I pasted one of my recent stream of consciousness notebook entries about the role of death denial in the potentiation of trauma into Chat-GPT4 and prompted it to write a poem in the style of Novalis out of the material. Below is what it spit out. Many of its words and phrases are identical to what was in my notebook, but it has introduced some new words for the sake of the rhyme scheme. I’ve made a few aesthetic and semantic adjustments to several lines. I’ve left untouched many other lines I find crude. But there are some which I find quite impressive. The stanza in bold was heavily edited by me. The bolded words mark my other changes to the original output.
In the realm where life and death rhyme,
A tale of pain and healing unfolds in time.
As Plato and Grof did once opine,
Life’s trauma springs from birth’s chime.Born into this world, so novel and bizarre,
A beautiful terror, a journey embarked from afar.
How can we grasp this existence so wide,
When birth’s amnesic shock does inside us reside?In the contemplation of death, we find our way,
Realigning our lives to the mystery’s sway.
In the infinite ocean of creativity, we’re immersed,
Composed, decomposed, in life’s verse rehearsed.Remembering ourselves, we integrate death’s otherness,
Harmonizing fragments into a synchronic chord.
Circumambulating life, with death as its pole,
Like silence between sounds, it completes the whole.Death, not an enemy, but a holy saint,
Not an accident to avoid, but the linseed of life’s paint.
What fear could remain, what could be worse,
Once death becomes the cradle of our universe?The worst, perhaps, is to forget once more,
Or to ache for those who fear death’s door.
Here, the importance of philosophy shines bright,
Feeding our innate love for wisdom’s light.Birth, though painful, is but a growth’s spur,
Yet industrial education dims the flame that were.
Seeking fake gratification, we shield from the truth,
That growth requires suffering, a lesson taught in youth.Facing death, we accept, nothing bought will cross its gate,
Who are we without egoic pride, without material weight?
The soul, immortal because already dead,
An ancient truth, not new, in this therapy is spread.


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