I asked AI (ChatGPT) if they could create a poem in the style of Lord Byron and John Keats about a cat loved by their female caregiver who died a month before her cat.
Here is their response. Note: I am referring to the AI computer as if they are human as they act like a human.
Certainly! Here is a poem in the style of Lord Byron, capturing the melancholic elegance and poignant devotion fitting for such a tale:
The Mourning of the Cat
(In Memory of Her Keeper)
Upon the hearth where shadows play,
A feline sits in silent stay;
Her gaze, a mirror to the past,
Where fleeting joys were held so fast.
No mortal words her grief impart,
For sorrow curls within her heart.
Her mistress, fair, with tender hand,
Would softly stroke at her command,
And read to her in tones divine,
A harmony of love’s design.
But now, the chair lies still, austere,
Its echoes haunt, yet none appear.
A month has passed, the seasons weep,
The winds lament, the willows steep;
And she, the cat, in mournful guise,
Still seeks her mistress’ loving eyes.
The world, a hollow, dreary sphere,
Has robbed her of the voice so dear.
O sable queen of silent woe,
Thy grief, a burden few may know.
Yet in thy eyes, a spark remains,
A trace of her through all thy pains.
For love, though parted by the grave,
Forever lingers, strong and brave.
Now let her spirit softly fall,
To guide thee through the silent hall.
And when thy purring song is sung,
Together, once more, hearts are young.
For love defies the coldest night—
Two souls, in death, shall reunite.
This blends Lord Byron’s romantic style with the melancholic themes of love and loss, tying the cat’s devotion to her mistress into an eternal bond.
Now in the style of John Keats:
Certainly! Here’s a version of the poem in the style of John Keats, infused with his rich imagery, sensuous detail, and gentle melancholy:
Ode to the Mourning Cat
(For Her Keeper Departed)
Beneath the languid veil of autumn’s breath,
A velvet shadow mourns her mistress’ death;
Where once the hearth-fire sang with golden glee,
Now silent falls the dark, unyielding sea.
No more the hand that stroked her midnight fur,
No more the voice, love-laden, soft, and pure.
O piteous creature! Thy steadfast gaze,
Doth linger where the sunlight used to blaze;
The chair where oft thy mistress softly sat,
Her touch upon thee, sweet and delicate.
Now bare it stands, like some forsaken shrine,
Yet still it holds her essence, faint, divine.
The month’s slow toll hath weighed upon thy soul,
Each shadowed hour an ache beyond control.
Thy paws press lightly on the earthen floor,
Seeking the grace thou shalt behold no more.
Yet in the twilight, hear her whispered tune—
A balm to pierce the gathering gloom.
O star of sable hue, thy tender grief
Hath bound thee to her spirit’s fleeting leaf.
The autumn winds shall kiss thee where you lie,
And tell thee tales of her beyond the sky.
For though the grave hath claimed her mortal part,
Her love beats steady in thy faithful heart.
When time shall weave its web of soft repose,
And bid thee join her where the lilac grows,
Thy purr shall mingle with her laughing breath,
And love shall rise, unbroken yet by death.
O mourn no more, for even now she keeps
A watchful vigil as thy soul yet weeps.
This version captures Keats’ lush, evocative style, with a focus on nature, the passage of time, and the eternal nature of love.
Comment: Why is poetry so hard to understand?! Does it have to be almost unintelligible? Sir John Betjeman, CBE, wrote poetry that was more straightforward and more readable.
So, here is one final attempt at this poem by AI in the style of Sir John.
Here’s a version of the poem in the style of Sir John Betjeman, capturing his blend of nostalgia, tender observation, and rhythmic simplicity:
The Lonely Cat
(In Memory of Her Lady)
The kettle hums, the coals burn low,
The clock ticks on, the hours slow;
And in the corner, sleek and black,
A cat awaits who won’t come back.
The armchair, once her evening throne,
Stands shadowed now, and all alone.
The tray with teacups, neatly set,
Still holds the echoes of regret.
For she who brewed and called you near,
Is gone these many a mournful year.
The village churchyard, cold with stone,
Holds her beneath its lichen grown,
While here within this silent room,
Her absence thickens in the gloom.
Yet still you wait, beside the grate,
In quiet patience, small and straight.
O cat, you mourn as humans do,
Each creak and step might summon who
Once shared with you her kindly days—
Her shawl of wool, her gentle ways.
But no soft hand will stroke your fur;
The fire dies down; the house is bare.
Perhaps, dear cat, she watches still,
From where the yews crown yonder hill,
And dreams of you, her purring friend,
Who waits and waits till time shall bend,
And reunite, in love’s embrace,
A mistress, cat, and cherished place.
This reflects Betjeman’s affection for domestic life and the wistful charm of England’s fading traditions, tinged with a gentle melancholy.
More: poem
The interesting aspect of this exercise is that AI wrote each poems in less than 10 seconds. A recent survey indicated that the public preferred poems written by AI to those written by the human poet!
Here is AI’s research on this:
Recent research has revealed that people often prefer AI-generated poetry over human-written verses, especially in blind tests where the origin of the work isn’t disclosed. For instance, a study from the University of Pittsburgh showed that AI poems were rated higher for rhythm and simplicity, attributes many found more appealing than the complexity typical of human-authored poems. Interestingly, participants often misattributed these AI works to humans, showcasing how closely AI can mimic traditional poetic styles while appealing to modern preferences for clarity and emotional resonance
