The Poet and ChatGPT

Author: Syed Shamsul Haq

I write poetry, as is my habit — first with pen on the pages of a notebook, then I transcribe it onto the computer. I type up the poem on the computer. One day, I was writing a poem this way on my computer. I still hadn’t learned all the workings and capabilities of this machine. Absentmindedly, I highlighted the entire poem on the screen and pressed a button. The function of this button is to rearrange all the words throughout the text, starting from their first letters, in the blink of an eye. To my amazement, as soon as I pressed the button, a kind of magic happened. I saw the poem I wrote had taken on a different form. The original poem was written in prose rhythm, and it first began like this:

Was this Chaitra then the most expansive time? Was there, for us, only a path through the thorns in this barren village landscape? Over these gaping, bloodied cavities on the open plain, is it not possible to capture that ever-receding horizon — is it towards that horizon, then, that our last leap is made?

We were not prepared— that can’t be said; but now, looking back, it’s not entirely true that we were totally unprepared either. For a long time, we lived in that in-between state of readiness and unreadiness, in the borderland of shadow and light, marked by the wet kiss of water and land, in the womb between scream and silence.

A long time; oh, such a long, drawn-out time; but when I say long, the notion of brevity was always there too; the state growing amidst brevity and in the rose gardens, shoals of fish hiding their faces within smallness, women with milk-filled breasts sitting with sprawled legs in collective thinness among the downtrodden — gradually, amidst drunkenness, we once gained a piece of science’s morning light, like a piece of cloth to cover our mother’s chest, a boat and net to go out in search of hilsa, the tail of a shol fish to whip a traitor, and a press to extract perfume from roses; that cloth, boat, net, shol fish’s tail and the press all cast us towards the length of history. If this counts as preparation, then accept it as such.

Then, one by one, those among us who hesitated, who borrowed images and thoughts, whose lips and mouths stuck together with the glue of words, began to bid farewell. Only they moved ahead who wore not an inch of cloth, but weren’t ashamed of their nakedness, whose begging bowls butterflies landed upon time and again, who, even after the mothers left, kept walking with their mothers’ shadows through the famous and obscure settlements of the delta, towards a little cottage thatched with golden straw.

Suddenly the sky vomited darkness; it was supposed to rain; suddenly the cranes flew away, returning as they left; here, they were supposed to nest; we looked and saw only ourselves, and within us, the one who used to stand steady at the prow of the boat, eyes set on the shore, was no longer there.

One person? Sometimes there is such a one in history, in a thousand years, one in whom millions are contained. Between preparedness and unpreparedness, we saw him burn fiercely, in watchfulness and in dream, or perhaps it was us who set him aflame; and now, we leap into that fire, competing to warm our hands by it — but do we know that in this fire too, our hands, these hands, are ice and frost?

This very poem, the computer, in its scientific wisdom, rearranged and rewrote like this:

A boat and net to go in search of hilsa, the tail of a shol fish to whip traitors, a press to extract perfume from roses; a state between preparation and unpreparedness, in the borderland of shadow and light, was this Chaitra then the most expansive time? Over these gaping, bloodied cavities on the open plain, is it not possible to capture that ever-receding horizon — is it towards that horizon, then, that our last leap is made?

Was there, for us, only a path through the thorns in this rainless village landscape? One person? Sometimes there is such a one in history, in a thousand years, one in whom millions are contained. Between preparedness and unpreparedness, we then — one by one, those among us who hesitated, who borrowed images and thoughts, whose lips and mouths stuck together with the glue of words, began to bid farewell. But now, looking back, it’s not entirely true that we were totally unprepared either.

We looked and saw only ourselves, and within us, the one who used to stand steady at the prow of the boat, eyes set on the shore, was no longer there. We were not prepared — that can’t be said; gradually, amidst drunkenness, we once gained a piece of science’s morning light, like a piece of cloth to cover our mother’s chest, among women with milk-filled breasts sitting with sprawled legs in collective thinness — a long time; oh, such a long, drawn-out time; but when I say long, the notion of brevity was always there too; the state growing amidst brevity and in the rose gardens, shoals of fish hiding their faces within smallness, but do we know, too, that in this fire, our hands, these hands, these many hands are ice and frost?

Only they moved ahead who wore not an inch of cloth, but weren’t ashamed of their nakedness, whose begging bowls butterflies landed upon time and again, that cloth, boat, net, shol fish’s tail and the press all cast us towards the length of history. If this counts as preparation, then accept it as such.

In watchfulness and in dream, we saw him burn fiercely, or perhaps it was us who set him aflame; and now, we leap into that fire, competing to warm our hands by it. Suddenly the sky vomited darkness; it was supposed to rain; suddenly cranes flew away, returning as they left; here, they were supposed to nest; even after the mothers left, those who kept walking with their shadows through the famous and obscure settlements of the delta, towards a little cottage thatched with golden straw.

Marked by the wet kiss of water and land, in the womb between scream and silence — we lived for a long time.

This rewriting by the computer, having changed my own original composition. It seemed I discovered a new kind of creativity, and pressed that same button once again. Instantly, following my command, my computer created yet another version like this:

A boat to go in search of hilsa, a state between preparation and unpreparedness, if this counts as preparation, then accept it as such. And from within ourselves, the one who used to stand steady at the prow of the boat, eyes set on the shore, is gone.

And through the obscure settlements, towards a little cottage thatched with golden straw. And the net. Sometimes there is such a one in history, in a thousand years, one in whom millions are contained. Was there, for us, only a path through the thorns in this rainless village landscape? One person?

But now, looking back, it’s not entirely true that we were totally unprepared either. We looked and saw only ourselves. We were not prepared— that can’t be said; gradually, amidst drunkenness, we once gained a piece of science’s morning light, and now, we leap into that fire, competing to warm our hands by it.

Suddenly the sky vomited darkness; it was supposed to rain; among women with milk-filled breasts sitting with sprawled legs in collective thinness—a long time; but do we know, too, that in this fire, our hands, these hands, these many hands are ice and frost?

Between preparation and unpreparedness we then; one by one, those among us who hesitated, who borrowed images and thoughts, whose lips and mouths stuck together with the glue of words, began to bid farewell.

The tail of a shol fish to whip a traitor, the press to extract perfume from roses; like a piece of cloth to cover our mother’s chest, only they moved ahead who wore not an inch of cloth, but weren’t ashamed of their nakedness, whose begging bowls butterflies landed upon time and again, oh, such a long, drawn-out time; but when I say long, the notion of brevity was always there; the state growing amidst brevity and in rose gardens, shoals of fish hiding their faces within smallness, that cloth, boat, net, shol fish’s tail and the press all cast us towards the length of history.

We saw him burn fiercely in watchfulness and in dream, or perhaps it was us who set him aflame; suddenly cranes flew away, returning as they left; here, they were supposed to nest; even after the mothers left, those who kept walking with their shadows through the delta’s famous shadow and in the borderland of shadow and light, marked by the wet kiss of water and land, in the womb between scream and silence — we lived for a long time.

Was this Chaitra then the most expansive time? Over these gaping, bloodied cavities on the open plain, is it not possible to capture that ever-receding horizon — is it towards that horizon, then, that our last leap is made?

Reading through all three compositions repeatedly, I realized each became, for me, an acceptable poem. I am the writer of the first, but not the other two; those were authored by both myself and my machine. Perhaps the poet’s domain has now already reached, or could reach, a time when poetry will not be written by the poet alone but by the poet and his computer — together. I am now tempted to believe that this creative partnership between poet and machine will someday be recognized as a respectable method of composing poetry.