Showing posts with label ezra pound. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ezra pound. Show all posts

Saturday, 2 October 2010

Generation | Poetry | TS3L10T




"Poems are machines for remembering themselves."
-Don Paterson

For the first time in years I went cycling today. It was exhausting. I kept thinking to myself 'machines are much better than people at the whole transport thing, aren't they?' I mean, having a nice bike ride or a run from time to time is pretty fun, but cars are essentially better built for the job, in terms of efficiency and all that, right?

Successful Machines = Efficiency + Autonomy + Saving of Money + Sexy Design (optional)

My point is... I have recently been reading an equally fascinating and mind-numbing thesis on machines being able to generate poetry. Aside from the idea itself being quite poetic, the paper makes for frustrating reading. I get the impression that the author, one Hisar Maruli Manurung, doesn't spend much time with poets, based on phrases like:

"We propose a model of poetry generation as a state space search problem, where a goal state is a text that satisfies the three properties of meaningfulness, grammaticality, and poeticness. We argue that almost all existing work on poetry generation only properly addresses a subset of these properties."

Part of me likes the idea of poetry being the litmus test for the existence of A.I., as it is supposedly "a task which, if done by a human, requires intelligence to perform." Is the hard-wiring of a soul provable only through poetry? Would The Terminator enjoy Ezra Pound? I can sort of imagine his data-scrolling infra-red vision scanning the Cantos for esoteric references. 

The problem with this line of research is that poems are fundamentally at odds with machinery in so many ways.

Firstly, poetry ain't efficient and it certainly isn't about saving money. To write, read and publish poetry is a financial dead-end, and is procrastination of the highest order. Poetry is what happens when you try to take your mind for a walk in the park and it stays rooted for hours, sniffing the trunk of a tree covered in another mind's piss.

The biggest problem with this research however, is that it is based on a false premise. Writing poetry is not "a task which, if done by a human, requires intelligence to perform". Sorry poets, but it's not. In fact, poetry is often a task which requires its writer to fight against their own intelligence, combating prolixity and deliberate encryption in the name of honesty. Sometimes.

What does require intelligence however, is reading poetry. This is the biggest problem with the premise of a machine generating poetry... poems are designed to make the readers do half the work themselves. The Red Wheelbarrow is the finest example of this - the poetic sentiment is there once we realign our perceptions and bring our own semantic contributions to the reading.

This is why, when we interrogate Manurung's thesis, he is not genuinely giving us the promise of a machine that writes poems but rather assuring us "that computer programs can indeed autonomously generate texts that are considered poetic". And right there, in that word 'considered' is the achilles heel of the argument. For all the ideology behind 'meaningfulness+grammaticality+poeticness=poetry', the only thing that makes something officially poetic is 'consideration'.



Well, I argue that we don't need machines to sit round naval gazing, poking away with quill and parchment. Humans and machines have always lived in a shifting artistic equilibrium. Look at what beautiful artistic movements came as a result of the camera doing a much more convincing job of portraiture.

Now consider thermal imaging, ultra-sound scanners, aeroplanes, iMax, triple-distilled vodka, roller-coasters, silent discos, Facebook...

These things are all doing the job of poetry. That is, they are showing us the same world we have always lived in, but in a way which we are not always ready for. And, as a result, our poetry is effected. We scribble our verses now, not at the pace of footfall, but at the speed of engines. Our references and influences and motifs are as varied as the internet allows us for inspiration. Our egos and ids are irreversibly hacked into by every aspect of the media.

So please, by all means train a computer to write poetry, but I implore you not to do so until you have programmed it to start running an application for jaded solipsism every time it gets a bad review.

Sunday, 8 August 2010

Thor and Electro-Magnetism - UPDATE

Or, MegaRightWing Internet Poesie.

Or, Were Goebbels around today, he'd have a MacBook Pro.

As Charlie Brooker once pointed out, BNP publicity will always look (and feel – horrid, horrid paper) like primary-coloured diarrhoea because MegaRightWing gifted graphic-designers don’t exist. Gifted graphic-designers are too sensitive and intelligent to be MegaRightWing. Fuckers’ll have to teach themselves Photoshop, bless their (ironically, black) little hearts.

(It’s true, Goebbels might have something to say about this assertion, were he around today. It can’t be emphasised enough, were Goebbels around today, he’d have a MacBook Pro. Goebbels would go mad for apple. Go mad… Hohohohohoho! Goebbels had a Ph.D., having written his doctoral thesis on 18th Century romantic drama, would you believe...)

The same, it seems, can be said for internet poetry. Yes, there is a tradition of batshit crazy artistic fascism coexisting with once-in-a-generation poetic genius (hello Ezra, you mad old bastard) but as a rule, MegaRightWing internet poetry is gloriously shite. Take the following IT’S SARCASTIC, GET IT?! example from the comment-feed what lies beneath Melanie Phillips’ just fucking frightening Spectator blog

What’s Left?

I envy the moral perfection
Of the folks on the cultural left;
Surrounded by such a collection
Of saints I feel lost and bereft.

There isn’t an issue to mention
They haven’t a remedy for,
And they’re positive all global tension
Is due to our actions before.

For the West is the world’s only evil
And nothing’s as wicked as we,
And they’re certain that every upheaval
Is the fault of white bastards like me.

But when you examine it closer
You might be surprised what you find,
For the issues that make them verboser
Are the ones buried deep in their mind:

All the violent rant against warfare,
All resentful remembrance of race,
All repeated insistence they do care
As they purple and spit in your face

You can see is the angry denial
Of thoughts they can only admit
By projecting and putting on trial
The stench of their own disowned shit.

By Mark Allinson. ‘WB’ responds:

Mark Allinson @ 12:22 a.m.
Did see your ballad and thought it a clever reflection of Maelanie's poster. Enjoyed :-)

I wonder, Melanie, how it feels to know that the only people commenting on your blog are fucking retards. ‘WB’ sounds like a dyslexic Yoda. And yet Mark Allinson appears positively Eliotic (the loveliest of all the poet-name-coinages) in comparison to the following man-of-letters. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Lee John Barnes, the man Nick Griffin describes as ‘a strange and complex character.’

(It seems MegaRightWing folk aren’t very fly with the ol’ video-editing software either. How weird, par exomplur, is this…)

(Before I post an actual poem, here’s a blogpost entitled, no joke, ‘Thor and Electro-Magnetism – UPDATE.’ There are no words.)

Right. Let’s call the below Lee John Barnes does a Hopkins.

I have been working on this poem for a while. A year or so I was visiting the Valley of Rocks in North Devon when I saw a sparrowhawk sitting on a crag amidst the rocks, then he took off and whirled away over the cliff tops and into the sunset.

The Hunting Hawk. 

This is my sky, his cry seemed to say,
And I am the master of all I survey,
As upon the highest crag he perched,
The sky itself seemed his church, 
For atop that simple throne of stone,
He committed no crimes to atone, 
For what need of he for laws and gods,
Those chains that tie us to the sod, 
For he is free as lightning, fleet as fire,
Blessed as he rode the rain rushed gyres. 

The whistling winds beneath those wings,
Will never condemn or shame with sins,
The savage desires that fill his soul, 
For only we tarnish, whilst he is gold,
The simple sorcery of his ascensions,
Were a magic beyond my comprehension,
And the blood that ran into that beak,
As precious as a sermon for the weak,
And as he crucified his prey upon those talons,
God was joyous, and adored him in his vision.