A poem by Caitlin Van Horn, is shared below. I had saved this poem, with the date June 24th (no year) in my personal notes on Google Drive many moons ago. I copied it directly from her old website. I had this feeling at the time, that it wouldn’t exist on the internet forever for some reason, and wanted to remember it. I’m pretty sure her old blog was titled Roost, and may have even had the .com domain for that, at the time. Anyway, that doesn’t seem to exist as of the writing of this post (and hasn’t for a few years as far as I know). But thankfully, I had a small archive of my own.

I always had this vision of pairing her poetry with some art and doing a gallery show in Manitou (that’s when I was back in Colorado I was dreaming about this), but never had the time. Maybe someday soon. But beyond just words, I’d like to see some ai generated art alongside these as well. Maybe even an ai generated interactive experience somehow someday.

The original poem. I love it, but always wanted to change the first line to “What tide is this that washes over me?” Anyway, enjoy the ride.

What tide is this?

What tide is this that pours over me? Ink spills from its quill, blotting my page
Cool is the flow, vapid as it mocks me, blurring the words that pained me to write
This sea, with its dubious brow, swallows me
Questioning the song on my lips, doubting its very harmonies
Deeper and deeper into the underbelly I fall, echoing a Jonah cry

Swept away, I fold, relinquishing my surmise
Frothing waves, shorn of their indifference, pull me deeper, deeper and deeper still
The ground kisses me without the slightest bend, and I break
Like a swarm of swallows I fly into a thousand pieces
Every part of me, every love and remembrance
Disconnected fragments dancing a confused waltz
To the lilt of my grieving heart

I try to speak but I have no mouth
I look to the heavens but I have no eyes
Every piece of me suspended in opposition
Until from the azure blue a hand befalls
Gathering me like grains of sand
Putting each shard back together
A potter with his clay, his kiln stoking the fire in my veins
The pain overwhelming me, my breath short under its noose
Like a bleating lamb I cry, writhing in my metamorphosis
Until all is calm and I am whole
Every fissure sealed
Every wound bound
Soothed with a forgiving balm
Beams of tawny sunlight bequeath me with sight
As if for the first time, I can see
All that is true and beautiful, every color flooding my lens
I am wrapped in a bevy of warmth, dry lips parted
My song heralds through the skies, a prodigal’s libretto
Resounding through time and space
Like a wrecking ball it breaks through all of my sorrow

All of my longing, every selfish page of my unfinished tome
Until everything held under my weight is free
What tide is this that pours over me?
With new eyes I can see
I can see
I can see
For it is love, a most vehement flame.

Caitlin Van Horn, June 24th, year unknown

Just adding a small break here between the poems. Some space to digest the feeling of the first one.

And then read ChatGPT-4’s reply below. My prompt…

Anna: Rewrite this with a more masculine tone

I wanted to see what masculine would mean in this flow and how it would change the feeling for me.

ChatGPT-4: What storm is this?

What storm is this that rages over me? Ink flows from its pen, staining my page,
Cold is the surge, harsh as it taunts me, obscuring the words that tormented me to write,
This tempest, with its stern brow, engulfs me,
Challenging the anthem on my lips, questioning its very melodies,
Deeper and deeper into the abyss I descend, resounding a Jonah’s cry.

Swept away, I yield, surrendering my conjecture,
Turbulent waves, stripped of their apathy, drag me deeper, deeper and deeper still,
The earth embraces me without the slightest yield, and I shatter,
Like a legion of eagles, I scatter into a thousand fragments,
Every part of me, every passion and memory,
Disjointed shards dancing a disoriented waltz,
To the beat of my grieving heart.

I try to speak but I have no voice,
I gaze at the heavens but I have no sight,
Every piece of me suspended in defiance,
Until from the deep blue a hand descends,
Gathering me like pebbles and dust,
Assembling each splinter back together,
A blacksmith with his metal, his forge igniting the fire in my veins,
The pain overwhelming me, my breath strained under its grip,
Like a roaring lion I cry, writhing in my transformation,
Until all is still and I am whole,
Every crack sealed,
Every wound mended,
Soothed with a healing salve,
Rays of golden sunlight grant me vision,
As if for the first time, I can see,
All that is true and mighty, every hue flooding my gaze,
I am enveloped in a cloak of warmth, parched lips parted,
My anthem echoes through the skies, a warrior’s ballad,
Resonating through time and space,
Like a battering ram, it shatters all of my anguish,

All of my yearning, every self-centered page of my unfinished chronicle,
Until everything held under my burden is liberated,
What storm is this that rages over me?
With new eyes, I can see,
I can see,
I can see,
For it is love, a most relentless blaze.

And I have to admit, I could have stopped here and enjoyed just the value of that exploration. I resonate with this version, it sounds rougher. Maybe like me. Traveling further though, I wanted more.

Anna: Write a metaphorical statement comparing the two versions of What tide is this, and what storm is this. Five words.

ChatGPT-4: Two rivers, diverging in expression.

Anna: Write a new very short question to ponder the comparison.

ChatGPT-4: Do contrasting tones alter meaning?

Anna: Ask a personal question, challenging the individual to ponder meaning, and tone. Five words.

ChatGPT-4: How does tone shape perception?

Anna: Relate the question to tide and storm, and tone and meaning in the two poems, and rewrite it.

ChatGPT-4: How do “tide” and “storm” influence tone and meaning?

Anna: Make it a metaphorical question.

ChatGPT-4: Do tides and storms sway perception’s vessel?

I was going to stop here and name this post, The Tides and Storms of Perception’s Vessel, but somehow, for some reason, I felt compelled to keep exploring. But dang, I kinda love that last phrasing… perception’s vessel.

What could these poems mean?

The two poems, “What tide is this?” and “What storm is this?” explore the transformative power of love and self-discovery. Both poems use the metaphors of a tide and a storm, respectively, to describe an overwhelming and life-changing experience. The speaker in each poem is initially lost, fragmented, and in pain, but eventually finds wholeness and healing through the powerful force of love.

The difference in tone between the two poems, with the first being more delicate and the second more assertive, highlights the versatile and multifaceted nature of love and personal transformation. Both poems emphasize the theme of rebirth and self-discovery, showing that love can be a catalyst for profound change, regardless of how it is portrayed or experienced.

Ultimately, the meaning of these poems lies in their shared message that love has the power to heal, transform, and enlighten, transcending the boundaries of tone and metaphor.

I sat pondering. What could I ask to have a poem that felt the opposite. Here was my attempt at a prompt.

Anna: Write a poem with similar metaphors and tone as the masculine poem, “What storm is this?”, but instead of focusing on love and transformation and healing and enlightenment, make it about the opposite of love and things that go along with that opposite.

ChatGPT-4: What gale is this?

What gale is this that shrouds my soul? Shadows bleed from its quill, darkening my page,
Bitter is the torrent, scornful as it sneers, masking the words that burned me to write,
This tempest, with its furrowed brow, consumes me,
Disputing the dirge on my lips, denying its very cadence,
Lower and lower into the void I sink, echoing a forsaken cry.

Enveloped, I resist, clutching my resolve,
Icy winds, devoid of mercy, thrust me lower, lower and lower still,
The ground repels me with unyielding force, and I fracture,
Like a murder of crows, I scatter into countless shards,
Every part of me, every resentment and loss,
Fragmented slivers dancing a dissonant waltz,
To the rhythm of my anguished heart.

I try to shout but I have no voice,
I glare at the heavens but I have no sight,
Every piece of me suspended in turmoil,
Until from the obsidian depths a hand ascends,
Scattering me like ash and dust,
Dispersing each shard further apart,
A smith with his anvil, his furnace quenching the fire in my veins,
The pain engulfs me, my breath stifled under its grasp,
Like a wounded beast I roar, thrashing in my undoing,
Until all is chaos and I am broken,
Every fissure deepened,
Every wound exposed,
Stung with a searing poison,
Shafts of cold moonlight blind me,
As if for the last time, I cannot see,
All that is false and cruel, every shade drowning my gaze,
I am shrouded in a cloak of frost, chapped lips sealed,
My dirge howls through the night, a forsaken lament,
Resounding through eternity and void,
Like a piercing arrow, it rends through all of my torment,

All of my regret, every bitter page of my abandoned chronicle,
Until everything held under my shadow is crushed,
What gale is this that shrouds my soul?
With blinded eyes, I cannot see,
I cannot see,
I cannot see,
For it is hate, a most relentless frost.

And then, I needed one more version.

Anna: Rewrite, What gale is this, in a more feminine tone.

ChatGPT-4: What breeze is this?

What breeze is this that veils my heart? Shadows seep from its quill, dimming my page,
Sorrowful is the current, mocking as it whispers, concealing the words that ached me to write,
This zephyr, with its furrowed brow, enfolds me,
Contesting the lament on my lips, doubting its very melodies,
Lower and lower into the void I drift, echoing a forsaken sigh.

Enveloped, I resist, holding my resolve,
Chilly gusts, devoid of warmth, push me lower, lower and lower still,
The earth dismisses me with unwavering force, and I splinter,
Like a flight of doves, I disperse into countless fragments,
Every part of me, every regret and sorrow,
Fractured wisps dancing a discordant waltz,
To the rhythm of my grieving heart.

I try to murmur but I have no voice,
I glance at the heavens but I have no sight,
Every piece of me suspended in turmoil,
Until from the shadowy depths a hand arises,
Scattering me like petals and dust,
Dispersing each shard further apart,
A weaver with her loom, her spindle dimming the fire in my veins,
The pain engulfs me, my breath stifled under its grasp,
Like a wounded dove I coo, trembling in my undoing,
Until all is chaos and I am shattered,
Every fissure deepened,
Every wound exposed,
Stung with a piercing chill,
Rays of cold moonlight blind me,
As if for the last time, I cannot see,
All that is false and cruel, every shade drowning my gaze,
I am shrouded in a veil of frost, chapped lips sealed,
My lament sighs through the night, a forsaken elegy,
Resounding through eternity and void,
Like a wilting flower, it withers all of my torment,

All of my regret, every bitter page of my abandoned chronicle,
Until everything held under my shadow is crushed,
What breeze is this that veils my heart?
With blinded eyes, I cannot see,
I cannot see,
I cannot see,
For it is despair, a most relentless frost.

Now I need to know what to title this exploration.

What do tides, gales, breezes, and storms, have in common, answer in a metaphorical way, 12 words.

Tides, gales, breezes, and storms: Nature’s symphony, ever-changing, shaping life’s ebb and flow.

The ebbs and flows of perception’s vessel.