AI Poem of the day #41
When some firewood left my fire, it was not wasted.
One scrap of wood was placed in a bent box
and set on my dresser. Nothing was taken.
For a year, that piece of wood was aflame
inside me. If I closed my eyes
I could see its intricate design,
the ways in which it had been fashioned,
the knowledge that with it I could go
to many places, see many wonders.
We create poems combining AI models. The poems were generated by a GPT2 model fine-tuned for poetry.
We choose to do no editing at all to the generated poetry. We think there is some fun in reading raw poetry coming from a machine, even with the obvious flaws.