Happy as a lark, singing

I gave this prompt to an AI engine: "Pavla makes handmade soap doing business as Natural Bohemia." The result was not original enough, but quite nice, well done.

But to make the work my or more original, I gave the engine my lyrics, below for a song called "Handmade Soap".

Pavla works from morn 'til nite

to bring you scents your bod's delight.

She's Nat'ral Bohem, her love's handmade.

But recipes radical fail the grade.

Powers pure prevent the new invade.

TutiFruity soap was a seller--

now outlawed 'cause soap's not yeller.

Best for all is virgin's oil.

It's passed all tests others spoiled.

NB's got a new one she calls Elvis

for washing nether parts of yer pelvis.

Then there's one called bad Basorka,

which colors sport of killer orca.

Wash with it; it smells of musk.

You'll seduce shy ones seeking lust.

Then we have the Mandala one,

to bring your spirits quiet fun.

One sapone its mask's gray rock--

surprise that salt's its building block.

Oils fer lips for kissing moods-- 

fresh at midnight, or your mystic brood.

Refrain

Oh a lip oil, here's her Bloody Mary,

promises sex with those that tarry.

More and more could she say.

Better see what's what o'er that way.

Refrain

Oh a lip oil, here's her Bloody Mary,

promises sex with those that tarry.

More and more could she say.

Better see what's what o'er that way.

Want to hear it? Mostly fluff as you can see, but with a little music and a nice voice, it came out quite well, and caused yours truly to bend over in stitches.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1XSzu1yXGv3C2LuV9L-MALJXcq4CkHm8G/view?usp=sharing

Nothing perfect re-starts

Mind, body, soul, my spirit--
can hardly work all through it.

Soul is what they said I had,
but soiled from first--I was had.

Body added to the mix;
many sins congealed my fix.

Mind I trained to learn this much:
Ignorance--condition's such.

Spirit searched thru practice old,
not yet disclosed man-ee-fold.

My days now few than before,
the parts jumbled still are four.

Would they somehow come to one,
bring the promised peace--we won?

Ancients and all sages said,
truth, beauty, good prep thy bed.

If life we live is the fact,
'fraid I've flailed 'nd failed to act.

So I hope for answers full,
when day is done, all this mull.

Who or what will grant the hope?
Stop these musings and my mope.

The stars disperse these our arts,
nothing's perfect or re-starts.

---

I asked ChatGPT to paraphrase each sentence in this poem. This is the result. Impressive if not as awesome as my humble effort at poetry.

My spirit, mind, body, and soul are so entangled that it's difficult to function properly.

They claimed that I possessed a soul, but it was tainted from the beginning, and I was deceived.

Adding my body to the equation, the accumuI asked ChatGPT to paraphrase each sentence in this poem. This is the result. Impressive if not as awesome as my humble effort at poetry.lation of many sins worsened my condition.

I trained my mind to gain knowledge, but unfortunately, ignorance still plagues me.

Through ancient practices, my spirit searched for answers that are still unknown.

Despite my dwindling days, the four parts of my being remain disconnected.

I hope that someday they will merge and bring the peace I seek.

The wise have advised that truth, beauty, and goodness prepare one's path in life.

However, I fear that I have failed to act upon this truth and floundered.

As the day ends, I hope to find answers to my questions and end my despair.

Who or what can give me hope and bring an end to my brooding?

Our human attempts may fall short, and nothing is perfect or can be restarted.

---

Rewrite this poem in iambic pentameter.

My spirit, mind, and soul, all intertwined,

My body, too, which many sins did bind,

My soul, they said, was pure, but it was soiled,

Right from the start, I was completely foiled.

I trained my mind to learn as much as I could,

Yet ignorance remains, an endless flood.

My spirit searched for answers, old and true,

But many things still yet to come in view.

My days are now fewer than before,

The jumbled parts of me are still at war.

If they could somehow merge and form as one,

My promised peace could finally be won.

The ancients and the sages have all taught,

That truth, beauty, and goodness must be sought.

If life is fact, then I have failed to act,

And all my struggles seem to be intract [spelling?].

When the day is done, I hope to find,

Answers to my questions, to ease my mind.

Who or what will give me back my hope?

And help me break free from this endless mope.

The stars above disperse our human arts,

And nothing's perfect, no restarts or fresh starts.

Hmm. Not as good in my opinion.

---

What is a good title for this poem?

A possible title for this poem could be "The Struggle for Wholeness" as it highlights the central theme of the poem, which is the speaker's attempt to reconcile and unify the different parts of themselves - their spirit, mind, body, and soul - to achieve a sense of completeness and inner peace. The title also reflects the challenges and difficulties that the speaker faces in their journey towards wholeness, as expressed through the various struggles and conflicts that they encounter throughout the poem.

---

What is a good title using the last two lines?

A possible title using the last two lines of the poem could be "Endless Mope, No Fresh Starts" as it captures the sense of despair and hopelessness that the speaker feels in their struggle to find answers and meaning in life. The title also suggests a feeling of stuckness and inability to break free from their current situation, as reflected in the phrase "endless mope," while the phrase "no fresh starts" underscores the idea that there are no easy solutions or quick fixes to the challenges that the speaker faces.

Heritage imperative, or could have been

Take care this and thy own.
Rely on little that you can.
May small seeds each we've sown
bear fruit yes for women, and man.

No savior but me do I see
in this our nest all-messed.
So to myself I must ever be*
help to me and deserved rest.

Model thus, do so I say,
with this belated sight in hind.
Hope's my son his lasting ray.
Best I deem we now are kind.

_____
* To myself I must ever be? I am named after the fellow on the right, my father's (Des's) cousin Jack. I have been John Kevin. Would that I had been called Jack. I would have preferred it, although the results would have probably been the same.

UPDATE, 16.06.23

A philosopher-correspondent wrote that my name change to Fatty Jack was not warranted, nor did John have anything to do with the name Jack. (Fatty comes from a recent diagnosis of a fatty liver--too much beer in my youth, I figure.) I wrote back:

Yes, name is John from which Jack is derived.

From _The Importance of Being Earnest_ by Oscar Wilde

GWENDOLEN. Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations . . . I have known several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment’s solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.

Reading philosophy might be greatly rewarding, but is there any wit and humor in all that heady stuff?

No, give me a good play to read or attend, for that can stimulate the brain and well as the diaphragm--for it's the source of laughter.

Brain stimulation you ask? Note the pun with the name John and the image of a woman's husband always occupying the room with the toilet every time she wants to have a moment's peace.

There's your philosophy byte for the day. Now get back to what you are supposed to be doing. This is all fluff and worthy of delete.

Adieu*

Words I've said made adieu,

truth this stage few are new.

Treasure those that you show,

some're comfort now I go.

You can carefully discern

what I tried, would learn.

Time has worn much I told, 

it never glittered as of gold,

but gave me solice in this storm--

all I offer now at rest.

One or two I thought the best,

so you know or have me known.

They and me in ether be

as long you read--see the left of me.

__________

* A poem "is a mechanism, a kind of a machine. Its parts work both together and against each other so as to exercise the mind of the reader. When you work with it, as you enter its world, you get the literary equivalent of a workout at the gym." From 

"Sonnets Are Machines For Thinking Through Complex Emotions | Aeon Essays". 2023. Aeon. https://aeon.co/essays/sonnets-are-machines-for-thinking-through-complex-emotions?

In the winter of our dismay*

Acting Gandalf? I'm just a guest.

Such a world as this,
slopping 'round in the sty,
to point me's a miss.
Vote for 'nother good guy.

Though we'd have such a one,
what could s/he act'ly do
to make what we made undone?
Fruitless even, ya see, to sue.

Take care this and thy own.
Rely on what little you can.
May small seeds each we've sown
bear fruit for women and man.

No savior but me I see
in this global-all mess.
So to myself I must be
help to us close my own--

Thus model for me 'nd your rest.

_____

* Inspired by misplaced guru status.

Phenomenon of It--DRAFT

I

Cast thine attention to what is important
to see, not understand, clearly for what it is
in your experience--without bias, your own included.

Choose the words to describe that perception.
Almost clarity's the result, if not comprehension,
comprising the what and how exclusive of all you or others
think, or believed or said about, now, the It.

Phenomenology's the process, not the product.

If you talk about it or It and how others experience,
that's a discussion of a subject or synthesis of views
of it and some how of it. Greater clarity perhaps,
and infused with understandings important about
an elusive object, or subject, of our attention.

Descriptive analysis is not phenomenology.

II

Round and round the circle goes,
up and down till it gives you woes.

Now the gyre with the It I would
narrows and points to see the very what it could.

At its center the still clothed stands
to be unfrocked before my truth can land.

Seeming tall and straight--naked now she sits--
with I along to see everything s/he it fits.

What is ever changes it it stays the same,
as I from inside out the circle game.

A game with rules simple strict, to wit--
to the thing itself no foreign nit.

No conceit conceive except to pre-perceive,
tentative hold, 'sans bias' what we re-ceive.

Take not for granted what now you see,
for it is is and not its elusive be.

I would its essence comprehend,
but to describe? it moveth round the bend.

I would put me first and what I saw,
but now the circle's the great big maw.

Before it eats me my mind all up,
Time for dinner. Better pause and sup.

Or do all else while the wine ferments,
you can your gaze from it 'fore relents,

till all is clear as clear it must,
for in study and reflection I verily trust.

And once the gyre turns and says its said I say,
then another sparkly thing can draw all well away.

The poem that I wrote*

On Sunday, November 24, 2019.

This is the poem I wrote the other evening that you asked about. Before reading, you need to know it is part of a novel or drama I am working on about a character, Johnnie Passnstyle. The writing I am doing is like a novel and like a play.

So there is a cast of characters plus a narrator, a kind of chorus figure, in this case a kind of genderless voice. This person stands apart from the others on stage and tells a story, makes comments, introduces action, etc., like in Greek plays and in Shakespeare. Below the poem in its final form plus a kind of translation of the ideas.

[the poem begins]

Unenviable me--my cry of woe--
a choral voice no words to sow.
Without words direct from others?
S/he, that is me, left with druthers.
No wise insights to impart,
from stories! that'd be their start.
Time has passed and passes now,
like waves wash'd against life's prow.

Seasons come and seasons go:
We know not what we would know.

Enviable I, the Winter's Tale, its choral voice,
could accelerate time anon apace.
I would try such a narrative trick
and eclipse my dear heroine's shtick.
But only she can say what went and passed,
so better that I this ditty leave--at last.
I yield the stage to our only sage.
Johnnie's words let this story wage.

[end of poem]

This is translation, but the poem itself is better and more than this.

Unenviable me--my cry of woe--
[I feel sorry for me. I am complaining.]

a choral voice no words to sow.
[I am like a narrator with no words to say.]

Without words direct from others?
[I ask the question about not having words from other people.]

S/he, that is me, left with druthers.
[Without those words, I, genderless, have only my preferences about what to say.]

No wise insights to impart,
[I have nothing wise to say or teach.]

from stories! that'd be their start.
[It is from experience or stories we hear, that is how one gets something to say.]

Time has passed and passes now,
[Time goes on.]

like waves wash'd against life's prow.
[Life is like a boat at sea with waves that bump against the front of it.]

Seasons come and seasons go:
[More time passes now measured in seasons.]

We know not what we would know.
[And still we have nothing to say, or do not know what to say . . .]

Enviable I, the Winter's Tale, its choral voice,
[I am envious of the narrator (chorus) in Shakespeare's Winter's Tale.]

could accelerate time anon apace.
[He or she could speed up the narrative by summarizing details.]

I would try such a narrative trick
[If I could, I would try the same trick in storytelling.]

and eclipse my dear heroine's shtick.
[I would do this by shortening what my heroine has to say, or summarize what has happened that we didn't see or hear on stage. Her shtick (Yiddish) is her story that is very familiar to her to re-tell.]

'We meet not others along life's way but ourselves.'

But only she can say what went and passed,
[Only she is able to say what happened to her.]

so better that I this ditty leave--at last.
[So I had better stop my little song, this poem--it must be boring for you.]

I yield the stage to our only sage.
[I am stopping, will leave the stage of this play, and will give it to the only one who can speak with authority.]

Johnnie's words let this story wage.
[Let her, Johnnie, use her power to struggle to tell the story in her words.]

At this point the novel-drama of Johnnie Passnstyle continues in the heroine's words and in verbatim conversations that she is able to recall, and report, exactly (a talent she has).

_____
* Also posted on Passnstyle' blog.

Red waiting room

Cast thine eyes down to see--if sorely sore.
The floor pattern is straight columns and rows.
Then, sameness's face relieves you no more.
Ever this open office, so closed, goes.

See here, and people that go by dot gov,
no matter whether this country or that,
engender no true fondness or dear love.
No help for those who stand, sit or sat.

Red is all a bureaucracy begat:
In that door, the tape's endless before us.
Yer blood will boil hues and brains fry in fat.
Patterns and lines, red tape--there's the end-us.

Now listen to me. The most can be said.
Help from hell here? a polite "Drop you dead."

Free love, free dove*

There once was a lass from Brno,
who thought all men she did know.
But when she met me--
Her! I drove up a tree.
And she teased me a man with her show!

At the tree I gazed up as one should,
and I saw what everyone could.
There in little distress,
a shorter wonder-filled dress,
she promised me whatever I would.

For my view she backed the way down
to my waiting arms all around.
But against my delight,
she took a quick flight,
and escaped away to the town.

After I turned and that way I ran
as fast and faster--I can--
but when she got home,
I was left all alone.
So thus with my song I began.

She looked out the bed window
and said 'I'll not be a widow.
Climb the vine to me.
We can play like we're we.'
Sooo . . . went up for a jolly good go!

We two we trans-sported our love
until fate looked down from above.
He's a nasty old trickster.
Sad, I'm not longer with her.
She's back up her tree, a dove.

The moral you see--drive no girl up a tree,
for there you ne'er get what you see.
It's better to know
how things usually go.
For then you will like her--be free!

_____
* A Valentine's poem for . . . someone.

The Muse had her muse*

"The door was locked, the key buried in the earth."

As she turned the key over and over in her hands--

If--
it was to the closed garden,
she could see inside,
it was different from other places,
she liked it;

Then--
she would shut the door behind her,
make up some play of her own,
play it quite alone,
could go there every day;

Because--
it had been shut up so long,
she wanted to see it,
nobody would ever know where she was,
the thought of all that pleased her very much.

(Not a child to ask permission or consult.)
_____
* Inspired by _The Secret Garden_, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Capter VIII, The Robin Who Showed the Way

Birthday voucher

[Give your squeeze new underwear for her birthday along with this voucher  to redeem.]

Birthday Coupon

30 plus, but who is counting?

and said you can't be a mounting?

Happy Birthday to the girl

at her age can have a whirl:

And feel something hot and sexy,

say, eating food, some Tex-Mexy.

But it's up to you to decide.

Have spicy food, or lose those pants--for a Ride!

Silly ditty

If each other we would see,
set a time to make it be.
For time is life, don't you know,
without its measure we must go.
Our days are undeser'ved gifts
within the which--admit--we ever shifts:
From that to this and back to that,
after what?--ain't it true--back we sat,
wondering if wise and best we chose.
Shared we moments with those . . . so dear we hold?
before the gifter says, "There, there. Be bold."
I would shout indeed a yea:
Let not reticence waste a day.
If you're like to think the same,
let us quit the bench and join the game.
I would ring to enter at your gate
and en'tain long and mutual discourse--
well, at least enough gossip us to sate
till next we meet thus absolved, no remorse.
So when we knocks, do let us in.
Won't stay long, too much info is a sin.

Good Muther, good night

[Along with an Easter gift, a personal headlamp, for my grandson.]

Yeah!
for Cruz

A little light to put on your head,
so you can say, "Good Muther, good night,"
and later sneak-read cosy in bed.

Or you and sis can explore about
without any fear--the dark hates light.
Because there's nothing like going out!



[Along with an Easter gift, a pocket notebook, for my granddaughter.]

Beddy bye
for Lola

Here's a little book
you can read when you're twenty.
Yes, empty right now
but you know there is plenty
of things that you do,
and things that just happen
worth noting and making a note.
So start now--everything's ready.
Life won't stand still
for children before beddy.

Up 'nd go*

Got dead things in your pool?

Want a meal makes you drool?

Call the cook and pool boy--

here to aid ya--though one's goy!

Sick of dead lines you must fix?

Set 'em 'side and have some kicks.

Alone is not lonely, this we know,

but work no play? Up, let's go!

___
* A friend was editing her book and working toward a deadline. She was holed up in her house. The poem was a neighborly, textured offer to give her a break and some assistance as well as food and diversion.

Grace themselves

Not for me, not for you, not for the eye
that spied them first, our fancies thusly prompt.
There they hurry and stop for us to sigh.
Not cam'ra nor the -man for him they romped.

Three graces grace and give the static lie--
in a moment frozen. But more we'd see.
We would they'd greet us now approaching nigh,
to have 'nd hold they'd share with us their glee.

The trap for audience response now set.
Charm and mirth the scene--it is fertile green.
A font for creative words we must let,
gathered here then cut, crafted so, too lean.

This lyric is the most that we can get.
The graces were as they still there appear:
The only joy-create their own they met,
in freedom mindless of what man they sear.

Hell with Socrates

Humbly I till the garden of letters,
seeds and seeming fruit and flowers
ripe for picking or peering at.
For my own recreation and amusement,
they are my treasured memorials,
my rage against the dying of the light.

And if speech dialectic is not my call,
or house to house my words and private
wisdom and print for unnamed others?
I care only that I do not forget.

Thus I behold tender inclusion into ordered rows
their slow growth and interweaving and interleaving.
This is a past time where my days are spent.
If by chance my son or daughter stops by
to see and savor my works, know that my labors
were in truth not just mine and not just me.

They are treasures against forgetting who I am,
and who I was.

Phaedr. Yes, this is the tree.

Myths and fancies I'll have none.
No such leisure for: They
undo us, then we're undone.
Know myself, Delphians say.

Other's curiosities?
Not worthy my one concern.
Out ridiculosities!
Such nothings I will not learn.

Except I a monster Typho,
or other simple loathsome--
replete with passions' typos.
Nature gave me gentle sum.

Loft or lesser race,
I ask you, friend. Have we not
time? Conduct me, to the place,
please to respite where we're wrought.

Where truth stories I would hear,
such that mirror stuff to sear
from that I am, from which I'm made.

[Original. Now I have no leisure for such enquiries; shall I tell you why? I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says; to be curious about that which is not my concern, while I am still in ignorance of my own self, would be ridiculous. And therefore I bid farewell to all this; the common opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about myself: am I a monster more complicated and swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner and lowlier destiny? But let me ask you, friend: have we not reached the plane-tree to which you were conducting us?]

Invite

each and every One not the same
with separate dreams separate stories
gracefully told old and young . . .
if only asked.

Before the lights go out and we to bed
let us hear record these retell
ourselves and those to take our places
this and each in every place.

Each at the center the world we matter
our dreams our stories preserving preserve
and honor our being here and having been.
Listen and repeat we never die.

Start a point and all directions
let the magic reach round the world
to show this whole and one and center
reaching full circle in dignity's fullness.

We are each One and not the same
not the dreams not the stories when
we listen each round the world . . .
round our lives.

Invite.

to be these ways

I am subject, me,
for my object, you.
Fortunately.
I am pretty.
you are too.
Then you are subject
and I your object.
Nothing wrong.
It's just like that.
And deep in sex
we back and forth,
me the one,
you the other,
you the one,
me like you.
Forth and back
till we be come
the one in love,
knowing its ok
to be these ways.
Yes, we the selfish,
we come back
to where we start
again, again and 'gain.

Pleasure of hating*

What have the different religions been
but pretexts to wrangle, quarrel and to sin,
and set as target a mark to shoot at?
Does love of country make for friendly fiat,
or serve another bearing the same bend?
Does virtue make us see and our faults thus mend?

"No."

Hate makes adherence to our own vices,
and most intolerant of others' frailties.
Love of hate--a most universal fact.
It as well extends to good as evil:
makes us snipe folly and to shun merit;
inclines to resent the wrongs of others--
impels impatience their prosperity.
"Revenge injuries! Repay the ingrate."
Even partialities and likings
take this turn: What was luscious we now expel.
Love and friendship melt in their own fires.
We hate old friends, old books, old opinions.
And at last we are right here hating ourselves.

"Hatred devours from the inside, but Defiance
defeats and kindles truth-seeking's flames--Thus,
Resolution sufficient to move on and beyond.
__________
* Adapted from but closely adheres to Walter Hazlett's "Pleasure of Hating" (
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/On_the_Pleasure_of_Hating). Interlocutor is another's voice.