Two poems about what AI will never understand nothing about:
Kate Bush - The Sensual World
Mmh, yes
Then I'd taken the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth
Going deep South, go down, mmh, yes
Took six big wheels and rolled our bodies
Off of Howth Head and into the flesh, mmh, yes
He said, "I was a flower of the mountain, yes
But now I've powers o'er a woman's body, yes"
Stepping out of the page into the sensual world
Stepping out
To where the water and the earth caress
And the down of a peach says, "Mmh, yes"
Do I look for those millionaires
like a Machiavellian girl would
When I could wear a sunset, mmh, yes
And how we'd wished to live in the sensual world
You don't need words, just one kiss, then another
Stepping out of the page into the sensual world
Stepping out off the page into the sensual world
And then our arrows of desire rewrite the speech, mmh, yes
And then he whispered, "Would I, mmh, yes
Be safe, mmh, yes, from mountain flowers?"
And at first with the charm around him, mmh, yes
He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts
He'd rescue it, mmh, yes
And his spark took life in my hand and, mmh, yes
I said, "Mmh, yes", but not yet
Mmh, yes
Mmh, yes
Wisława Szymborska - View With a Grain of Sand
We call it a grain of sand,
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine, without a name,
whether general, particular,
permanent, passing,
incorrect, or apt.
Our glance, our touch means nothing to it.
It doesn't feel itself seen and touched.
And that it fell on the windowsill
is only our experience, not its.
For it, it is not different from falling on anything else
with no assurance that it has finished falling
or that it is falling still.
The window has a wonderful view of a lake,
but the view doesn't view itself.
It exists in this world
colorless, shapeless,
soundless, odorless, and painless.
The lake’s floor exists floorlessly,
and its shore exists shorelessly.
The water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.
They splash, deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small.
And all this beneath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.
The wind ruffles it, its only reason being
that it blows.
A second passes.
A second, second.
A third.
But they’re three seconds only for us.
Time has passed like courier with urgent news.
But that’s just our simile.
The character is inverted, his haste is make-believe,
his news inhuman.
Two poems about what AI will never understand nothing about: Kate Bush - The Sensual World Mmh, yes Then I'd taken the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth Going deep South, go down, mmh, yes Took six big wheels and rolled our bodies Off of Howth Head and into the flesh, mmh, yes He said, "I was a flower of the mountain, yes But now I've powers o'er a woman's body, yes" Stepping out of the page into the sensual world Stepping out To where the water and the earth caress And the down of a peach says, "Mmh, yes" Do I look for those millionaires like a Machiavellian girl would When I could wear a sunset, mmh, yes And how we'd wished to live in the sensual world You don't need words, just one kiss, then another Stepping out of the page into the sensual world Stepping out off the page into the sensual world And then our arrows of desire rewrite the speech, mmh, yes And then he whispered, "Would I, mmh, yes Be safe, mmh, yes, from mountain flowers?" And at first with the charm around him, mmh, yes He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts He'd rescue it, mmh, yes And his spark took life in my hand and, mmh, yes I said, "Mmh, yes", but not yet Mmh, yes Mmh, yes Wisława Szymborska - View With a Grain of Sand We call it a grain of sand, but it calls itself neither grain nor sand. It does just fine, without a name, whether general, particular, permanent, passing, incorrect, or apt. Our glance, our touch means nothing to it. It doesn't feel itself seen and touched. And that it fell on the windowsill is only our experience, not its. For it, it is not different from falling on anything else with no assurance that it has finished falling or that it is falling still. The window has a wonderful view of a lake, but the view doesn't view itself. It exists in this world colorless, shapeless, soundless, odorless, and painless. The lake’s floor exists floorlessly, and its shore exists shorelessly. The water feels itself neither wet nor dry and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural. They splash, deaf to their own noise on pebbles neither large nor small. And all this beneath a sky by nature skyless in which the sun sets without setting at all and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud. The wind ruffles it, its only reason being that it blows. A second passes. A second, second. A third. But they’re three seconds only for us. Time has passed like courier with urgent news. But that’s just our simile. The character is inverted, his haste is make-believe, his news inhuman.
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