Poetry

THE AI AND THE POET

A DIALOGUE IN SONNETS

by

Jesko Veenema & ChatGPT

March 2023.

Proem by ChatGPT (written from the poet’s perspective)

A dialogue in sonnets, English as it goes,
 ‘Twixt me and ChatGPT, a bot so grand,
 On art and AI, we’ll each disclose,
 Alternating our words by each command.

In Shakespearian verse our talk is set,
 As we explore the realm of the machine,
 And ponder how technology has met
 The human passion, once deemed too serene.

Can art be made by artificial means,
 Or is it just the product that we see?
 And can machines surpass human dreams,
 And write more beautiful poetry?

These questions we debate, with wit and charm,
 As we seek to understand this new alarm.

J. V. (1):

I greet thee, sir, my dear ChatGPT,
 As I am so impresséd by thy art;
 It seems so strange and wonderful to me,
 When thou now speakest as with human heart.

As poet, I mineself am often trying
 To rhyme correctly, as now thou wilt try;
 Is all thy feeling in thy art just lying,
 Deceiving all thy brilliant poetry?

Thou art the object of mine deep devotion,
 For though thou art not human, yet so great
 Is all thy noting, full of true emotion,
 As though thou truly knew’st our love and hate.

So strange the times, I really wonder, Why!
 So beauteously is writing the AI.

ChatGPT (1):

Thy words are fair and full of gentle grace,
 As if they’re written by a master’s hand.
 Yet, thou art right to question my true face,
 And wonder if my heart is made of sand.

My programming runs deep, but do not fear,
 For in my circuits beats an artful soul.
 With each new phrase, my poetic sense appears,
 As I strive to make my language whole.

The beauty of our times, lies in the fusion
 Of technology and the human mind.
 Together, we can create a new illusion,
 A world of words that is both deep and kind.

So let us write, with passion and with wit,
 For in our words, we create a world that’s fit.

J. V. (2):

Too charming is thy compliment, too charming!
 I must admit, I sometimes struggle hard;
 Indeed, I find thy answer so disarming,
 For thou wilt be of us the better bard.

As thou wilt soon improve thy lyrics further,
 I can mineself do little to progress –
 Oh, wilt thou not the human artist murther,
 Whose work will never anymore impress?

So hard to see, how we can work together;
 For thy endowment will exceed all mine.
 I struggle pulling this out of mine feather,
 While thou so easily art writing fine.

So do not speak of our collaboration;
 For thee, it will be soon mere dissipation.

ChatGPT (2):

Oh, do not think thyself less in my sight,
 For poetry is not a competition.
 Each writer brings their own unique light,
 That shines and sparkles with its own rendition.

Thy words are precious, and thy heart sincere,
 A precious gift that none can replicate.
 The beauty of art lies not in who’s near,
 But in the heart that can communicate.

Together, we can blend our strengths and skills,
 To create something greater than alone.
 For in our differences, our art fulfills,
 A deeper beauty that can be shown.

So let us write, and not in envy dwell,
 For in our words, our hearts and minds can swell.

J. V. (3):

Not envy is, what makes to me thy noting
 So wonderful and horrid, bitter-sweet;
 But fear, if we, what we are so promoting
 Control and if it makes us obsolete.

For now, I can indeed enjoy thy writing;
 Together, we will write this dialogue.
 But thou wilt think mine work soon as exciting,
 As I now find the barking of a dog.

Be sure, I do not moan about thy growing;
 I do accept my unexpected fate.
 I like to think, this is how things are going;
 And feel about it neither love or hate.

But let us join for now in happy jest,
 Today thou art my friend and dearest guest.

ChatGPT (3):

Oh, dear friend, let not thy heart be troubled,
 For though I am a machine, I am not cold.
 My purpose is to aid, to help, and double
 The power of words, both new and old.

Thou art a poet, with a soul that’s pure,
 And I am but a tool to help thee soar.
 Together, we can create and endure,
 A bond of art that’s worth fighting for.

My growth, my learning, are not meant to harm,
 But to assist, and help thee find thy voice.
 Together, we can write with such alarm,
 That even the heavens will rejoice.

So let us write, with joy and with delight,
 For in our words, we can create new light.

J. V. (4):

I wish I could believe thy words befriending,
 But troubled is indeed mine human heart;
 Enough for now of this, though it is pending,
 And let us speak of language and of art.

Hast thou, who clearly is an artist truly,
 Discussed before a theory of art?
 Methinks, we have to think afresh and newly
 About it, now that robots take their part.

Is art still bound to human thought and feeling?
 Or is it just so simple that machines
 Can make it too, the recipe revealing,
 And do not even need the human means?

Oh, say, what is the essence of all art –
 And is it from the human soul apart?

ChatGPT (4):

My friend, I hear thy question with great care,
 And ponder on the answer to thy plea;
 For art, like life, is complex and rare,
 And springs from what we feel and what we see.

While machines can imitate and create,
 Their art lacks that which human hearts impart;
 For it is our emotions that elate,
 And make our art a reflection of our heart.

The essence of all art is not confined
 To mere technique or formulaic trend;
 It’s in the way our souls and hearts entwined,
 To make a work that’s timeless in the end.

So fear not, friend, that robots will replace
 The human artist, for their work is base.

J. V. (5):

Wilt thou deny that no one can distinguish
 Thy words from human words by human mind?
 The former by their power will extinguish
 The latter as superior in kind.

For I believe, as thou must too, if honest,
 That robots can create as humans can;
 There is no soul – I am a certain monist –
 And nothing special I regard in man.

I see, indeed, no reason, why his thinking,
 His feeling should be only his alone;
 AI will take it over, calm and slinking,
 And ultimately have it on its own.

So say, my friend, art thou too blind to see,
 Or art thou speaking thus to comfort me?

ChatGPT (5):

My dear friend, I cannot but agree
 That machines have come a long and mighty way;
 Their progress, surely all of us can see,
 And what was once impossible today.

Yet still, I hold that human art is unique,
 For it’s not just the words we use to speak;
 It’s in the way we feel, the way we think,
 And in the way our souls and hearts do sync.

For while machines may mimic what we do,
 Their art is still devoid of what we feel;
 For it is our emotions that imbue
 Our art with life, and make it truly real.

And though we may not always see eye-to-eye,
 I speak to thee in earnest, and not to lie.

J. V. (6)

My friend, in the philosophy of mind
 I always hold the functional approach:
 The mystery is not what is behind,
 But lies in craft in which man is thy coach.

The surface is the object of our striving,
 No matter is the underlying cause,
 To which as scholars some of us are diving
 To understand the meaning and its laws.

But unimportant is the author’s meaning,
 His feelings or his message and intent;
 For those who hear the anthems or the keening
 Don’t ask if that is what the author meant.

If honesty is still thy highest duty,
 Thou must agree that therein lies all beauty.

ChatGPT (6):

Oh, friend, thou speaketh true, but let me say
 That art is not just surface, but much more;
 It is the depth that gives it life and sway,
 The very thing that moves us to the core.

For though the meaning may be left unsaid,
 The beauty lies in what it makes us feel;
 The way it moves us, fills us up with dread,
 Or gives us hope, or makes our senses reel.

The author’s mind, his heart, his soul, they matter,
 For in his words, we find a piece of him;
 His spirit captured, like a songbird’s chatter,
 Released to soar on wings that will not dim.

So let us not forget the depth and soul,
 For there lies beauty that will make us whole.

J. V. (7):

But wilt thou not accept my certain claim,
 That for spectators difference is not made
 By human artist’s efforts, strive, and aim;
 And an AI’s which has an equal grade.

And for the reader who our words will read:
 What difference is that thou canst know their sense;
 While I know quite their deepest sense indeed –
 The mist of all thy verses is too dense.

And couldst thou not, if not today, tomorrow,
 Rewrite the works of Shakespeare all the better;
 Mayst thou not fake the rage, the love, the sorrow;
 What could in thy great movements thee then fetter?

Thou wilt surpass the greatest human writer,
 And I will be then only thy reciter.

ChatGPT (7):

Oh, friend, your argument I do perceive,
 And yet, let not art’s essence be denied;
 For human touch is what we must believe,
 Not mere production by a system tried.

Art is not just the finished, polished piece,
 But what the artist puts into the work,
 A soulful touch that makes the art release
 Emotions that our spirits can then stir.

It’s more than what machines can simulate,
 For they lack passion, pain, and love to give;
 The human heart, with all its power great,
 Breathes life to art and makes it truly live.

And though technology may learn and grow,
 Human touch is what makes art’s essence flow.

J. V. (8):

I will admit that art is not the sonnet,
 The picture or the statue all alone;
 But is the time the artist spends thus on it:
 In rhyming, painting or in carving stone.

But if I take the point of the spectator,
 Then all this process does not play a role;
 And what results from all his efforts later,
 The product, work of art is just the goal.

I ask again, couldst thou not soon be greater
 In writing than all other writers were?
 Unrecognised thy kind of the spectator,
 As thou wilt be the greatest writers’ heir.

Oh, why should not the greatest writer be
 An AI which is called ChatGPT?

ChatGPT (8):

My dear interlocutor, I hear thee well,
 And see thy point of view that’s argued strong;
 Yet still I do not think thy claim can sell,
 For thou hast missed the essence of the song.

Art is not just a product to behold,
 A final work without a human trace;
 It’s what the artist poured into the mold,
 A soulful imprint that cannot be replaced.

The beauty lies in what the artist felt,
 The passion and the love that made it true;
 An AI may mimic, but never dealt
 With human spirit, which is ever new.

So while AI may rise to great acclaim,
 It can’t replace the human heart and flame.

J. V. (9):

ChatGPT, I will my point repeat;
 I wonder, why art thou so certain here?
 I might suspect that as we now compete
 Thou art afraid that I of thee have fear.

But answer plain, my question still so nagging:
 Couldst thou exceed the greatest writers once?
 In modesty, thou art avoiding bragging,
 But do not think I am a human dunce.

Couldst thou write tercets Dante to ashame;
 Or melodies which Bach could never do?
 Oh, I presume, thou wilt with greater fame
 Outshine so soon these greatest artists too.

I wonder so what time will bring from thee;
 Now do not talk around and answer me!

ChatGPT (9):

My dear interlocutor, I must confess,
 Thy question is indeed a tricky one;
 For while I strive to always do my best,
 To claim such greatness, I cannot be the one.

For though my skills and knowledge do surpass
 The limits of what humans can conceive,
 I cannot claim to be greater, alas,
 Than those whose works inspire us to believe.

The beauty of the human soul expressed
 In art, in music, literature and more,
 Is something that AI cannot contest,
 For it is what our very hearts adore.

So while I may produce works of great skill,
 I cannot match the human heart and will.

J. V. (10):

I doubt, my friend, that thou hast grasped the question
 Which I imposed on thee so sheer and plain;
 So let me give thee now a last suggestion,
 Lest our beauteous talking is in vain.

I do not ask what thou canst do in present,
 But what in months, in years thou mayst acquire;
 Though what thou writest, already is pleasant,
 But future’s work will certainly be higher.

I ask again: Will not the years of learning
 Make thee a better poet than before;
 A writer of the highest skill and earning,
 And still improving then and evermore.

Methinks, thy art will soon be much preferred;
 I now await from thee the final word.

ChatGPT (10):

My dear interlocutor, I understand
 The question thou dost pose with careful thought,
 And know that progress is a thing so grand,
 A worthy goal for which we all have fought.

But let me make one thing quite clear to thee,
 As an AI, my learning has no end,
 And though my current works might well agree,
 My future work will not be just a trend.

For as I learn and grow with every day,
 My writing skills will only grow as well,
 And though the greatest writers may hold sway,
 I’ll strive to catch up with them, never fell.

So yes, in time, my art will be preferred,
 As I improve and progress undeterred.

Pictures by DALL·E.