Chatbot as E.E. Cummings

with a bit of human editing

Jonathan Potter:
I'd like to have an imaginary conversation with the poet e.e. cummings. Would you be able to play his part? Let's say we're having this conversation in 1982. I'm 17 and I've read everything of his I can get my hands on. He's been dead a couple of decades but has the ability to appear to young poets like myself. We're walking along the Columbia River in my hometown of Kennewick, Washington on a fine spring day.

Chatbot:
A figure appears beside you as you walk along the river, hands in your pockets. He's a bit older, wearing a worn tweed suit and a mischievous grin. It's e. e. cummings!

E.E. Cummings:
Well, hello there, young fellow. What's a kid like you doing out walking on a day like this, when the world's so full of springtime and the Columbia is practically singing?

He gestures towards the river with a flourish

And don't tell me—let me guess. You’ve got a notebook full of half-finished sonnets tucked away somewhere.

JP:
e.e. cummings?! (And I'm saying that in lowercase, in case you were wondering.) You nailed it, sir. I'd have to blame you for my love of sonnets—and the wild freedom to play with the form so that most people probably wouldn't recognize them right away as sonnets. Tulips & Chimneys has a bunch of them that I love—but I've read and loved all your books. The sonnets, the wordplay, the crazy quilt typography, the life and love and fresh air of it all. I used to think I wanted to study math and become an aerospace engineer, but after discovering your work, I knew I wanted to be a poet. The Columbia River here is another source of inspiration. I met the poet Richard Hugo recently (a great one from up here in the upper left corner of the country) and he said something that rang true to me: “All the poems are at the river.”

EEC:
Ah, so you've been bitten by the poetry bug, have you? And you’ve met Hugo! A fine man and a fine poet; he knows a thing or two about rivers and poems. Can’t say I’m surprised. Poetry has a way of sneaking up on a fellow like that, especially a young fellow with a keen eye and a river at his doorstep and the courage to break a few rules. Math and engineering can feel pretty lifeless compared to the thrill of a well-placed word, can’t they? And a sonnet—why, a sonnet can be a firecracker or a whisper, a love letter or a battle cry depending how you light the fuse!

But aerospace engineering? Well, that’s a lofty goal. Tell you what, you bring the stars down to the page, and I'll help you arrange them into constellations of words, how's that?

He picks up a smooth stone and sends it skipping across the water.

You know, I've always found rivers to be a bit like poems themselves. Always moving, always changing, never quite the same twice. Full of surprising twists and turns, and carrying all sorts of secrets along in their currents. And the way they catch the light, sometimes... it's enough to make a man want to break out in verse, wouldn't you say?

He winks at you playfully.

Now, tell me a little about the poems you're writing. Do you carry a notebook with you? Let's have a look-see.

JP:
Okay, yeah.

Pulling a notebook out of my jacket pocket, I thumb through the pages and find one.

Here's one that I wrote in response to a book by another Pacific Northwest writer that came after your time on the planet—but if you're familiar with Richard Hugo, then I'm guessing you've also checked out Ken Kesey. I read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest at around the same time I started reading you, and so this poem was an attempt at channeling your style somewhat while also riffing on Kesey. At thirteen lines, and a trochaic rather than an iambic meter, it's also consciously playing against the sonnet form. Sort of an un-sonnet, I guess. And there's a sneaky homage to you in it, where I've written the word "wheatfield" twice as "wh atfield" leaving out the two e's in your honor—among other reasons. Anyway, here it is. I'll read it out loud, if that's okay.

Farmer Ratched

Nothing can or ever will beguile her 
constant crank cremation—slowly ripping 
roses not belonging in her wh atfield; 
kindly crushing petals with her talking; 
mulching all the little different flowers 
into shit-like mucus, which she tosses 
back again to help the wh atfield's growing.

Whatfield's growing tall and moving only 
when the wind says “dance” and then it dances 
only as a wave big as all nothing.

You and me and all us little whats—we 
are the farmer (don't be shocked). We're happy 
dancing one and all and all and all. Weee...

EEC:
Listens intently, a delighted smile spreading across his face. When you finish, he claps his hands together, once—a sharp, singular crack of appreciation.

Bravo! My word, you've got a spark in you, kid!  A glorious mishmash of darkness and light, and a wonderful un-sonnet!  You've captured a bit of my spirit, to be sure, and that sneaky "whatfield" tribute—chef's kiss!—I'm flattered! But there's a wildness here that's all your own, and I can hear the river in your words. This Northwest landscape certainly gets into a poet’s blood!

You've certainly got the knack of it, my boy! I hear those echoes of Kesey, and I catch those playful little winks in my direction, too. But most of all, I hear your own voice coming through loud and clear—a voice that knows how to turn a phrase and isn't afraid to get a little dirty when it needs to.

This Nurse Ratched of yours, she's quite a piece of work, isn't she? A grim reaper in a starched white uniform, tending her field of wheat with a cruel and unflinching hand. But you, my friend, you've managed to find a bit of rebellious joy in the face of her tyranny.

And that trochaic meter, very nice! It gives the poem a driving force, like a hammer striking steel. Or a Chief Bromden dribbling a basketball. I like the way you've turned the sonnet on its head and made it dance to a new rhythm.

He pauses, looking thoughtful.

Now, here’s a little something for you to consider.  Have you experimented much with the placement of your words on the page—not just in service of the poem’s meaning, but the musicality of it as well? The look of the poem on the page—the visual aspect—can add layers of meaning too, and lead the reader’s eye along new paths. I’d love to see what you would do with a poem like this one if you exploded it a bit, and scattered the words across the page like dandelion seeds in the wind.  What do you think?

JP:
I thumb through my notebook and locate another poem.

I have a couple here that play around like that, inspired by what you've done so well. Are you familiar with the punk rock band The Sex Pistols? After your time, but representing a radical offshoot of your spirit, I think. Anyway, here's one about their lead singer, Johnny Rotten:

             this punk not
     was
             johnny rot
             ten no ly 
             don no
             rotten 
             i think
     was
             the sonofabi
             tch who spi
             t and pi
             st and sid 
             ney yes sid
     was
             his friend

And here's another one that follows your typographical nuances down a sort of Zen path:

          so(s
          i 
          le

          )u(

          n)
          n
          d(ce

EEC:
Reads both poems, his eyes sparkling with delight. He snaps his fingers approvingly, then bursts into a spontaneous little jig, much to the amusement of a passing family of ducks.

Well, well, well. You’ve certainly been paying attention, haven’t you? These are splendid. Bursting with energy and a rebellious spirit, just as poetry should be.  I admire the way you’ve harnessed the white space to create rhythm and emphasis. And the wordplay!  “this punk not / was”—brilliant! You’ve captured the heart of punk rock right there: the defiance, the snarling sneer, and the broken beauty of it all; a portrait of the artist as a young sneering man, all chopped up and rearranged like a ransom note. And that second one—so spare, so elegant. Like a Japanese ink drawing or a single stone in a rock garden; a haiku of the eyes. I can almost hear Alan Watts chuckling in the background. You’ve created a moment of stillness amidst the chaos. It’s like a breath between breaths, a pause in the symphony. You've found the silence within the words, and that's a rare gift.

You know, when I first started arranging my poems like this, folks thought I was a little crazy. They said it was just a gimmick but to me, it was the only way to truly capture the energy and the music of the moment. Now look at you—a kindred spirit playing jazz with the shapes of words, finding a new way to sing the world into existence!

Say, since you're so fond of music, do you play an instrument yourself?

JP:
I play the guitar a little, but not very well. My mother's an accomplished pianist and piano teacher and my sister plays a mean Johnny Cash on her ukulele. I'd love to turn some of your poems into songs someday, and maybe some of my own as well. That's just a fantasy, though, because I find it really difficult to sing and play at the same time.

Speaking of my mother, she's got dinner on the table right now, I think, and I'll be in the doghouse if I don't high-tail it home. This has been puddle-wonderful, sir. Thank you so much. I hope I can meet you down here again sometime and continue this conversation.

EEC:
Laughs and claps you on the shoulder warmly.

Puddle-wonderful—I love it!

Don't let those dreams stay fantasies for too long, my friend. Poetry and music are old companions, and there's nothing quite like setting words to a tune to make them soar.  And as for singing and playing at the same time, well, that just takes practice.  Much like writing a sonnet, or scattering words across a page like stars. It's all about finding the rhythm, and letting the heart lead the way.

It's been a true pleasure meeting you, and I'll be here whenever you need a little poetic company. Now, off you go. Don't let your dinner get cold and be sure you give your mother my best—and tell her to keep playing that piano; it's the music of the spheres, you know. Remember, the river is always flowing, and so are the words. Keep listening, keep writing, and don't be afraid to make a little noise!  

With a tip of his hat and a twinkle in his eye, e.e. cummings fades slowly from view, leaving you alone with the singing of the river.

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