Margaret Evans

“Write a Shakespearean sonnet about a cat,” I commanded ChatGPT.

And it did. Three times. Each sonnet took about 10 seconds to materialize, and each seemed better than the one before. They had 14 lines, followed the proper rhyme scheme, and ended in a couplet. Just so. And they sounded . . . well, maybe not perfectly Shakespearean, but at least Elizabethan. Here’s an example stanza:

In twilight's hush, there stirs a feline grace, A creature draped in shadow's soft caress, Its eyes, twin orbs, enchanting depths embrace, With nimble paws, it doth my heart possess.

Freaky, right? To my eye, the sonnets lacked the Bard’s signature depth – his wit and word play – but I studied Shakespeare in college and grad school. To the average reader, I’m pretty sure they’d pass muster.

That’s the thing about all this fakery that’s multiplying around us – from the Photoshopped Martha Stewart cover to the frozen faces of women – young and old – to the robot-written essays and sonnets of ChatGPT. It might look good, but it’s not good. Because it’s not real.

That’s how I feel now, anyway. As the line between real and fake continues to blur, so might my opinion. Perhaps there will come a time when I can see absolutely no difference between real and fake and will simply cease to care. That thought makes me deeply sad, but I can’t quite explain why. Perhaps I should ask ChatGPT to generate an essay on the topic.

Though I’m not sure AI is capable of grappling with such nuance. Not yet, anyway. After it churned out the three cat sonnets, I asked ChatGPT to answer the question:

“Is Donald Trump an honest man?”

ChatGPT replied, “As an AI language model, I don’t hold personal opinions or biases.” Whew. That’s a relief. While poets should probably start looking around for a new gig, I guess my job as an opinion columnist is safe. For now.