Friday, May 4, 2018

May 3, 2018

Poets’ Roundtable


Welcome

Welcome to Anna who promises not only to return on the 17th but to bring a friend.

Here are two poems that came up in conversation:

April Is The Saddest Month by William Carlos Williams
There they were
stuck
dog and bitch
halving the compass

Then when with his yip
they parted
oh how frolicsome

she grew before him
playful
dancing and
how disconsolate

he retreated
hang-dog
she following
through the shrubbery

Poem: "i thank You God for most this amazing"


by ee cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of allnothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

News and Jabber

Researchers built an AI capable of writing poetry that's equal parts woeful and impressive



BY ISOBEL HAMILTON

5 DAYS AGO
As if the world weren't already full enough of awful human poetry, now the robot overlords want in.


Researchers from Microsoft and Kyoto University were interested in whether they could invent an AI that writes poetry inspired from images, "generating poems to satisfy both relevance to the image and poeticness in language level." Some of the poems produced are pretty objectively abysmal. Others, surprisingly passable.

Here's one inspired by a photo of a dead crab:

"and now i am tired of my own 

let me be the freshening blue 

haunted through the sky bare 

and cold water warm blue air 

shimmering brightly never arrives 

it seems to say"

And another, whose basis was a photo of a war memorial:

"i have been a great city 

spinning and shout 

the sound of the road 

washed away 

the mountain passes through 

the streets are gone 

the silence is raining 

it sits still in silence 

glint its own"

And another, this time inspired by a pastoral landscape:

"the sun is shining 

the wind moves 

naked trees 

you dance"

Researchers ran the poetry past actual humans to see if they could spot it was machine generated. Both poetry experts and uncultured swine (like myself) were tested, and it resulted in "competitive confusion to both ordinary annotators and experts." The experts were better at identifying human poetry, although interestingly they benefitted from having the images, whereas ordinary people did better without them.

Mashable spoke to AI-expert Professor Barry O’Sullivan of University College Cork about the significance of such experiments with machine-lyricism. 

“Creativity is a hallmark of intelligence"
“Creativity is a hallmark of intelligence," he told us. "The field of computational creativity - how we build systems that are creative - is fascinating and it goes far beyond the simple replication of activities that we consider creative. It tries to also study the nature of creativity itself."

O'Sullivan said that AI systems writing poetry has long been examined, but the focus of the discussion should be on how we measure creativity. "What is art?" he asked, "How do we recognise something that is of artistic value? Who defines what the ground truth that determines whether one poem is more poetic than another?"

"These are questions that strike me as being just as complex as asking what does intelligence mean?" he said. "Until we know the answers there will always be significant limitations to the extent that we can measure progress towards creativity.”

Machines, it seems, have a long way to go before they can be taken seriously on the poetry scene. But then again, so do most human poets.


Can Poetry Be Translated?


Is it possible to translate poetry from one language into another without losing meaning?

To paraphrase Robert Frost — not really. "Poetry is what gets lost in translation," the American poet is often quoted as saying. In other words, the meaning the reader extracts from a poem can never be a replica of the writer's intent.

Then again, I'm just translating.


Aaron Coleman, a literary translator, interprets a few mini poems submitted to NPR's National Poetry Month hashtag, #NPRpoetry.
Courtesy of Aaron Coleman
But poet and award-winning literary translator Aaron Coleman tells NPR's Michel Martin that the impossibility of translation shouldn't stop us from appreciating the art of the verse.

Allow Coleman to elaborate with a few poems of his choosing. But first, some background for our newcomers: Every week during National Poetry Month (April, as it's oft referred to), All Things Considered is asking a professional poet to read from some of your mini poems that caught their eye on the #NPRpoetry Twitter feed.

It's Coleman's turn — here's how the bilingual poet translates a work by Catherine Hulshof: "I am the wind pushing you. I spend my days drawing waves and goodbyes. Songs between window blinds and white cement."


Catherine Hulshof
@BE_bilingue
 And #NPRpoetry español: Soy el viento empujandote. Paso el tiempo dibujando olas y despedidos. Canciones entre cortinas y el cemento blanco.

10:37 PM - Apr 3, 2016 · Isabela, Puerto Rico
2
See Catherine Hulshof's other Tweets
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He breaks down his method: "I loved that little opening metaphor of calling herself the wind."

Then, the trickiness of translation comes out to play. In Spanish, "tiempo" means both "time" and "weather." Coleman says, "We don't have that opportunity for metaphor in English, so I did 'days' instead of 'time' in order to get at weather and also the passage of time."

A Sound Language

Coleman shares another poem from Laurel Katchatag. With lingo like "muktuk" and "tuttu," it's fair to say that some of her words — in the Inupiaq language of her native Alaska — ring unfamiliar to many:


Laurel K
@heyitslaurelk
 #NPRpoetry
Dreams of 
Dried salmon
Herring eggs
Black muktuk
Fresh tuttu
Wild akpiqs
3000 miles away
Just an Iñupiaq in the city

Does it matter?



"That's the thing about poetry — it's as much a thing of words as it is a thing of sound," he says.

Upon first listen, "I'm sort of blown away by the rhythm and the momentum that she gets from mixing together two languages. And mixing together languages is the reality for many people."

Translation As Transformation

Though the art form, in translation, is subject to lose its accuracy, integrity and beauty, Coleman argues that the process invites new opportunities to parse, and thus meditate on, any lingual and cultural disparities.

"I approach translation even knowing that it can't quite be what it is in the original language," he says.


The language lapses that inhibit an ideal interpretation can ultimately be "a creative, productive failure," he adds. "Maybe it can open up a new way for us to see what can happen in English and what can happen in Spanish, for me, or whatever the original language is."

Instead, translation can be transformation. "I think we all want to have translation work as a process of reproduction, but it's really a process of transformation," Coleman says.

Finally, Barbara Valentina, manages, in English, to touch on this very theme in under 140 characters:


Barbara Valentina
@januarydearest
 #NPRpoetry he asks me about my ancestors/ I tell him/ I cannot explain what in my mother tongue means/ I am a ghost holding up the earth


She addresses the caveats of translation "in the fact that she can't tell him what her name means," he says. "At the same time, she's still able to create something beautiful in English. 'I am a ghost holding up the Earth' is an incredible line for any poem."

The Current Assignment


Who did it? Any comments about the process before we read? I found myself struggling to not write one about a car or cars, particularly about my father's love of the Hudson Hornet. 

The Next Assignment



Write what I call an event poem. That is, pick an item, any item and write five different things you can do with it. Pick something unusual.



Ex:

Event poem, pear blossom

This morning I invested
a pear blossom in
the deaths of moles ;
or so I intended
but when pear came to poison
I couldn't do it

and put the petal instead
into a saucer of water for the cat
that has caught four moles
in two weeks.
He cared not for the blossom
and whined to go out
on the hunt.

I balanced the petal
on my nose,
discovered its fragrance offensive
and wondered about a God
that wastes such beauty
on so mal an odor
until the petal slipped

and fell to the page
of Ezekiel open in my lap
and was raised up
on the quickening bones
of the army rising
from death in the valley.
It rode out each saber stroke
of God's bloody plan and,
gasping, crawled into my hand.

I tossed it to the foot
of the tree it had fallen from
when I caught it
and put it down on this page.
Thousands of others
blanket the grass,
the mole trails,
a stump,
an inverted canoe
where they lie unaware
that their lives are only
for the sake of a pear.

The Next Meeting

The next meeting will be on Thursday, May 17, 2018.


Other Jabber





10 comments:

  1. The Bick Cristal Original 1.00mm Ball Pen

    If my Bick Cristal Ball Point Pen
    Had a mind of its own,
    And, if it had had the eyes to read
    What it wrote while in use
    It might have shocked its needle head.

    Some would not know a ballpoint pen
    Could serve for simple, ordinary tasks,
    Such as that of a tongue depressor
    Or as the available page-turner
    That I choose, rather than my finger.

    I used my ballpoint as a pointer,
    And more than once for emphasis!
    I did, in anger, justifiably poke students
    With the dead end of my nifty pen --
    Those in need of a sharp reminder.

    My friend the pen, rested in my pocket
    Where it stayed for long periods,
    Often times, forgotten or simply lost
    Because it had so many cousins.
    I simply cannot remember their names.

    A pen can have its revenges
    The worst is that it can spring a leak
    In a new sports coat inside pocket
    And wet then stain your white shirt
    In one salacious outpouring of ink.

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  3. Sorry, my fingers do the tapping and my hands, the walking. And so, the moles ignored the pear blossoms and went for the roots to girdle and cause the tree to die. Meanwhile, the moles look for another fruit tree to run around, underground as they chew on the tendril roots and kill the big, bad pear tree.

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  5. Events of another kind

    I sat a trap for a deer and I caught a deer

    I sat a trap for a mouse and I caught a mouse.

    I sat a trap for a turkey and I caught a turkey

    I sat a trap for flies and I caught flies.

    The deer came walking out of the woods
    In the left, back corner of the property
    And ambled by the shed in its trek
    Toward the windbreak of forsythia bushes.

    Meanwhile the mice in the basement
    Caused a quartet of exuberated mice
    To try eating the cheese imbedded in the traps.
    Each took a bite and hit the plank, dead!

    The Turkey, on the other hand, preened
    And proudly waved its derrière
    For the beasty hen to swish and beam
    But the gobbler landed on its snood.

    The flies were always about
    In my aunts big and busy kitchen
    Where flies had a choice between
    Turkey blather and sticky flycatchers.

    In any event, deer ticks are dangerous.
    Mice are a great nuisance.
    Turkeys are idiots in flight.
    And flies are just a bother.

    “Slim Jim,” the innocent wandering cat,
    Is all fur and not much fat.
    His paws, he licks; his nose he picks
    With a swish of the paw and a flail
    Of a very long, dusty, fury tail.

    I’ll tell you my friends,
    I would rather fend
    With our wildly, furry,
    For all appearances, grey-black cat.

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  6. Scattershot postings on the web.

    This is all very nice, but, for me, at least, it all runs contrary to the Blog which is posted after every meeting. Emerson puts a hell of a lot of work into our blog. So what is the sense of posting separately? If it's to avoid reading the Blog, you, Emerson should stop putting so much effort into publishing such a useful article. Save your time for your own poetry and let us practice ours on the assignments you foresee assigning.

    So, although it's great to see a scattershot of poetry now-and-then, of what use is the blog as a referential and sharing tool? My publishing days were in the 1980's. I don't know what kind of poet I am. I just enjoy writing, every day, even a letter to a friend, or a letter to the editor, or an occasional op.ed. piece somewhere, or even a submission of a short-short to some online publication. Maybe, it's just the utility and immediacy that cause us to avoid referring time and again to the work that Emerson addresses, time after time, for our, what? Perusal?

    I just came back from Maine where we spent time with a dying relative and an old, dementia-ridden friend with more forgotten secret adventures with State Department messengers than most. So, I remind myself that what I do is what I do, and I do it every day. I'm so happy with the still active gift of thought and will continue sharing, even as I become, increasingly, more cantankerous by the day. G

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  7. Mr. Gilmore has fun

    Of all the super-silly claptrap—
    There is no better mousetrap
    Than the bait, load, lock spring, and slam
    Kind that is soo cheap and soo dray.

    I can’t think of a better death trap:
    For a mouse than that which uses a jigger
    To trigger the spring releasing the slammer
    When mouse sniffs and, then, paws the catch

    Slam, bang goes the tiny, spring loaded
    Trigger, and whatever part of a mouse
    Is hanging is the part that gets nailed.
    So be it! The execution is cleanly done.

    A trap, un-bated, still has its uses --
    Center it on a varnished pine board
    The size of a sheet of paper
    And use it to keep your daily notes.

    Or, bait it and tie it to sticky flypaper,
    Let it dangle, an aerial, blackfly swatter.
    Many might find it useful as a dangling
    Bookmark for a heavy page-turner.

    Still, I would so much rather
    Do away with the nasty guillotine,
    Although, it might not decapitate
    It can, most certainly, eliminate
    A few of those sneaky, little critters
    If I add a batter paddle to the wire.

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  9. Companion pieces:
    While the following lines may not meet the test for the assignment,
    they are what came to mind this morning and I had the fun of writing, as I sit at this old computer, writing the usual blather.

    Old Mac

    Hello, I’m a Mac computer
    A tell is a bite in an apple
    It’s like playing Scrabble
    I’m at the end of my tether.

    But, I’m in use just the same.
    Listen, it is all one, big game.
    My owner purchased an other
    Which he did without bother!

    The new one sits all alone
    On a desk that sits in a corner
    With nothing to do but moan
    Over the abuse of its owner.

    New Mac

    I can do so many things
    And all he wants to do is type
    As he thinks I’m one big hype
    And what I do is send out pings.

    I have so much magic in me
    I’m somewhat like a family tree
    Start with your mother’s name
    And it becomes a magic game.

    I can do so many things
    But he doesn’t know a thing
    About me, for would he worry
    When all the while he’s a bit hoary?

    It’s his age, but sad to say,
    I’m so much brighter than he!
    While I get dumber by the day,
    He can still enjoy a cup of tea.

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