Poetry across scales

 

Minimalism has been a periodic ideal of modern and post-modern esthetics. Purely arbitrary, of course, though not without possibilities and even infinities of its own. For example, there are those who regard Haiku as a sort of supreme test of the poet, since poetry is commonly defined as the best words in the best order. This leaves the door open for imagining that there is an absolute minimum definable for capturing profound truth in the fewest of the best words in the least of the best order. In Haiku there must be 17 syllables, some reference to a season (ensuring universality I guess), and a prohibition against rhyme to prevent cheating (another guess).

What if this definition of the minimum is wrong? What if there’s some way to reach great truths in less than 17 syllables? In less than a single word even? And, gasp, in less than a single letter on the page? Impossible?

Well, why the hell not? I propose that the graphic above is a poem, subject to meaningful exploration, interpretation and inference as much as any Haiku. Let’s take a look.

Some of you are probably familiar with my conceit called the DarkNet. It will come in handy here.

No, you’re still not ready for your own password. But this poetic exercise can be part of qualifying down the road. 

                   ^                          >   

                                                                    

                            <                                             v

There you have it. It goes infinite up, down, and sideways. Except for the 17 syllables, it meets the constraints of Haiku. Is it saying something about the seasons, nature, and life? Is it an example of Artificial Intelligence? No. It’s something AI cannot do. Why? A phenomenon called “Sensitive Dependence on Initial Conditions.” Just for fun, let AI explain that to you:

What’s the critical initial condition? Behind the process of creation is a programmer, a conscious entity not confined to digital constraints. Why AI never exists. There is always a human thumb on the scale, built in from the start. Actually, before the start. Why we encounter the idiotic AI system output of founding fathers who are Eskimo, Native American, Hispanic, Asian, Black, and female. The algorithms don’t know the difference. They don’t know anything. Intention can be modeled, clumsily, but not infallibly. 

So I have given you a poem that doesn’t even have a name. It just is, existing within the initial conditions I have given it. The eventual output is unpredictable. I have given you enough to go poking around in a bunch of different directions, a bunch of different things to think about.

A word about the word ‘thing.’ I’ve read enough of the instructions provided to aspiring writers to know that there are words real writers are supposed to keep to the absolute minimum. The word ‘thing’ is one of them. So general that it has no meaning. Same with using some form of the verb “to be” in a description. Write with verbs they tell you. Not “there was a car in the driveway,” but Fitzgerald’s famous “A Buick cooked on the ancient drive…” 

The thing is that both ‘to be’ and ‘thing’ are wonderful things. Probably no word has more various and interesting connotations than ‘thing.’ And there are things that can’t be referenced or fairly introduced without it. The poem here has no name, but it most definitely is a thing. 

You’re allowed to call it that if you want. “That Thing by Instapunk.”

You’re welcome.