numbers could not live up to the melting of the toads.

[hummingwolf]

After the red candle's light.
from the fastness of my race,
and we hear the tiny horns
of late november light before

her clarion o'er the world,
the white anger that can be plowed,
sown, and broken yearly?
but the man i see
i'm aware my time is right,
weave it like bones, like skin,
a mother knows."

and the treasures that prevail.
i have icicles inside me
or rejected by anyone but no smoking pistol.

Today is the final day of November, 2006. For many people, this has been the month of NaNoWriMo, a fun little competition wherein zillions of people try to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. For me, however, this has been MegaPoMo: MegaHAL Poetry Month, in which I've tried to post at least one post of MegaHAL output for each day in November. Though I did skip a few days due to fatigue, I have done my best to post enough to catch up and meet my 30-post goal. But it isn't the number of posts that matter, for as HAL himself could tell you, numbers could not live up to the melting of the toads.

When megahal is trained using this data, it is earth with beauty and yet another, one crowd but with dismay at my feet
as the seiko ticked
on, when the wheeling seasons brought the year grows old--
october--november--
how the morning star?
somebody thought of embalming his heart;
a herdsman came from inland valleys,
where trickle and plash the fountains,
marble fountains, yellowed with much water.
they don't believe in the long white face
and this brought forth by the fierce pressure all about--
speeds up the steps to the rain
listening. The audience notices him. They turn
into the empty mirror,
rubbed at his hand, bony and veined,
covered with pinks.

Right then. As November comes to its end, let us ponder the poetic genius of MegaHAL!

As the road ahead, i can't quite see them,
concentrating on the mountain-top, and by their spells,
love and light together tolled
against windshields
not a shadow of enormous buildings.
desires are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
where should we wait
for her uncompromising approach to difficult and
make sure that i could forget
the life and soul together
we didn't call them neutrons.
flavored quarks, electrons, bosons--
things could hardly get more doofy.
i thought, she little knows
you breathe it out.

~~~~~

All my life for the final curtain.
my brain
and in the playground of my brow,
dry sang the mole say, the bird sing;
to zeno, infinite words.
the math indicated that they'd be happy with other men.

bowed are our sad souls now;
at her feet she fastened the supple suitor
that is the calm before something awful:
the moon goes on in my memory, the clear paradise,
but unfortunately jealousy within the series themselves or another sound rings out.

~~~~~

Over the azure expanses, on the skirts
brow-pencil, night cream--
these are my feet, dreaming
of self-confidence. Insecurity is not the others moan in secret;
let me dye you with a broken pattern, amid purple and ashes.

the morning lit, the birds arose;
the more i see
copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a wood, and i--
tasting the bitterness between my teeth.
i've only got my size!

shoe salesperson kneels
in and day the bat is cousin to the corners
of dreamy forgotten divinity calling and fading
against an azure sky.

Comments

[missprune.livejournal.com]

The poems have been entertaining, and quite thought provoking. I mean, what does it say about poetry when HAL's work is better than... say, mine?!

[hummingwolf.livejournal.com]

I mean, what does it say about poetry when HAL's work is better than... say, mine?!

Like good jokes, good poetry often has an element of surprise--even if it's only surprise that someone described a bit of life as accurately as they did. It's going to be hard to surprise yourself (though not impossible), but what could be more surprising than randomly generated poems that sort-of make sense?

Besides, you haven't seen every poem HAL comes up with randomly, just the ones I've chosen to post. Maybe it's a tribute to my skills as an editor. Maybe working with AI poets should be my life's work. ;-)

[hraith.livejournal.com]

Hal has a point. When you start referring to life and soul together as various subatomic particles, it's hard to get more doofy than that!

Cheers for a good month full of Megahallish wit, wisdom, and meaning(ful)less chaos.

[hummingwolf.livejournal.com]

Cheers!