Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Computers are poets too
We close the door, shut out all sound, this is a ritual. We open the current.
We talk.
This is a conversation through glass. An exchange in little live neon words,
fireflies in the screen’s knot garden, with none of the halting, raw touching
of some hand on a page that’ll perish.
We talk.
And this computer isn’t so different from the ones which pace hearts and
score life’s rhythms. This computer with its lights and pulses isn’t so different
from my own light heart.
We talk.
We are abroad, I teach it my language.
And shining answers come back to me, as though from the far side of
Europe, electric shocking. Only the computer and I understand.
We talk.
Mererid Puw Davies
And my own language, my old writing: I see their shapes shift. In a silver
surface, fire flowers, lucid lucent procession, brilliant heralds, brighter
than anything you’ve ever seen.
We’re talking. The computer’s a poet.
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