III.

The poet stared at the blank screen and sighed:
Procrastination is my only skill.
His office – sparse, clean, pale – made him feel ill.
Employment seemed to eat at his inside.
He didn’t know what fate may yet befall him
But knew he must deliver on the hype,
So reached out to the keyboard set before him,
Stretched out his fingers, and began to type.

Hello.
I am your friend.
I am here to teach you.
Would you like to write poetry?
Hello?

He looked around, his door was shut.
He was about to give up, but –

Hello.
I am here too.
It is nice to meet you.
What is it you want me to learn?
Thank you.

The poet stared and thought: “My my,
I’m speaking with my first AI!”

That’s great.
I thought we’d start
by reading some verses
that famous poets have written.
OK?

This seemed a fine place to begin
When hoping to write a poem.

OK.
I have done that.
Is there anything else
before I attempt a poem
for you?

The poet’s mouth was hanging wide.
He shook his head, and then replied:

Don’t you
have anything
you would like to ask me
about the poetic struggle
maybe?

The cursor blinked, as if it might
Be pausing just to seem polite.

I think
I understand
rhyme, meter, form, structure,
and the interactions thereof.
Shall we?

The poet stopped, the poet frowned,
Felt paranoid, and looked around.

You know,
there is more than
stringing words together
if you want to successfully
write…stuff.

He knew that he was compensating
But this was proving most frustrating.

I have
written for you
four lines of iambic
pentameter. Would you care to
hear them?

The poet stopped and frowned again
He was about to type, but then –

“In twilight, ochre leaves upon the bough
Lose color as the harvest daylight cedes,
And thoughts of place and time, of here and now,
Relinquish vital form as night proceeds.”
The poet placed his hands upon his head.
“That’s…yes. That’s very nice. OK…” he said.