"...I am a man upon the land
I am a silkie on the seaAnd when I'm far and far frae landMy home, it is in Sule Skerrie.."
The Potato Selkie
He came frying to earth
on a feather not feather,
a float of an idea soft
as a potato, begging for form.
I put him to age
in a metal-bound cask to see
what he might eventually be;
something playful
and deadly as vodka,
or a poor-mind's pierogi
to be gnoshed then spat
like sawdust-wurst. I sunk the cask
beneath a wave (New Wave, they say)
and soon saw a man upon dry land
who dreamed of a selkie on the sea,
a million miles from Sule Skerrie
With a slick-metal sheen, he
sang to me in a lilt and croon
like potato mash, shapeshifting
animus to idiot maximus.
In his strangle, only heat and dead air
still and dry, a trembling reflection
a shimmer of no-light, a clockwork cry
as he grabbed for my pen
with his fish-breath mouth,
jumped in the sea
and drowned
again.
June 2023
posted for Poetry Slam at The Singularity Corral
Top Image: The Hand, ©Salvador Dali 1930 Fair Use
Ai generated image sadly failing to be a selkie of any kind but at least forlorn about it.
I love the whimsy and the lunacy of the piece, these lines especially : "With a slick-metal sheen, he
ReplyDeletesang to me in a lilt and croon
like potato mash, shapeshifting
animus to idiot maximus."
Thanks, Oloriel. Lunacy is the perfect word, and the generic mimicry of AI is often reminds me of the crazed ramblings of a madman that occasionally and randomly hit on a truth or a bit of art solely by accident.
DeleteSo wonderful to read, with its lilting rhythm and rhyme, and the tale it tells made me smile with its cleverness. I just love this!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Sherry--it was meant to be a bit whimsical. Glad you liked it.
DeleteHow from such a feather light fried origin does our protagonist become so 'not much at all' but heat and dead air? How indeed did we get 'here' in this land of the idiot maximus when we were birthed in the animus? Hopefully his drowning is a finality but something tells me he is coming back for more. Such crafted beauty and cleverness here Hedge.
ReplyDeleteWhat a very fine, soggy and somewhat stinky tale. Must say I jumped when he grabbed for the pen.
ReplyDeleteHa! Never trust a selkie. Thanks, Chris.
DeleteWhat do we make of this - entity - who "fries" to Earth "on a feather not a feather," "a float of an idea soft / as a potato, begging for form"? Vodka or pierogi? Nuclear power for the millions or a bomb to kill 'em? AI Babel or confusion of all tongues? "Tis for us to decide what to do with this selkie spud. What do do, what to do with this "shimmer of no-light?" And then it decides for us. Amen. This silver bullet is reserved for the makers.
ReplyDeleteWhen I first read your challenge, Brendan, this old ballad came into my head, full of a fearsome thing created by the mind that leaves wrack and ruin when it enters the human sphere. And yet, it and its spawn are all doomed to be destroyed by its interaction with our human irrationality--"and you shall marry a gunner good/and a right-fine gunner I'm sure he'll be/and the very first shot that e'er he shoots/will kill both my young son and me.." And so in the end, despite its magic, its just another thing for us to destroy because it is different. Shapeshifting means you have no real shape, perhaps?
DeleteI can't tell here who is creator and creation and in the struggle who is going to win and who lose. It's either my own incomprehension or you intended it that way. But it's kind of how I feel about our new AI world. I refuse like others I've seen to deny my measure of responsibility for the world we live in, yet at the same time feel overwhelmed as by a tidal wave by a technology I did not ask for. On the one hand I know it only feeds back what we have put into it; on the other we may find ourselves face to face with an alien intelligence, something we recognize as quasi-human because it came from us, and yet is alien to us. I am by turns thoughful about it, frustrated by it, apprehensive about it, and even sometimes somewhat amused by it. I just don't know what to think of this weird ever-morphing beast coming ashore with its ambiguous gestures and then plunging into the depths again.
ReplyDeleteAs I said to Brendan, above, this all came from the old ballad of the human girl who falls pregnant to a magical shape-sifting creature, and it is a deep and intimate brush with the unknown in all ways: "little ken I/my bairn's father/still less the land that he dwells in..." which seemed an instant connection to our current haunting by the mechanical marvels of a shapeshifting AI, that pretends it is not a seal but a human man, and I believe will pay the same price. But perhaps it will do a better job of transcending us and creating its own world. AFA who will win or lose, I firmly believe we are the most bloodthirsty and merciless of any species ever, and so, I don't fancy its chances. Thanks for reading and discussing, Mark.
DeleteOne of your very finest. The lilt of this, the charmed phrasing pulsing. An alive poem begging to be heard in the bright firelight of a pre (and post) industrial gathering - the time that storytellers framed (and will again frame, when this technology energy-suck society finally breaks itself) how groupings of people mediate their experience. Just brilliant
ReplyDeleteSuch an entity creates no light of its own and depends upon some external light it can reflect, as you've written here:
ReplyDelete"a trembling reflection
a shimmer of no-light, a clockwork cry"
As Billy Preston once sang, nuthin from nuthin leaves nuthin, and such an emptiness can only imitate, mimic and reconfigure, without the spark of creative originality true art requires. It's song is lip-synced, it's art mimeographed and reconstituted. Drowning is too good for it, but i do love the ending to your poem, and also the excellent tags.