Dear Friends,

In “Against Breaking: On the Public & Private Power of Poetry,” Ada Limón’s phenomenal closing address as Poet Laureate at the Library of Congress, she discussed those “engines of sound urging us on telling us we are not alone” with exquisite and remarkable insight and sensitivity. Inevitably, she also mentioned that those (rightfully) interrogating the implications of AI have wondered about its ability to write poetry, presumably as a kind of litmus test to gauge—what, exactly?

To see, perhaps, if it has a soul.

Poetry is the surest way we know to ask if something is imbued with the quintessence of life. Conversely, can something that we know is not mimic that state of being? Only a poem can tell us.

And, so, I asked AI to write a Maya C. Popa poem.

First, it goes without saying that I’m unequivocally against the use of AI for this purpose. But I’m also against putting my head in the sand and pretending I don’t see what’s going on. I do see it. My question is always the same: how can we be more thoughtful about what we do, be better spokespersons and advocates for it? How can we protect the spaces that foster poetry? How can we help and sustain other poets? A generation of lamenting, stressed out, doomsdaying writers isn’t going to yield more magnum opuses. It is fundamentally exhausting being in a state of constant fear and horror, as the last few months have shown us.

AI informed me that a Maya C. Popa poem is:

…distinguished by its lyrical precision, philosophical depth, and emotional resonance. She employs vivid imagery and metaphors to convey complex emotions and ideas, often drawing from nature and personal experiences. Her poetic style is characterized by a careful balance between emotional intensity and intellectual inquiry, creating a space where readers can explore profound themes with clarity and nuance.

Ok, this was clearly AI trying to butter me up for the experiment. Next came the actual assignment—could AI produce a Popa poem? And, friends, this is where I learned it could undertake the task and not fail as miserably as I might have hoped:

Small Astonishments
after Maya C. Popa

Today, the sun lit the glass in such a way
I forgave it for everything.

A robin took its bath
in the warped stone basin out back,
thrashing its wings as if joy
were a kind of work
worth rehearsing.

I wanted nothing but to witness.
Even the weeds—lamb’s quarters, purslane—
waved as though they knew
they were wrongly named.

Elsewhere, suffering went on:
the slow engines of grief, the torn nets of hope.
But here—here,
a thread of gold ran through the hours
like a vein of kindness
deep beneath the wrist.

I thought, what luck to be the one
alive just now,
breathing in the honeysuckle,
letting the light undo me
gently.

There are many moments in this “output” that—to my ear and orientation—are overwritten and saccharine. AI is a doer, not a discerner: it doesn’t know where to pull back or how to be nuanced, not really. It doesn’t have its own mind or signature, and therefore no true editor, only the facsimile of a million editorial approaches that add up to some net neutral approach. However, in entertaining this, I learned that AI “understands” how a poem works, at least in theory. It understands that there needs to be a balance between the internal and external, an ostensible and underlying premise, and a turn towards discovery.

What does this mean for poetry?

The question, rather, is what does this mean for how we teach students of poetry, how we model and show them the value that alchemizing experience and wrestling with words to write poetry has to offer their lives. I can imagine that someone desperate for high marks, pressed for time, or profoundly insecure in their own abilities might bring that poem into workshop. I can also imagine an ego-driven writer—one who has lost sight or never quite a had a handle on why we do this—believing this is a reasonable kind of shortcut to drafting. After all, AI did produce a poem in shape, in gesture, in temperament. I would not think twice if this were brought into my workshop—I would like have believed that a human wrote it. And I would help the author dig deeper in places and pull back in others.

What AI cannot understand is why we humans need art. In other words, it cannot understand how to have a soul, or why that soul needs feeding.

So, what does this mean for the soul, which is, after all, what poetry implicates?

Not much. What I get from writing poetry—the self-discovery and self-actualizing, the lingering in beauty and surprise, the thrilling sense that I am creating even amidst despair on destruction—can only be achieved by the work I put in and the hours I spend dreaming and revising. I’m not worried about someone stealing my voice, my style, or my approach, because these are ever-evolving things that surprise me—they are why I show up, to see what I might do, and who I might become through the act of writing. It has given me a life, friendships, purpose, and meaning. It has allowed me to invent and synthesize and to help others do the same. It is my practice, and I would never dream of cheating myself of it.

Before anyone angrily comments that I don’t understand the dangers of AI, let me remind you that, as ever, I’m writing to tease out the part of the problem that we can control, which, for the purposes of this essay, is identifying why we poets do what we do. It cannot be for journal acceptances or the pride of seeing a book on the shelf. I know that it’s not for the writers I work with—what I see most often is that they want, more than anything, to know that it is ok, reasonable, even useful that they are writing.

In other words, more often than not, we want validation and accolades just so we can feel it is justifiable to be doing what we love.

And I’m here to tell you that it is, friends. I’m here to tell you that AI cannot co-opt your you-ness or the person who you will become by undertaking projects with no guarantee of future commercial success. That grit, that joy, that courage we gain by putting pen to paper, by sitting down and listening to ourselves over and over again: that is your own. No machine could ever dream the pain, love, and awe that lines our paths, that precedes and follows us. It cannot know how our ancestors still breathe in our bodies—it cannot have a body. It cannot know the exquisite randomness and synchronicity and sacredness of human life. It will never weep at something beautiful and laugh at something horrible. It is not a creature of paradox, and it will never be a poet.

But you can.

xM

✨ Don’t forget to submit your own poems for Poems for Your Weekend. The May theme is TRAVEL. Submit a poem (your own or one by another poet) here. I will curate a round up that includes poems from this thread on 5/30. ✨

✨ Doors to my writing community Conscious Writers Collective open again on June 1. Poets, essayists, and fiction writers meet five times a month for classes and coaching by me, publishing experts, and some of the best writers in the world. All classes are recorded + membership gives you access to 150+ hours of curriculum. It’s a uniquely supportive, life-changing community. Enrollment is limited. Join the waitlist here. ✨