But maybe I'm deviating too much from the thread's content with the aforementioned.

But, the poems are pretty and have their own kind value, yes like a sunset, but also in their own highly novel way. — csalisbury

Sometimes aesthetic the way sunsets are sometimes aesthetic - and since no two sunsets are ever exactly the same ... aesthetic in their own novel ways. Yes. :up: No qualms there.

I think it was David Lynch who compared his process to fishing - & I think that aligns nicely with what you’ve described. The source is a mystery even to the artist, but the conscious mind still plays a role above the ‘pond’, reeling in, gutting, deboning, editing.

I think my personal preference is for a final product that glimmers with meaning, but that I still don’t quite grasp myself, even though it feels complete- and then I want to see if others feel the glimmer too. But that is a personal preference; there is plenty of poetry - Dante comes to mind - that, though wrought of fiery stuff, is still tightly organized at every level in order to convey a specific meaning. I like that too, and deeply admire those who do it well.

Its nice to have such complex aspects of art creation brought up and discussed. — javra

It is!

Massive blogpost analyzing GPT-3 and showcasing examples by the same guy from the OP (which was GPT 2)

I wrote a poem-ish thing today & I figured this thread is as good a place as any to share it:

It doesn't have a title but I guess I'll call it:

Springtime in Sim City (& Environs)

A cry went out in last year’s canyon. A howl of wisdom and regret. Above, the seven birds of prey wheeled languid double helices. The carts in cities trundled forth, their bright wares spilling. All manner of passerby took heed, absolved themselves of accumulated restraint. A whistle blew, then two, and fresh from heaven wan sunlight spread. A sleeping sow awoke to the din of the general rut. You, Michael, wore the suit I always knew you could. As dashing a man has never lived. Your kids in peaking pride cast wide smiles. The confectioner took double orders, and stacked his pastries high. The wind of change blew soft and swift through every housewife. In sum the world, in self-esteem, shook firmly its own hand.

As news unfurled in rhythmic blast, I sorted files in my office, amazed at it all. My very graphs seemed tinged with bluer blues, and redder reds. The thing the gypsy said came true. My suitcase glimmered. A thing like this, a world anew. I counted each and every paperclip. The bounty of a harvest horn. And did she know, or is she still? But who in truth could not be reached? My skin like milk absorbed the glow. I never knew just how she lived.

And farmers lost in last years flood came sodden back to family fields. With pearls in pockets, seaweed beards, they filed into hay-filled barns. A dance the town had never known broke fiercely out and swept the whole into its sway. All cherry-pie, Miss Lucy laughed, and curved her dress into the fold.

In foreign fields, new tracks were laid. A sigil carved by railroad men. the smoke of trains across the land cast signals into silent space, a message sent across the void to reach the hum of alien lands. At polished altars priestly men inhaled an incense new as rain. The funny pages teemed with jokes, and beetle bailey quit the force.

the course of rivers reaffirmed
the census sent to rabbis wives
the x-ray made of angels bones
the passport stamped with cold finesse
the orange market swept and cleaned
the former mayor tressed and curled
the riddle solved with patient care
the doe a deer a female deer
the ray a drop of golden sun

all these and more with fluid grace flowed swift as swallows toward the well.

in troubled times in years to come
when wracked with anger, hate or fear
an anchorite with bend of head
stoops crookedly down winding halls
where masonry gives way to rock
as city wails fade slowly out
the water cold and full and sharp
will reinscribe upon the soul
the signs of things as once they were
the silence of old ciphered joys
lost memories become new seed
to reawait the vital rain.

I like it a lot. Any reason for using prose form and then stanzas?

Thanks man.

No real reason for the form. I had some kind of writing energy that day and wrote a bunch of gibberish that kept shifting around - this came at the end of it and some of that shifting around kept happening. Also, I realized as it went on, that I was falling into a tight repetitive meter and it seemed almost like it made more sense to just break it into individual lines at that point, since it was already becoming that,

[like:

a sigil carved by railroad men
the course of rivers reaffirmed
the smoke of trains across the land
the census sent to rabbis wives
cast signals into silent space
the x ray made of angels bones
a message sent across the land

]

:fire:

Also, I realized as it went on, that I was falling into a tight repetitive meter — csalisbury

I relate to this.

Well, here is another pretty typical example:

No more phrases, Swenson: I was once
A hunter of those sovereigns of the soul
And savings banks, Fides, the sculptor’s prize.
All eyes and size, and galled Justitia,

Trained to poise the tables of the law,
Patientia, forever soothing wounds.

And mighty Fortitudo, frantic bass.

But these shall not adorn my souvenirs.
These lions, these majestic images.

If the fault is with the soul, the sovereigns
Of the soul must likewise be at fault, and first.

If the fault is with the souvenirs, yet these
Are the soul itself. And the whole of the soul,
Swenson,

As every man in Sweden will concede.

Still hankers after lions, or, to shift.

Still hankers after sovereign images.

If the fault is with the lions, send them back
To Monsieur Dufy's Hamburg whence they came.
The vegetation still abounds with forms.

It is kind of impressive, like some sort of weird word music that stays in your mind, but it then falls totally down when you simply ask "what the hell does it actually mean"? Like what does any of that disjointed stuff really mean, Sweden and savings banks and Hamburg abounding with vegetation? A text full of total non-sequiturs that in isolation can sound pretty impressive but don't beginn to make a coherent whole. So, yeah, nice try but no banana.

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Well, obviously not, this is one of my absolute favourite poems - Lions in Sweden by Wallace Stevens. And I have read plenty of learned analysis of the poem, many quite, well, fantastical (not in a good way). Poetry does not have to make total sense (and far from it being "a weak" art form I think it is one of the strongest and oldest), often it doesn't, and it doesn't, totally, here. I see no reason why a random effort could not succeed as brilliant poetry, what we see in this thread are very early efforts, and even they have really lovely lines and cadences. If there ever will be a full AGI, I bet it will do also art better than regular humans (as well as everything else).