AI Horror Show 3

 And finally, before my brain collapses, here's what ChatGPT came up with when I asked it to write a poem about rakiya in the style of my own book Unknown Translations:

Rakia: A Translation

It starts, they say, with the first fruit
on the far side of the valley,
where vines twist into language
and the sky pulls at its seams.
Rakia,
thick as a laugh shared in the dark,
it slips from the bottle like a long breath
held too long,
and burns with the promise of forgetting.

I watch as they pour it,
clear as the first line of a poem
you’d never write,
the golden light caught in the glass
shimmers with the quiet scandal
of things unsaid.

One sip,
a sudden leap into the afternoon's gravity,
where thoughts bend like branches,
too heavy to hold in your hand,
and your tongue thickens with something
close to truth,
but not quite.

"To the mountains," they toast,
hands low, steady
like the rise of dusk,
like the curve of a road that doesn’t quite
meet the horizon.
They speak of home,
of ancestors,
of rivers swallowed in one gulp,
as if the words too might dissolve
under the weight of the drink.

But here,
between laughter and the haze
of forgetting the last word,
the land becomes something else.
What were you holding onto?
Nothing.
You hold nothing now,
just the pulse of fire,
the quiet hum that runs through
the veins of anyone willing to listen
close enough.

Another sip,
and the names start to lose their shape,
the drink a language
too old to be remembered,
but never quite forgotten.

AI Horror Show 2

 And here's what I got when I asked ChatGPT to write a poem about money in the style of J.H. Prynne:

Currency for the Static

Whispers leak through slow hands, folded over
coins older than names—these stretched hours
in the quiet wash of surfaces turning,
the threadbare edge,
insistent.
Numbers breed in compartments under skin,
a slip of ink that lives longer than memory.

You follow the shift in the air
where bodies scatter in metallic breath,
the unspoken glue of green veins,
black veins,
no one speaks of the margin
where value stays without motion,
a waiting stillness that can carry the day.

You grasp it—no,
it pulls through fingers like dust or silk
or the absence of both,
as the gears grind with a velvet ease,
and the check of the hours
still counts by what can’t be held.

Time shudders beneath the weight of change,
reduced, composed.
A map unfolded too late—
not to the edge,
but within it,
hidden behind the print,
where the pulse of surplus rests.

Flourish, faint, in the flicker
of what cannot return,
the door swung wide by an exchange
too deep to see,
too sharp for the blur of
the passing,
counted but never known.

AI Horror Show 1

 And so here is what happened when I asked ChatGPT to write a short story in the style of Richard Osman about two old men meeting in a remote Bulgarian village:

The Two Old Men and the Remote Bulgarian Village

Gerald and Malcolm had been best friends since their youth, or rather, since the youth of a very different time. They’d lived long enough to have seen an entire era of the world unfold in front of them. And while the rest of their peers had taken up knitting or leisurely gardening, Gerald and Malcolm had developed an affinity for… well, peculiar holidays.

"We're not exactly the golfing sort, are we?" Gerald had said on one of those fateful mornings when they were looking for a new adventure. “I mean, I don’t even know what a 'birdie' is, and frankly, I don't want to.”

“No, no," Malcolm had replied, adjusting his glasses, “and I’m still unclear on why anyone would willingly leave a nice warm pub to chase after little white balls in the freezing cold.”

And so it was that the two men found themselves in an old, rusted minibus bouncing along the crumbling dirt roads of Bulgaria’s most remote mountain region.

“Do you think we should have checked the map?” Gerald asked, squinting at the landscape through the foggy window.

“I’m certain we’re in the right place,” Malcolm said confidently. “I mean, this is where the postman said the village was. We just need to get to the end of the road, and we’ll be there.”

The driver, a man whose thick mustache seemed as permanent as the hills, gave them a smile that seemed both knowing and mildly amused. He had dropped them off at what appeared to be a crossroads, with only a ramshackle sign reading “Panteleymonovo” in shaky Cyrillic letters.

“Are we sure about this?” Gerald asked. He had, by now, gotten used to Malcolm’s more adventurous streak, but this seemed just a little too far out.

“Trust me,” Malcolm said, with a twinkle in his eye. “The world needs curious minds like ours. We're explorers.”

“Explorers of what?” Gerald muttered, more to himself than to his friend, as he picked up the rucksack with what he hoped was enough supplies for a few days of…whatever they were going to be doing.

The village was small, no more than a few dozen houses scattered haphazardly across a valley that looked as though it had been carved by the hands of giants who had lost interest halfway through. The air was sharp, with a faint whiff of wood smoke from chimneys that sputtered and huffed, struggling to send their tendrils of warmth into the chilly afternoon.

The two old men made their way to what appeared to be the village square, though square might be stretching it. It was more of a vague open space between two buildings, with a hand-painted sign hanging lazily over a wooden door that read, “Inn.” In fact, the door had been hanging off its hinges for years, but somehow it still managed to function as the hub of activity.

Inside, a woman with hair the color of midnight and a gaze that could freeze a sheep in its tracks looked them up and down. “You’re looking for something, yes?” she asked, her voice thick with an accent they couldn’t quite place.

“Well, we’re just passing through,” Malcolm said, trying to look casual, though Gerald could tell by the slight twitch of his friend’s eye that Malcolm was already plotting to uncover some grand village mystery.

“You want to stay?” the woman asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Gerald shot Malcolm a look. “Do you think we’re supposed to be here?”

“No, of course not. But what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like we’re on a plane to anywhere dangerous.”

The woman gestured vaguely to the empty tables around them. “We have… soup.”

“Soup?” Gerald said, his mind turning over possibilities. “What kind of soup?”

The woman seemed to ponder this for a moment. “The kind that warms you.”

“Right,” Gerald said, mentally adjusting his expectations for dinner. “We’ll take two.”

The village turned out to be just as charming as it was puzzling. At night, they found themselves sitting around a long wooden table in the dim glow of the inn’s only lamp, a group of weathered villagers who nodded politely at their presence. The soup was hearty, though neither man could say exactly what kind of meat had been involved in the making of it.

“So, what’s the story with this place?” Malcolm asked, after a few too many rounds of strong, homemade rakia had loosened his tongue.

One of the villagers, an elderly man with a woolen cap that seemed to be the most stylish thing in the room, leaned in and gave them a long, silent look. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, as though he were revealing a great secret.

“There’s a legend,” the man said, “about a treasure buried beneath the ground. Hidden for centuries.”

Gerald raised an eyebrow. “A treasure? In a tiny village like this?”

The man nodded. “Yes. But it’s a curse. The treasure brings misfortune.”

“Oh, lovely,” Gerald said, making a mental note to steer clear of any unexpected mounds of earth. “And who knows where it’s buried?”

“Only those who have come before. But they’ve disappeared, all of them.”

Gerald leaned back in his chair, considering this for a moment. “Well, I can’t say I’m particularly interested in a treasure hunt at my age.”

“No,” Malcolm said thoughtfully, “but if we happened to stumble upon it…”

“Malcolm,” Gerald warned. “This is not the time for treasure hunting. We’re here for a quiet little escape.”

But as the night wore on, and the rakia continued to flow, both men began to wonder whether the legend of the treasure might, in fact, be the most interesting thing about Panteleymonovo after all.

Perhaps, just this once, they could go a little off the beaten path. Maybe just a small dig around the garden. After all, who could resist?

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast that involved more soup (how?), they found themselves outside, peering over the landscape with a renewed sense of adventure. Maybe they weren’t real explorers. But perhaps, just this once, they could get away with it.

And so, with that thought in mind, Gerald and Malcolm set off, two old men with nothing more than curiosity and a sense of humor to guide them. And maybe, just maybe, the beginnings of an entirely unexpected treasure hunt.

As they walked down the dirt path towards the village edge, a voice echoed from behind them.

“You’ll need a spade,” the innkeeper called after them. “But you’ll never find it without help.”

Gerald sighed and turned to Malcolm. “What have we gotten ourselves into this time?”

Malcolm grinned. “Who knows, Gerald? Who knows?”

Fantastic lover

 

We've never met and we won't

though we've spoken on the phone

a bit - well, a bit of business

(if that counts) and phones are dumb.

Our vast and scintillating characters

get stuffed down hi-tech fibre.

You never know who's listening

on spider thread, tenuous lifeline.

You can't hear a bloody thing.

And they won't come and fix it

unless you've got shares.

 

Ah well. I'm not about

to sew my heart on anyone's sleeve,

say "let's chuck everything -

meet me after work at Temple Meads" -

get drunk on cheap Bulgarian wine

(just to make sure) and wander back

to your flat where you'll make coffee:

splutter, gurgle, cough. I'll know

it's instant - but who the Hell cares?

And then we'll think about the risks.

 

There'll be a picture of your lover by the bed.

He gets switched off with the light.

 

In the morning we'll do it again

after I've been to the cashpoint

and - more awkward - Boots.

 

Then, then, yes, then,

we'll walk down by the river

and tell the truth for a change

till, after one more coffee,

I'll get back on the train

never to be seen..... perhaps.

But I'll phone. Tomorrow.

Some recent publications

 A few links to poems that have appeared online and in print in recent times: 

‘In a time of fragility’ - One Hand Clapping, March 2022: https://www.1handclapping.online/post/tom-phillips-a-poem

 ‘Eyrie’ - Litterateur RW, April 2022: https://litterateurrw.com/magazines/march_22/index.html?fbclid=IwAR3SPJOicq1twyZceuDf9G9O35JT9VVE0Qa4zUAV5uOci5r7XCkhuS9uF6E

‘Men Fishing at Sawtell’ & ‘Redirecting the Stream’, Pulp Poets Press, September 2022, https://pulppoetspress.com/2-poems-by-tom-phillips

 ‘Blues for a Total Poetry’, ‘Against Silence’ – Littoral, February 2023 https://littoralpressuk.jimdofree.com/littoral-magazine/

 ‘Cross country to the coast’ – London Grip, March 2023: https://londongrip.co.uk/2023/03/london-grip-new-poetry-spring-2023/#contents

Three poems

 

Sofia Metaphors 2022/Tom Phillips

 

1 Grid

 

Knowing the place of old

from walks home over the hill,

but brought back now to look again

at ancient brickwork, renovations,

the old bell, coppery green,

displaced in its tree …

 

Orange petals flame-like in the sun,

this late September morning,

and drying seedpods turning brown

among a crowd of many voices –

languages moving in and out of range –

and this one gathering for a celebration

with cameras and flowers …

 

We approach along horizontals,

come together, exchange, move apart

beside the church’s verticals:

rooftop dome, latticed windows,

mortar growing less orderly

down through centuries,

down through space

where this couple will be married,

down to mosaic pavement, foundations,

and still further, underneath all,

what remains of Roman tombs.

 

Above first small drifts

of the coming autumn’s leaves

and play of shadows

across tile and earth and faces,

the sky holds onto its blue.

 

2 Perspective

 

Drinking beer in old Lenin Square,

overlooked now by Saint Sofia

and authoritarian buildings

repurposed by new authorities,

there’s warmth coming on

in this tail-end of summer.

 

History finds its feet

in the everyday – theirs and ours -

sharing its shifting proximities.

How to look is where to start.

What lurks among shaded tables,

traffic noise, vaulted arcades

and things that might have been?

 

The statue is turning a blind eye

to ambitions that were transformed –

as they always will be –

from anticipated immortality

to more modest survival – here,

where Lenin once surveyed the square,

overlooked now by Saint Sofia.

 

3 Flow

 

A temple to water –

Philip Larkin’s religion –

in this city so far from the sea.

We could navigate by fountains –

from City Gardens to Presidential Palace

to the endlessly repeating fleur-de-lis

in Banski Square, the old baths

now housing city history,

and, beyond that, the hot flow of the springs.

 

Tram announcements cut across

the muezzin’s call. One man unrolls

his mat by red and silver flowerbeds,

another taps messages on his mobile phone

and a third asks me for a cigarette.

 

Apollo holds his place, discretely.

He is modest in bronze,

head turned away as if unsure

where to look while his acolytes

haul and clank empty bottles to the taps,

trusting in the hope that each drop

will grant them health, long life, as they

haul and clank full bottles from the taps,

carrying with them more than a mere commodity.

 

Tom Phillips, 24/9/2022

How Much He Knew: prose pamphlet

For the last few summers I've published little pamphlets gathering up poems from the last 12 months or so. This year, however, it's a piece in prose about my father and the circumstantial evidence that he might have had another secret life. As with the previous online pamphlets, it's entirely free to download and you are more than welcome to read it by clicking on this link.