Using cutting edge technology to write poems.

Yesterday we got access to OpenAi software. The access to this technology is very limited so we were lucky to have access to it. We had to feed the AI parts of poems, in the hope it would recreate a new one. I chose the poem Flanders Field, because of the link with my hometown. Together with Budhaditya and Ayesha we combined the poems together. :

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 

The view of the mountain range may be so beautiful

To see it the waves of water again and again rising be

The verdure may be asleep in the lap of the earth

Water running through the bushes may glistening be

Again and again the flowered boughs touching the water be

As if some beauty looking at itself in mirror be

Once I leave this body of mine
Am I not going to return to this world?
Let me return one more time
In one wintry night
With the tragic flesh of a cold orange
By the bedside of a dying acquaintance

The result that the Ai gave based on them was very interesting:

The vivaciousness of the sunlight on the skin. The loneliness of the thistle with only thorns to feed it. The wind was playing the chime. The bird escaped on the tree that shed tears on the rock. My eyes open at the sight of the cherry blossom. When the breeze rises red blossoms fly away like swordfighting ninjas. The mountain’s cloud shadow is cast on the stone in the water basin. A water bug is dropped and sinks into the blotchy ceiling of the sleeping quarters.

O vision of my city, Yesterday you lay anew, Tomorrow you’ll be dusty, Ever at the end of your road, Meet me there then, the hour of dying

 If King Solomon’s head were on my shoulders

I’d execute the Rulers of horrid hell.

I’d make a canal from the Euphrates

I’d save all beasts from fire and sword;

I’d live by meditatin’ and perusal

Creatin’ all the time and waitin’ for duplexion;

I’d mend the broken heart and give it serenity.

How intoxicated were those spring hours

When everything burnished itself flamingly for love,

How dear these twilights when a passion for desires took hold.

O ignorance! O madness!

How inconsolably scarlet

Are those dreams of ours that time

Goes on exhausting

These were some parts I had. Together with the results of the others we combined it to this poem:


The mist in the distance has already subsided, The insects retreat too , – the stream is lonely and serene. The black boat floats, in lonely vigour. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain! Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead, O vision of my city, Yesterday you lay anew, Tomorrow you’ll be dusty, Ever at the end of your road, Meet me there then, the hour of dying

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