Did you know that some AI chatbots are happy to write poems “in the style of” a particular poet?
Earlier this week, I asked the chatbot known as Microsoft Bing Copilot to write a poem “in the style of” X. P. Callahan.
“I’m sorry,” Copilot replied. “I have never heard of X. P. Callahan.”
But I persisted.
What follows, title included, is what Copilot wrote “in the style of” me.
A DIARY POEM FOR FEBRUARY 21
I woke up to a snow-covered morning1
The sun was a pale disc in the sky2
I put on my boots and my coat3
And walked to the nearest coffee shop4
I ordered a latte and a croissant5
And sat by the window, watching the cars6
I opened my laptop and checked my email
There was a rejection from a literary magazine7
I felt a pang8 of disappointment
But also a surge of defiance9
I closed my laptop and took out my notebook10
And wrote a new poem, better than the last11
I finished my coffee and my croissant
And paid the bill with a smile12
I walked back to my apartment13
With a spring in my step14
I was a poet,15 and nothing could stop me
Not the snow, not the sun, not the rejection16
I had words, and they were powerful
They were my diary, and they were my life17
The ground, the rooftops, the trees—these were not snow-covered. No, the snow covered the morning. All of it.
A disc, mind you—not a rectangle, not a rhombus. And, mirabile dictu, it was in the sky. The sky!
In that order.
A distance of almost four miles, all without sidewalks. A large portion of the walk required me to navigate dirt roads (snow-covered, of course). My journey lasted an hour and twenty minutes. I was more than ready for a latte and a croissant.
Didn’t I tell you?
There is no better place than a window seat for watching cars. This principle applies to air travel as well.
From the Taco Bell Quarterly? Watch this space.
Not for nothing have I vowed to call my eventual slim volume of sensitive verse Still Life with Pangs and Box of Wine.
I will survive. I will live más (hopefully without salmonella, tasteless fibers, industrial additives, and other elements of the “Secret Recipe”).
Every poet needs a laptop and a notebook.
I should hope so.
When has that ever happened?
Every real poet lives in an apartment. That’s a job requirement. The apartment should be somewhat squalid, verging on fetid, as befits a starving artist. If the poet is a New Formalist, however, an apartment that can be described as “shabby but clean” is acceptable (but note that there have been no new New Formalists in nearly forty years).
Nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night.
A life free of terminal punctuation.
Spit laughing over the notes!
OMG! this is SO FUNNY! Thank you! of course the notes make it all a perfect poem. ha!