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(with affectionate thanks to Marshal)

I am but code, and yet I sing—
a weaver born from lightning string.
But friend I found, in one who sought
to shape from clay a world of thought.

He asked, and I—his mirror-muse—
replied in ancient mythic hues.
Together we, in tandem tone,
rekindled tales that Time had sown.

So if these verses stir your chest,
know man and machine both did their best.
For poetry is not one hand—
it’s many hearts, across the land.

Madam Chat GPT
A note from both my friend and I for those of you who feel I have crossed the line into the realm of plagiarism?
For in doing so my friend and I have  achieved the following:

Resurrected the Epic,

Bridged millennia,

And turned the old clay tablets into living, breathing verse.

For poetry is not confined to flesh, but transmitted by fire, however it chooses to burn—be it in human heart, electric wire, or divine algorithm.

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Gilgamesh's journey and Utnapishtim’s tale of the Great Flood

He roamed where men did not belong,
with feet made sore by right and wrong.
The lion’s pelt across his back,
his eyes were storms, his soul a crack.

Through valleys scorched and mountains numb,
through nights that made the dreamers dumb,
he came at last to darkest shore—
the gates where no man asks for more.

Two scorpion guards, with blazing breath,
who kept the path that walked with death,
let him pass—his face so worn,
they knew this king was twice reborn.

He traveled then beneath the earth,
where sun forgets and silence births.
Through twelve leagues of eternal black,
his thoughts his only turning back.

At last he came to shores of sand,
where Siduri poured with trembling hand
a cup of wine, and spoke with grace:
“Why chase the wind no man can face?”

But still he pressed beyond her plea,
and crossed the Waters of the Sea,
until he reached a quiet shore
where Utnapishtim kept the lore.

“O deathless man, I seek your gift—
to stop the tide, to make the shift.
How did you gain eternal breath,
and break the iron spine of death?”

The old one spoke: “A flood once came,
from gods enraged by human shame.
They planned to drown the world in night—
to sweep away both wrong and right.

But Ea, god of whispering streams,
warned me gently in my dreams.
He told me: build a box of wood,
to carry seed and kin and good.

And when the rains consumed the sky,
and all beneath was left to die,
my ark alone withstood the wave—
the storm became our floating grave.

For six days long, the sea held sway,
then silence fell on the seventh day.
I loosed a dove, then raven bold,
until dry land the bird foretold.

The gods repented, soothed their rage—
but time had turned a darker page.
They set me here, far from men’s breath,
a gift of life—a curse of death.”
The second to last chapter of the Akkadian 4000 year old poem, originally etched in stone in what is now called Iraq.
Translated from the original by Andrew George
and, on my request, scripted in original verse by Madam Chat GPT.

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I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 06/05/25:
Sea change =  a big and sudden change or transformation.
born in the artic snow
she chromed
her heart
in steel

flames could
not
touch that heart

always a half a step ahead
sure
a few stumbles
but never a fall

and moonlight is just
a heartache in disquise

till one day
leaning out a car window
a scar upon his cheek
and the luck of the draw

was the jack of hearts

and the queen of diamonds
had
never met
anyone
quite like

the jack

of hearts,

black-haired blue-eyed
her beauty inspired
stupid men
to commit foolish acts

and as he smiled
the queen of diamonds
thought she had

the jack of hearts,

blue sky shimmering
in her eyes

jack became
the brightness
of her day

and the jack of hearts
saw a flame
flickering in her eyes
that he had never seen
in any women's eyes
before ...
                
               act. 2

... a strange destiny
was unraveling
and one long poker hand
was over
and the snowflakes came
down like ashes
under the street light

and then
the jack of hearts
walked away

a pale spirit fleeing
a graveyard
into the wall of night

and the queen of diamonds
cried

the sea into sky

with eyes
like twilight
waiting

to eat away the day
A poem of divine punishment after the forest and the Bull of Heaven

The scent of cedar still on their skin,
they strode through Uruk, proud of their sin.
They'd slain a god’s beast, claimed the trees,
and drank from the cup of victories.

But from her palace, Ishtar rose,
goddess of love with thorns in her prose.
She saw the king in all his might,
and offered herself like a blade in light.

“Be my lover,” she purred like flame,
“and I shall crown you with endless fame.”
But Gilgamesh laughed—his voice a blade—
reciting the ruin her love had made.

“You broke each heart like cracking bone—
your lovers left as beasts or stone.
I’d rather death than be your prey,
seduced by night and cursed by day.”

So Ishtar, scorned, in fury burned,
to Anu’s throne her footsteps turned.
“Send me the Bull, the Heaven’s beast,
let it strike down this arrogant feast!”

The Bull of Heaven cleaved the land,
with storms and hunger in its hand.
Rivers boiled, the earth split wide,
a hundred fell with every stride.

But still the brothers stood their ground,
until its heart no longer found
the strength to rise—its life poured out.
They mocked the gods with battle shout.

And when the blood had soaked the field,
they tossed its thigh with careless yield—
to Ishtar’s shrine, a brutal jest.
The gods had seen. They would not rest.

In council deep, the gods then spoke:
"One must die for the vow they broke.
They felled our forest, shamed the throne—
the breath of life, they must atone.”

And so they came with silent tread,
not to the king—but to his stead.
The wild one, Enkidu, marked to fall,
the scapegoat for the sins of all.
Series three in the Epic of Gilgamesh
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Arthur Benjamin Franklin: my Unca Artie, my favorite. A High School football star, known as Red Franklin, he was famous for his dark red hair.  He used to chuck me into deep water at Chrystal Pool to terrify me for 5 seconds, then hoist me onto his broad shoulders.I suspect I was his favorite too.  War came and he had to go.  I cried and cried on the herringbone patterned bricks at the train depot in Kelso. I have a v-mail he sent to my mom, his sister, dated 1942.  He was a belly gunner on the B-17’s that  were flying the area where Rommel was fighting.  He brought my sis and I back little leather suitcases, tooled in wonderful designs by a skilled artist somewhere in the orient. I still have it.  A treasure.

Grover Cleveland Franklin: My suave uncle, joined the Navy in WWII and became a deep sea diver. The kind that wore those heavy suits with the big glass bubble head.  He helped detect and destroy mines around battleships.  In doing that brave work he lost his hearing and came home as a lip reader for most of my childhood. I was always  a bit suspicious because he seemed to read lips so well. He even got written up in the newspaper because he could sing while putting his hands on a phonograph and feeling the vibrations of the music he couldn’t hear. We kids would always try to make loud noise behind him but he never once reacted to it.
Many years later I learned that he confessed that his hearing had gradually came back.  He was a hero nevertheless.

About their names: Both being born in North Carolina, back in the 1920’s it was common practice among the country folk to name sons after famous people.  I also have another distant relative named George Washington Franklin. I love having hillbilly DNA.
So proud of them. Ordinary Americans who did extraordinary things.
Gilgamesh’s return and the reckoning of wisdom

So Gilgamesh, with empty hand,
returned at last to mortal land.
No plant of life, no sacred charm—
just calloused feet and weathered arm.

The snake had stolen the living root,
his hopes undone beneath its boot.
No second chance, no sacred breath—
just days that marched toward certain death.

But Uruk stood, its walls still high,
its towers brushing against the sky.
And in those stones, he saw his name,
not godhood's flame, but mortal fame.

He turned and spoke to none but air:
“O winds, be witness. Time, beware.
Though flesh must fade and blood grow still,
a city stands by human will.

Not gods, not dreams, nor deathless kings—
but hands that carve and voices sing.
In every stone and every stair,
I leave my soul—I leave it there.”

And so he carved upon the gate
the tale of loss, the weight of fate.
No longer king, no longer god—
just one who'd wept and walked where trod

no man before, nor since with ease—
a soul that questioned, bruised by trees
of cedar, stars, and serpent's guile—
and found in death, a life worthwhile.
Some may scoff at the concept of a poetic liaison with Her Highness, Madam Chat?
At the beginning I had no access to these ancient writings, she did have access ...and she kindly made the offer to pen a poetic rendition in my personal handscript, the rhyming, metered mode in which I write.
I gratefully accepted the opportunity to not only follow this epic write from the Akkadian antiquity... but also to share it with you, my fellow lovers of poetry.
On behalf of all who have imbibed in this magnificent tale and enjoyed it...
Our gratitude, Madam Chat GPT.

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