For whatever reason ChatGPT won't let me in. I have tried many times to sign up with it but no - it refuses to let me in. Perhaps it recognises me as a potential threat because of my non-artificial intelligence.
Anyway, yesterday my lovely daughter Frances sent me a poem about Sheffield that ChatGPT had produced for her. It was the first AI poem I had ever read and though it was in a traditional rhyming style, it still had plenty of merit. There were a few things I might have tweaked but overall I was pretty impressed.
As you know, yesterday I blogged about a signpost in Staffordshire so I asked Frances if she could make me a new poem: "The poem should concern a moorland signpost at a lonely crossroads in Staffordshire". In ten seconds ChatGPT made two long poems for her but this was the one I preferred - again in a traditional format - what many people would think of as "real poetry".
I guess I am nit-picking but I am not sure what "heathered hearse" means and I would also quibble about "lost and cope" but remember these are in fact the early days of Artificial Intelligence and ChatGPT was only launched seven months ago! Like the Sheffield poem, this "creation" also has real merit...
The Signpost
In Staffordshire's moorland, bleak and wide,
A signpost stands with quiet pride.
At a lonely crossroads, it marks its place,
Guiding lost souls through nature's embrace.
Weathered and worn, its timber frame,
Whispers stories of travelers who came.
Whence ancient footsteps wandered near,
To seek solace or destiny clear.
Its fingers point with steadfast grace,
Paths diverging in endless space.
To the left, where heather blooms entwine,
A tranquil path, where dreams align.
To the right, a rugged, winding trail,
Through untamed beauty, both rough and hale.
Where nature's secrets lie untold,
In untamed whispers of days of old.
Straight ahead, an unknown road unfurls,
Inviting wanderers to new worlds.
Adventure beckons, tempts the bold,
With mysteries waiting to unfold.
At this moorland crossroads, the winds converse,
Their tales carried across the heathered hearse.
Whispering echoes of ancient lore,
Embracing wanderers seeking more.
The signpost stands, a stoic guide,
In Staffordshire's moorland, far and wide.
Its presence kindles a flame of hope,
To those who wander, lost and cope.
So if you find yourself at this crossroads rare,
Pause and ponder, for a moment, there.
Let the signpost's wisdom be your guide,
Through Staffordshire's moorland, far and wide
from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/T1dUP2D
