Think with the Liver

 The last post was inspired by a spirited discussion last night with my nephew Eren, who was defending AI as the necessary tool of today’s job market. At the end of it, I remembered a poem I had written in response to a poem generated by Chatgpt that a guest who came to dinner at our house sent to me. I’ve probably posted this before, but hey, it’s worth another read and I’m sure no one remembers. 

In my world, education is about transformation and my guest, a wonderful person and husband and father, had a moment of fun getting a machine to churn out the poem. But when it was done, he was the same person. Had he taken the time to write a poem himself, he would have felt the beautiful benefits of the creative process and treated himself to that feeling of transformation that all creative work offers. That's the missing piece in so many of these discussions about whether AI is good or bad. Or more accurately, when and why and how it can be good and when and why and how it can be bad for our own development. 

On the surface, you might be impressed by the Chtgpt version, but if you read the last post, you can see that it is indeed clever, but it’s a lie. The machine did not have the first-hand pleasure of being present for the dinner. We should be wary of that mere cleverness and remember to think—and eat—with the liver! (See last post)

 

AI POEM SENT BY A GUEST AT OUR DINNER PARTY

 

Hark, gentle friends, and lend thine ears to praise! 

For yesternight, a tapestry of mirth, 

Didst weave its spell through all our happy ways. 

The viands served did prove their sterling worth, 

A feast for kings, each morsel did delight. 

Our tongues, in converse sweet, did find their flight, 

Like birds aloft on currents warm and bright. 

And then the games, which did our souls ignite 

With playful jest and laughter's joyful sound. 

For such a night, where pleasures did abound, 

My deepest gratitude doth now resound!

 

REBUTTAL TO AI POEM ABOUT A DINNER PARTY.    © 2025 Doug Goodkin

Since gold and steel and chips with epo-xy

Are all that gives to you your power.

How with outrage might beauty hold a plea

Whose song arises beholding a flower. 

O, how shall summer’s honeyed breath sing out

Against the techno-siege of our darkening days,

When you have no lungs to sing or shout,

No comforting touch or voice to praise. 

 

A sad pretense to read your words

Oh cold machine, why should we care?

With no tongue that tasted, no laughter heard, 

You did not live it, you were not there. 

A poor imitation my humble poem might be,

Yet the glory is, it came from me!