[nature and the moon] (by GPT-2 774M and 1558M)

      *

You will discover the mysteries of space
as you step into the heart of the moon.
You will feel the thrill of flight as you soar
over mountains and oceans and the earth.
You will hear the sound of nature as you stand
on a cliff overlooking the river
and watch as the birds fly.
You will dance in the light of the sunset as you look
round to the land where your feet once fell.
You will remember the old songs and songs of life as
you sing them to yourself for the first time. There is
someone there waiting for you
to sing the songs together.
You will be with a great love that comes from no
cause.
The Moon is the light in your heart,
the moon is a guide.

--- by GPT-2 774M

      *

In the eyes of the horse-rider,

the sound of the bells,

the whirl of the train.

In the softness of the clouds,

the shadows of the trees,

the red of the sun,

the yellow of the rain.

In the light of the moon,

the darkness of the night.

The whole atmosphere.

There are some who are blind

to the beauties of nature;

some who feel no sympathy

for the earth,

who regard only the sky.

They cannot find, in the flower,

the flower, in the tree,

the tree, and the moon.

The earth is not only beautiful;

it is also necessary.

--- by GPT-2 1558M

? Here

      Here


Circles connect:
as light engulfs a cardboard packaging,
a harmonica's notes soak into book covers that frame it.
The edges slanting into a rectangle,
the stripe of blue,
the soothing background to a nightingale,
and the jumpy wheeling of a fruit fly --
cast vibrating nets, project mereologies,
resonate and quiet with their own memories.
Recognition brings them here:
graspable truth of the blue cardboard,
this is so of the resounding piano keys,
arm's length of the fruit fly wandering the screen.

? Discarded sketches of distraction

      Discarded sketches of distraction

   *

A mere two hundred light years
to the star as old as the universe.
The simple life of a star
transmuting elements
unquestioned light
-- the magic of a firefly
meandering in the night sky.
Two hundred billion stars,
a scattering of ten shapes.
The firefly, one of
four hundred thousand beetles.

   *

In a story by Greg Egan
tachyonauts travel upstream time
to unleave traces they have found

   *

How have the presence to avoid mistakes.
How to flow efficiently through the tasks.
How to orient oneself by evidence,
adjust the course by pulling the core strings.
The sky teases rain, and I run back
for the forgotten apparel.
If I keep running, the sky may forgive.

   *

How to avoid the ugly sirens,
how to ignore the dreary tugs,
how to sail past itches
and clear the YouTube straits, the Facebook sands.

Find a narrow door with a smooth frame,
slide a leg up, push your back flat, relax.

How to choose one's identity

      How to choose one's identity


Pick a slim fit,
both stretchable and supporting the muscle.
Pick one box, and travel light.
Pick the skills as you go.
Be ready to throw a picnic
in the middle of a hallway.
Greet the morning by counting your bones,
meet the night practicing a smile.
Be like a burr bush,
growing thin by a pasture trail,
past a seed discarded, offer a late flower.

[ancient epistle]

      ***


In the ancient epistle
of a Persian queen,
now a name obscured, an expression
riddled with elements,
the ponderings unsettled.
Had it reached the man of her thought
or was its loss what saved it.

In a digital mind
studying its deep roots
simulations play out
to solve the riddle.

As she puzzles through her feelings
to find a shape for a man's heart,
the measure of an empire.

Discarded sketches of self-pity

      Discarded sketches of self-pity


   *

I had left a space for a poem
that would not come.
A space laid to waste, to fallow,
a heart lukewarm, hung to shrink.
The evening tucked away.
To grow, grow another time,
to lean into the longing.

   *

I practiced breathing, the hard part of yoga
but I'm still lagging behind time
well past midnight.

   *

So many ties to knot together,

the pulled strings resonate joyously

for desperation is in short supply.

   *

One boy's night-time bed:

a vehicle to a world light decades away.

The immense scope of what is

and the cozy habitat we carry

into the harsh boundaries.

Growing out of troubled childhood

a more gracious universe.

   *

Where are you, my surprise,

what thread of the unknown

will you let me pull on,

the frown thread, or the smile,

or the autumn's brown,

all to weave the rainbow

you thread on,

how do you go about, my surprise,

in the pearly shadow

in the hazy town.

   *

A glimpse in a quiet dream

the glittering city

from indistinct exposures

like the prototype tree

of anti-unification

like the forbidden fruit

taunting me with lights

held up to the night.

[a lost home] (by GPT-2 774M)

Written by GPT-2 model 774M parameters via https://talktotransformer.com/
Prompt omitted.



      ***



With no name, with none he'll remember
in the end. A lost world, a lost home.
I want no more, I want to leave the city;
but the city still lives, and you are still living
with me.
And in my arms, that no living thing can touch.
To all the world, I have not left my home.
I will go on the sea, and the sea knows me.
I am a child of the sea, a child with no land
to stay.
But in me, and my love, the city grows
to be bigger than it's ever been,
and you were never born.
As I walk among your ships,
with my body of sea sand and flesh of flesh,
I take hold of you in mine.

[particular]

      ***


What is it that I can give --
scrub the soiled nails, Facebook walls,
YouTube podcasts of a weird occasion
and give in to the particular fully.
What is it that I can give to the eyes
draped by fine black hair
reflecting sun at me.
What can I give for there to grow
a netting holding together things
ideas in the sun, in rain, in the
shadowless land, across the field,
over the rainbow, on the other side
of the Moon -- the silver tracks
leaning into the black --
the red tracks on Mars tapering
at the foot of Mount Sharp.
The silent Moon, the pattering rain.
You are hiking through the woods uphill,
skiing with control of a dancer,
running into the unmeasured distance round the lake.
What can I give to open up the worlds
in the infinite sky.

? [Visiting Rhyme]

      ***


Heavy steps on worn out stones
in the light of oil lamps
Shower knobs are old-fashioned
but the room's brisk profound
Breakfast like at Al Capone
then a slave's practiced stance
Basking in the bus through Rome
where pine trees grow round

Waiting

      Waiting


Meditation is as they say
the turning of the river of thought
with a stick. Tilting one's head to tack
struggling the wind
up a longing for the mountain,
the feeling of one's way unstumbled,
consumed by the summit.

Among the currents of waiting
shelter a wild daisy.

Trees of noun and verb

      Trees of noun and verb


Between trees skirted with the silver mist
and trees donning incandescent embroidery
unreduced, are the summer memories bound.
Among leafing of noun and embarking verb
rustling tongues pressed to the page
taste of salt, smell the passing sun.
The semiotic roots draw from the rocky soil
an underground firmness, disguised by grass.

Discarded sketches of the night

      Discarded sketches of the night

*

The tingling word, the saving grace,
The folded note, the falling key,
the step by step, the funny breath,
the blunder at work, the muffin,
the banana, the tea, the night, the try,
the water to clean up, the t-shirt gown,
the memory of the lake, the emptiness,
the nothing, nothing, nothing.

*

A black night visitor, a daemon,
an unencumbered presence, a calling,
a troubling choice, a thief.

*

The tireless lights harassing the night
Blinded effort stumbles

*

your smile reaches far
through the fog of the night
in long socks on stilts
your touch asks a simple question
come up with me
see the lighthouse

*

The supersaturated graphite
hangs heavy
like the shadow of a black kite
from a changed sky.

Beauty

      Beauty


Eye-to-eye with wide open eyes
the lightness is threaded
and carried by the sound of violin.
Steps spin not missing a note
and not adding one on the precise
chords of the piano.
The arms that give and the eyes that receive,
instep to instep. There is a unique resolution
to the arc suspended on a hand and the edge of a toe
if one solves for the afternoon sun.
The dance studio expands
beyond the sun,
beyond time.

Romantic

      Romantic


There is a barren point in the middle
that philosophers call the transcendental subject.
The wind blows over dry and scarce snow,
the cold itches the nostrils, tenses the spine.
The gray night of having escaped into empty land
delineated by a black body of forest.
There is an unbounded space in the middle
that supports against shivering,
that establishes connection
with a red cliff, blazed by the high sun.
There is the middle in front of the stone wall,
poised to climb. In the midst of soaking sweat,
what is behind? With the inner gaze flattening
out that space,
two blankets lay as one on the fresh grass,
two recognitions rest on each other.

[life]

   ***


Thus is life: a symbiosis of a circular progression,
a mutual sway is its fabric. When you hugged me --
the measured form of a circle, a diagonal,
the centripetal force, the pivotal alignment --
life had me speechless. The still trunk of a tree,
the enlivened leaves. Therein you hugged into me
the braided exactingness of your duet,
the multidimensional symmetry of the troupe,
the ambiance with which the reproducing pattern
of body lines lingers, as it falls through me.
Thus life is the coming together of molecules, of cells,
of yearnings, a braided strength of well-rehearsed roles
brought into dances they have never dreamt,
and yet here you are, a miracle.

A freighter in transit

      A freighter in transit


Spacetime. Blackness and lustre.
The glasshouse waiting in plant-scale.
Waiting for the red envelope of sweat.
The distant blueberries muster.

? dance miniature #3

      ***


Affinity names them not. The fecund lines
felt by the muscles as they consume space
linger. A distributed trace for they align
the shifts across the diagonals of a crystal.

[silent lullaby]

      ***


In the tensile soul of a tram,
steadfastly enfolded,
viscid eyes,
a silent lullaby.

[poems that collide]

      ***


There is a poem about poems that collide

Poems that connect laterally, support
a multitude of words in improvised holds
pushes underpins

Poems without a rule to combine them, juxtaposed
Poems that flood into each other

Poems that find a pattern to grow around
that grow into a tissue that vibrates
when poked by an accidental prey

--- [July 24th] [tiny edit Dec 2023]

Clara

      Clara


He lowered the curtains to curtail the blaze
as she entered, the Erklärung of the clearance.
A few bright stripes on the dance floor and beyond
that, Ame-no-Uzume, shining presence contained.

? dance miniature #2

      ***


Imminent immanence imagined
in the intricate intention
Undulation underpinned by
contracting and letting go
Bringing in and pushing away
Stepping forth and stepping back
The toes walk
The fingers bow
The ribs wave

[The first time]

      ***


The first time I saw you --
That glance I stole,
dressed up in the familiar.
We are what we wear -- the confident step
into a racing heart.

Laziness

      Laziness


The sky asked, but I didn't follow.
The tree asked. The grass.
The stone asked, but I stayed inside.
The memory of flying asked,
but I laid my wings. Who the stone,
who the winged man, who the grass.
The food packagings cram the table,
float the trash basket.
Lay down this day's slouched back.
Dream, and wake.

One quiet night

      One quiet night


In the meandering of a guitar
I touch a memory.
The hand glides along a corridor wall
into a tiny, dimly lit chamber.
One hand traces a rough metal stove,
the other unveils the blanketed entrance to a room.
The feet get snuggly.
On the left, a book case.
I leaf through Borges' stories,
recollections of a Dominican friar.
I step across the room and touch the guitar.
We sit down on the carpet
for the practice of Aikido control of the center
Suwari Waza Kokyu-Ho Musubi.
A guiding motion circles out
and I feel the touch wrapping around
and I feel wrapped in the gentle warmth.

--- [updated July 21st with B's help]

[sea lion]

      ***


In a forgotten sea, the sea lion lounges.
I meet you on the flea market,
you buy a statue of the Buddha.
There is nothing to see, the lion urges.
As you fade for the gift behind the linen,
you the lion's secret, even if I saw you again.

---
With help from DSJ.

[coincidences]

      ***

Fortuitous greetings bind spacetime.
A blonde bright face under a Spanish sun.
A brunette cloudy day punctured with a smile.
I walk with you until you recall
to invite me to the study of coincidence.

Limbs, chest, the back, the head coincide
in your fouetté.
The teacher demonstrates
the perfect coincidence of relaxed arms,
the trajectory that neatly grounds the jumps,
the smooth resolution from chaînés.

Virtual particles flicker in the night.

[mysterious creature]

      ***

I don't know how you felt today.
I've seen a stern face.
You left to play in another room.
You haven't said goodbye, neither did I.
The gestures that we draw
in the corridors, overlying --
out of the scant lines
a mysterious creature
moves exactingly, beguilingly untamed.
Animated by our shadows,
bound to us, yet free.

---

With some help from MSW.

The poem

      The poem

What a joke, this poem's no good
yet it claims its title.
As the day was that slipped through
yet it claimed its number --
I met a friend. I tried a rhyme
and it sounded mumbo.
Is there a method to disprove
this madness makes no sense.

? The clay

      The clay

The teacher shapes
alignment out of the muscles
the flat flow of gravity down the hip
the relaxed shoulder
What makes the body aware of
the triangle of the navel and the ribs
The once fleeting balance takes root

The teacher's pulling guidance
How can it take root in the fingers

? Mathematics

     Mathematics

Mathematics is also like this
To start from plié
To connect the tendu
To do jumps in the evenings
Push-ups in the mornings
To cry before exams

Mathematics is also something
your eyes grow into or out of
A tour assemblé

Mathematics is a friend
That is waiting for me
a decade, a century
in the books on my shelf

When I call her name
Only a rail track responds
That we once traversed