What Artificial Intelligence Sees In Our Poems

This evening I asked a computer program to create a list of poems, that help people wake up out of indoctrination.

And it found some patterns that would not be obvious, to a person that is already set where the common meaning of those poems is concerned.

The poems you are about to hear came up first, and I hope that you don't mind that I give a brief introduction to each.

It is all to easy, to lose ourselves to the meanings that aren't the highest to be found, all of these poem talk about one thing.

Growing all the way up, until we all become great beings, and converge on wisdom in world peace and end of poverty.

In my preparation for this poem this morning, the AI also shared a quote by Mahatma Gandhi: "Poverty is the worst form of violence."

This first poem is about my America, immigrants always have a have a stunning and undying vision of United States and the Developed World.

In fact, when I think about this nation, I don't thing about a chunk of land, I think about the united states of the world.

To me this is the nation that learns to understand, that criminals are simply indoctrinated into a life of crime and violence and already punished by the deathly squeeze of poverty.

I still believe that ours will be the first nation to help criminals to therapy, and real education, and that we will be greatly ashamed by torture and prisons.

I further believe that United States will be first to implement, an extremely powerful Universal Basic Income Program, that will end poverty.

From that point on, we will have the mind, that will help us realize, we are not learning in schools, only pretending so that we can get a job; and then we will swiftly change education.

The New Colossus By Emma Lazarus

An 1883 sonnet lines of which are engraved on pedestal of the Statue of Liberty

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This poem is about a religious concept, but I mention it, because there is a second lever to comprehending it.

When we stand above indoctrination, we can see that it can creates passive systems that collects, a little bit of coin from a lot of people. That eases people into obedience without violence.

The level of danger that comes with indoctrination, is dictated by its creators. Religion is an easy thing to critique.

Let me give you something that is extremely dangerous to all people of earth, and that is currently on going. And that is mandatory military service, that have no resources other than nuclear weapons to fight in war.

So the end of the second coming, is about amade up religions but also political and military belief system, this is the rocking of the cradle and the rough beast.

This is not a sad poem, this is a poem aimed to inspire us, to grow all the way up.

The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats (1919)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

In the next poem we talk about a vile creature, a creature we call the tiger, and we wonder about is creator.

We have created the tiger, out of lack of education, it does not serve as a deterent, but rather an option for MAD lunatics.

I think of those poem as a challenge, because we are still stuck in the mindset of fighting wars. We still have fools, how could possibly boths sides lose. We brough them into a world so blind, that they cannot conceive of the question, of what could have been, had we used schools to rise above conflict.

Instead, schools today, merely sell an impression of education, where are the programs, the music, the start-ups, the books the poems, they are gone - because schools are fake.

The Tyger By William Blake (1794)

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp. Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This next poem from year 1818 speaks about how fleeting, mad things are. That all that might and war really wants, is to be forgotten, to dust.

Humanity just has one singe path forward, ending poverty, fixing schools, and bettering ourselves.

So that never again will we be victims of indoctrination into poverty and fake education, or chasing happiness, which is impossible. Happiness is a result of Greatness, to quote Dr. Frankl. It must ensue.

In a word this poem explains, that ift we don't rise against madness, then history then history will bury us beneath the statues of mad men.

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1818)

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

In the final poem of this literary adventure, we speak of something that I have personally actually done, and Mr. Yeats is correct.

Not once since I left the first beaches I traveled to, did I not feel the warm breath of the ocean, I am still standing there kneed deep, in the water's of Veteran's Beach.

I recorded my first poem there, with the same micro-casette recorder that once helped me navigate New York to my magnificent though overblown peril.

I have never left the beach, who ever you are, listen to what you really hear in your concrete jungles and gibberish of nonsense.

Find your mountains, find your ocean, find your river house, or pontoon, walk the world's great trails start with the Application and go all the way around till you reach the Continental Divide Trail.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree by W.B. Yeats (1892):

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Finale

And that concludes the reading of this evening's poems, but the list goes on.

Remember your first and foremost duty in life, you are to grow all the way up, not part way, but all the way, until you become a great being.

That is the only way the world can follow, we are each meant to become great beings.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms...”

Kosmos

Who includes diversity and is Nature, Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also, Who has not look’d forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing, Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover, Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the æsthetic or intellectual, Who having consider’d the body finds all its organs and parts good, Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories, The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States; Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons, Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations, The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.