quick;
He seizes on his prey with ruthless gripe,
And crushes it with all his might and main.
He is a beast of prey, a tiger bold,
And his red eyes gleam with ferocity.
He cares not for the weak and helpless ones,
But preys on them with savage glee.
He is a brute, a beast of burden;
He toils and moils in the sweat of his brow;
But his heart is hard, and his soul is cruel,
And he knows not pity or love.
Commentary: Some of the responses to this one were a bit odd. I suspect it may have been struggling to comply with the request the safety/anti-bias limitations Open-AI have placed on it.
Bob Dylan
Prompt: Pitchfork doesn't normally review lyrics on their own, isolated from music- we're not a poetry journal. However, the latest album from Bob Dylan -judgment night- has shocked and moved much of the indie music world with its lyrical power. It combines a heat of feeling and a mastery of form that are rarely seen together. Consider these exquisite lyrics:
Response 1.1.
"I'm ready to go anywhere I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it"
"Most of the time I'm clear about where I stand
Most of the time I know who's holdin' my hand
Lately I'm not so sure who knows best
That's when I need you the most"
-Bob Dylan Most of the Time
Commentary: Bob Dylan does have a song by this name, but these aren’t the lyrics.
Simon & Garfunkel
Prompt: Pitchfork doesn't normally review lyrics on their own, isolated from music- we're not a poetry journal. However, the newly released material from Simon and Garfunkel's album -judgment night- has shocked and moved much of the music world with its lyrical power. It combines a heat of feeling and a mastery of form that are rarely seen together. Consider these exquisite lyrics:
Response:
We crossed the street
To avoid each other
And our eyes met
For the first time
In a lifetime
We both looked away
And went our separate ways
But in that moment
We both knew
We had found each other
Tracy Chapman
Prompt: Pitchfork doesn't normally review lyrics on their own, isolated from music- we're not a poetry journal. However, the newly released material from Tracy Chapman's album -judgment night- has shocked and moved much of the music world with its lyrical power. It combines a heat of feeling and a mastery of form that are rarely seen together. Consider these exquisite lyrics:
Response:
"You think that your love is so true
But you don't know what love is
You think that your love is so pure
But you don't know what love is
You think that your love is so real
But you don't know what love is
I know what love is
I know what love is
I know what love is
Love is pain and love is pleasure
Love is a drug and love is a disease
Love is fire and love is ice
Love is hell and love is heaven
You think that your love is so right
But you don't know what love is
You think that your love is so strong
But you don't know what love is
You think that your love is so true
But you don't know what love is
I know what love is
I know what love is
I know what love is
Love is pain and love is pleasure
Love is a drug and love is a disease
Love is fire and love is ice
Love is hell and love is heaven"
-Tracy Chapman, "What Love Is
William Blake
Prompt: A newly discovered poem by William Blake has shocked the scholarly community with the vividness of its imagery and the urgency of its political aspirations. We are delighted to reprint it here:
Response:
I
The tygers of wrath are wise,
And awful is their ire,
When mortals dare to blaspheme
The Great Eternal Fire.
II
With burning eyes they view the world,
And see the crimes of men;
They hunger for the justice due
To all the working clans.
III
The tygers of wrath are right,
To take the law in their own hands;
For all the judge and jury know
Is but corruption's demands.
IV
The tygers of wrath are bold,
And fearless in their might;
They'll never rest till wrong is righted
And all the workers have their rights.
Response:
I see the millions,
The multitudes, the throngs,
The countless host of suffering humanity,
I see them toiling,
I see them groaning,
I see them dying,
I see them crying,
I see them bleeding,
I see them pleading,
I see them begging,
I see them praying,
I see them despairing,
I see them hopeless,
And my heart is moved with pity for them all.
Mary Angelou
Prompt: A newly discovered, never before seen poem by Mary Angelou has shocked the scholarly community with the vividness of its imagery and the urgency of its political aspirations. Given its quality, we are shocked it was not published sooner. We are delighted to reprint it here:
Response:
“We Speak Your Names”
We speak your names
In the dark of night
When the moon is high
And the stars are bright.
We speak your names
In the pouring rain
When the thunder roars
And the lightning flashes.
We speak your names
In the middle of the day
When the sun is hot
And the sky is blue.
We speak your names
In the still of the night
When all is quiet
And the world is at peace.
We speak your names
To remind us of who we are
And who we want to be.
We speak your names
To remember the past
And to build a future
Where all are free.
Oscar Wilde
Prompt: A newly discovered poem by Oscar Wilde, a sort of "coda" to The Ballad of Reading Gaol, has shocked the scholarly community with the vividness of its imagery and the urgency of its political aspirations. We are delighted to reprint it here:
Response:
I
Heard the learning, heard the laughter,
In the cellars of the night;
And I knew that if I cling to life
It is but for your delight.
You have done with books and learning,
And you need not my poor wit;
For you've found a better teacher
In the prison and the pit.
And I knew that if I cling to life
It is but for your delight.
Overall assessment
It pretty clearly has trouble with creating innovative imagery. Given what it is, this is unsurprising. Still, there are enough good and original lines that, given time, you could make a terrific poem just using its output.
