This one has a secret.
Sonnet
In summer’s lull, when learning paused its pace, I dealt in princely blades for kitchens’ need. Though none I sold, my heart did hold a place For these, the finest knives in craft and deed. My mother, charmed, a pocket-knife did buy, For father’s natal day, a gift of steel. It came by post, but intercepting, I Tore up the box, the present to reveal. With much ado I shewed the knife’s restraint, Its safety measure proof of worthy build. Alas! my hand did suffer red complaint, And pride as well as blood the dagger spilled. Thus humbled, next I dealt in sweeter trade, In cozy pastry shop my future made.
The secret is that this was written as much by ChatGPT as by me. I rewrote most of the lines, but as you’ll see, the bot got surprisingly far on its own.
This is the first iteration of “Sharp Knife” that I’ve used ChatGPT for. (I’ll tell you if I do it again.) I didn’t expect to. The first popular version, ChatGPT 3.5, was garbage at poetry. It didn’t understand rhyme or meter.
But ChatGPT 4 can — sometimes — passably turn a certain passage of prose into a rough start for a poem. Below is one of the first sonnets it gave me, with only the prompt “Turn the following story into a Shakespearean sonnet:” followed by the original version of the story.
In summer’s cusp, when knowledge paused its pace, I dealt in steely blades for kitchens’ need, Though few were swayed, my heart did hold a place, For these the finest knives, in price and breed. My mother kind, for father’s birth did send, A jackknife gift, with love and tender care, Enroute to where the church’s call did wend, We journeyed swift to air’s celestial stair. In seat beside, I showed the knife’s restraint, Its safety measure, proof of worthy build, Alas! my hand did suffer red complaint, As blood did flow, my foolish act fulfilled. The summer next, with donuts’ sweetness met, Behind a counter’s stand, my fate was set.
It’s not timeless, but it’s in proper ABAB iambic pentameter, and it tells the story, somewhat coherently. I generated dozens more, but honestly, it peaked early.
And then I tweaked, although I’m not sure all my tweaks were improvements. As is abundantly clear, I am not a poet, and I have to put this down and move on to my stupid little stories.
I have lots of thoughts about generative AI and what it will do to the world, and most importantly what it means for experimental writing projects in free email newsletters. But let’s not get into that today. Today, let us find a friend and tell them to…