I am leaning toward the question why I am here, rather than who I am. I find myself responding to every post of yours, Shannon, unusual because I seldom answer to others, spending my Substack time on my own prose and poetic scribbles. When I ask myself why, I come to the fundamental distinction between human and AI writing. You (and Karan and Only Poems) are honest, genuine, and inquisitive, three qualities that go to heart of art and which AI cannot emulate. Readers and writers find those qualities irresistible, and I’m guessing that I am not alone in my assessment. I think it is too late to stop AI, but we must develop guidelines that keep the work of humans distinct or we will lose the very essence of our creativity. For now, let’s be grateful that we can still tell the difference.
Hi- this is our first comment yet because we read your missives directly from through email inbox. Commenting reroutes us to the substack app and we prefer to be on here minimally. Firehosing substack from the app is all sorts of overwhelming. Who are you is always a restless question we haven't quite figured a succinct answer for. But we can say that the word "obeisance" and like that you use it in this poem. We first heard it in the anime darker than black and have loved it ever since. These days when we can, we are trying to memorize and recite poems we love by heart. On good days, we are trying to write some too. We are trying to be less scornful about things written and sung to slake popular thirst (AI generated and all) realizing that the over-indulgence is because most people have no time to feel the layers deeply. Every day we try to listen to the birds and spend more time with the ones who love us.
I follow you because you stir memories in me. Your tender humor, your scathing remarks set in motion through true caring, your wonderful poetry obviously set in motion by truly loving. I fear the vast majority have lost the gifts of depth and nuance. I see so much that is surface, shallow, and perhaps saddest of all just downright boring. At times it feels as if everything nowadays is made of cheap plastic covered in a thin wash of water based gold paint, but very few actually notice. I will admit I am an older man and it is common for older people, men in particular, to find fault with younger generations. This is, I assure you, not that. In fact I fear the beginnings of this slide into mediocrity began with my generation as we spent our days locked in front of a television being fed visual stimulation with no nutritional value and non stop advertising reminding us that our true value was built on our ability to purchase the next unnecessary item which was just like the last unnecessary item. Computers, the web, and social media have simply taken those humble beginnings and magnified them, taking large swaths of information and shaping it into algorithms designed to lead us into a cesspool of mediocrity and sameness. Ai is quickly becoming even more adept at showing us the way to even more of the same.
Thank the powers that be there are still a few who have this bothersome sense that there was once somehow more. Rather than being classified as an actual memory it seems to be something else, a fleeting flicker of a feeling that there was once something bigger, something with substance and weight and value. For those of us with these sensations it is absolutely imperative that we continue to think and write and create and question. It is of utmost importance that we hold onto that faint glimmer and hope that eventually the small glowing ember will re-ignite and we might have warmth and light to share with our children and grandchildren.
I feel as if I sound like a character in some dime store distopian paperback novel but I couldn't be more sincere. There is still time. The world seems to be burning down around us however all is not lost, but it will be if we fail to sing the songs and tell the tales. Stories around the fire reminding, teaching and re-teaching, re-animating in those who listen carefully and with open hearts the almost lost ability to truly feel, to experience life, to love and share at the very deepest levels. In essence how to once again be truly human. Thank You for being brave enough to be one of those singing the songs.
I love it all. I like how you share the journey and questions facing so many of us now with generated material, why it resonates with many, and what are people connecting with and why? Sometimes there does seem to be a desert of quirky, unique, fun, or something that is imperfect out there to love. It's an interesting something that faces us now and why is it trending this way? But my favorite part was what you wrote to your love. So beautifully full of love, uniquely you and specifically to him. I'm sure one of his dearest treasures. Thanks for sharing.
I also wonder how something can feel shallow and manufactured and still resonate so widely. Maybe it’s less about the depth of the content and more about the people wanting to feel something, anything. Maybe they want something that is simple, familiar, easy to digest? But than again, that tells a lot about them. I'm new to your page, but I'm enjoying it 😊
How could this portrait of the Undefinable Other only be second place? Each item in this piece is like another acupuncture needle releasing stuck energy in one of my meridians. It’s more alive and more quickly under my skin than almost all other poetry I’ve read in a while.
Who am I? An enthusiastic fan of Shannan Mann (and Karan) for saying well what others only mumble. I’m an eccentric (apparently) poet who is Old School in the Mark Strand-Ashbery sense of writing poems we haven’t read before. I feel strongly that too much current published poetry ignores the demands of the 21st Century, which comes crashing in rapid waves. These Beautiful Losers-ONLY POEMS-etc. sources bring me writing I can love and if I don’t, at least pushes me around some, which is why I read. I’m weary of reading "I did this and this is how I feel” poems and want something new. New ideas, new use of language. So I come here, wagging my tail.
I am leaning toward the question why I am here, rather than who I am. I find myself responding to every post of yours, Shannon, unusual because I seldom answer to others, spending my Substack time on my own prose and poetic scribbles. When I ask myself why, I come to the fundamental distinction between human and AI writing. You (and Karan and Only Poems) are honest, genuine, and inquisitive, three qualities that go to heart of art and which AI cannot emulate. Readers and writers find those qualities irresistible, and I’m guessing that I am not alone in my assessment. I think it is too late to stop AI, but we must develop guidelines that keep the work of humans distinct or we will lose the very essence of our creativity. For now, let’s be grateful that we can still tell the difference.
Hi- this is our first comment yet because we read your missives directly from through email inbox. Commenting reroutes us to the substack app and we prefer to be on here minimally. Firehosing substack from the app is all sorts of overwhelming. Who are you is always a restless question we haven't quite figured a succinct answer for. But we can say that the word "obeisance" and like that you use it in this poem. We first heard it in the anime darker than black and have loved it ever since. These days when we can, we are trying to memorize and recite poems we love by heart. On good days, we are trying to write some too. We are trying to be less scornful about things written and sung to slake popular thirst (AI generated and all) realizing that the over-indulgence is because most people have no time to feel the layers deeply. Every day we try to listen to the birds and spend more time with the ones who love us.
ughhh I know the AI writing is a plague
sad teen? fuck no i'd be targeted as a mass shooter nowadays 🤣🤣
Wore all black, drank purple passions, rode dirtbike unsafely and shot semiautomatic weapons even more unsafely 🤣
this is such a refreshing perspective, thank you thank you thank you
wow beautiful
I follow you because you stir memories in me. Your tender humor, your scathing remarks set in motion through true caring, your wonderful poetry obviously set in motion by truly loving. I fear the vast majority have lost the gifts of depth and nuance. I see so much that is surface, shallow, and perhaps saddest of all just downright boring. At times it feels as if everything nowadays is made of cheap plastic covered in a thin wash of water based gold paint, but very few actually notice. I will admit I am an older man and it is common for older people, men in particular, to find fault with younger generations. This is, I assure you, not that. In fact I fear the beginnings of this slide into mediocrity began with my generation as we spent our days locked in front of a television being fed visual stimulation with no nutritional value and non stop advertising reminding us that our true value was built on our ability to purchase the next unnecessary item which was just like the last unnecessary item. Computers, the web, and social media have simply taken those humble beginnings and magnified them, taking large swaths of information and shaping it into algorithms designed to lead us into a cesspool of mediocrity and sameness. Ai is quickly becoming even more adept at showing us the way to even more of the same.
Thank the powers that be there are still a few who have this bothersome sense that there was once somehow more. Rather than being classified as an actual memory it seems to be something else, a fleeting flicker of a feeling that there was once something bigger, something with substance and weight and value. For those of us with these sensations it is absolutely imperative that we continue to think and write and create and question. It is of utmost importance that we hold onto that faint glimmer and hope that eventually the small glowing ember will re-ignite and we might have warmth and light to share with our children and grandchildren.
I feel as if I sound like a character in some dime store distopian paperback novel but I couldn't be more sincere. There is still time. The world seems to be burning down around us however all is not lost, but it will be if we fail to sing the songs and tell the tales. Stories around the fire reminding, teaching and re-teaching, re-animating in those who listen carefully and with open hearts the almost lost ability to truly feel, to experience life, to love and share at the very deepest levels. In essence how to once again be truly human. Thank You for being brave enough to be one of those singing the songs.
I love it all. I like how you share the journey and questions facing so many of us now with generated material, why it resonates with many, and what are people connecting with and why? Sometimes there does seem to be a desert of quirky, unique, fun, or something that is imperfect out there to love. It's an interesting something that faces us now and why is it trending this way? But my favorite part was what you wrote to your love. So beautifully full of love, uniquely you and specifically to him. I'm sure one of his dearest treasures. Thanks for sharing.
I also wonder how something can feel shallow and manufactured and still resonate so widely. Maybe it’s less about the depth of the content and more about the people wanting to feel something, anything. Maybe they want something that is simple, familiar, easy to digest? But than again, that tells a lot about them. I'm new to your page, but I'm enjoying it 😊
How could this portrait of the Undefinable Other only be second place? Each item in this piece is like another acupuncture needle releasing stuck energy in one of my meridians. It’s more alive and more quickly under my skin than almost all other poetry I’ve read in a while.
Who am I? An enthusiastic fan of Shannan Mann (and Karan) for saying well what others only mumble. I’m an eccentric (apparently) poet who is Old School in the Mark Strand-Ashbery sense of writing poems we haven’t read before. I feel strongly that too much current published poetry ignores the demands of the 21st Century, which comes crashing in rapid waves. These Beautiful Losers-ONLY POEMS-etc. sources bring me writing I can love and if I don’t, at least pushes me around some, which is why I read. I’m weary of reading "I did this and this is how I feel” poems and want something new. New ideas, new use of language. So I come here, wagging my tail.