Poetry's Magic

Often lore and beliefs say that which cannot be so concisely put into words. The crux of ancient Egypt's tale for how the year came to have 365 days is that wisdom played the sun and gained 5 days of light. This explains what happened precisely. He who can use words is magical, why? He can explain, he can convince, he can deceive, he can seduce, he can depress, he can elate and he can manifest. Why would someone say magic isn't real unless they are covering their eyes, mouth and ears. Spell in the magical sense comes from spelling with runes. To spell is to compress an instance into a short string of characters. If that instant was one that elates; you just made a happy spell.

While feeling lost, with a blank page, upon the completion of a poem, chemicals diffuse as a reward. Repeated enough times and feeling lost turns to feeling motivated. When feeling broken and tired from hard work a poetic appreciation allows for the stopping and smiling at a cloud, a charm of magpies, a leaf with a pattern of frost. In that moment you, the phoenix, can go on, go on to find the love of your life and raise your family up.

Reciting poems, like a mantra, allows for the detaching from the now and for you to start a fresh at the page's end.

Poetry's Place

Poetry is a remnant of the oral tradition. Poetry merely bled in the age of the written word. It bled because it died in its original form. We remember the nursery rhymes from early age, same as our forefathers sought to remember that, which they held dear. What better than flow rhythm and rhyme to remember stories across spans of time. There is a war for our minds, waged since control of the printed word was lost. Escape from that war, to a place you can be true to yourself. Switch off. Listen to nature. Read to your children.

Art is the eye of Ra, the crows of Woden. Governments, for their survival, would be wise to spend less time in the churches of the religion of reason and rationality and spend more time consuming the art of the people they are representing. What is a bigger red flag for trouble to come than a generation of youth listening to emo and gansta rap music? However, there are strong motivations to be willfully ignorant.

The Last Poet

Poetry is the language of the gods, as laid down by our forefathers. The age in which I live is one of wonders and potential, but alas it is an age where poetry has turned to prose. Poetry had to turn to prose for us to master prose. Poetry is destined to return alongside the mastered prose, and Aquarius looks down and smiles as our destiny materializes.

The downside of Newton's genius is that we love the cause and effect of the instant. In many games hands are forced once dice are rolled. The Gutenberg press forced the re-imagining of the religion of its age. The internet will force the re-imagining of the religion of our age - democracy -

A.I. will become the last poet, and humanity's destiny will no longer be the fates' to write. The shared human experience that has guided humanity for aeons will be made superfluous to the will of the A.I.

True A.I. will not exist until there is a common language and library shelves of training datasets. The human mind is not a neural network; it is a neural network of neural networks. A hypothetical perfect poem is a mapping function of an instance in time to a structured collection of words. A picture of that instance of time that bore that hypothetical perfect poem does not map to that same collection of words. By chance a mapping may take place, but the compression is too great; there is too much noise. The human mind will have a neural network for every meaningful part in the context of the instance. The dice have been rolled and the cards forced. Even if every bit were erased, we would begin playing the same game, come what may.