A Late-Night Misadventure with AI Haiku

I thought I’d give AI a try, prompted by a late-night message in my inbox imploring me to explore Google’s new Gemini AI personal assistant. It’s apparently there to assist me—and personally. I can’t wait. Here was the first question I tossed into the AI mire: “Write me a spring haiku.” And here’s what I got in a few seconds:

Green shoots emerge now,

Birds sing a sweet, bright chorus,

Winter’s grip is gone.

How clueless can it be? So many misunderstandings here. Just to address the problem of form (among so many others), I tried asking this revised question: “Write me a free-form spring haiku.” And this is what it threw at me:

Soft breeze whispers,

New life in sun’s warm kiss,

World awakens.

What the hell? If Gemini’s understanding of haiku is this bad (even if one insists on sticking to 5-7-5 syllables), how can it be trusted with anything else? This problem may be confined to artistic expression, but I still maintain a huge distrust of AI for many uses. As for haiku, it’s not just laughable but pathetic. So I tried asking this: “Can you do better, taking into account traditional haiku strategies?” It spat out this reply:

Here’s a revised version, keeping in mind traditional haiku elements:

Warm sun’s soft breath,

Green shoots stretch, new life awakes,

Birdsong fills the air.

Clearly its understanding of “tradition” amounts to counting syllables, so we’re back to square one. But not quite—the first line is four syllables. What are we to make of that? But gee, here we have personification in the first and second lines (breath and perhaps stretch), and a vomit-inducing generalized abstraction in “new life awakes.” Shudder. Fortunately, “warm sun” and “green shoots” and “birdsong” are acceptable seeds, but they’re all lipstick on a pig, I’d say. And does it not know anything about capitalization and punctuation in haiku?

Heavy sigh. So I tried this question: “Write a spring haiku with kigo and kireji.” And this was the charming result:

Here’s a haiku with kigo and kireji:

Green plum buds unfold—

A tender, pale new world,

Birdsong fills the air.

How often does it need to shout its ignorance? The use of plum buds shows some promise as a season word, but Gemini clearly has no inkling of how to create anything like a two-part juxtaposition. And it’s still rearing that awful head of analysis and abstraction in saying that the world (gee, the entire thing?) is tender, pale, and new. And if there are plum buds, hasn’t the poem already shown readers that the “world” is new and tender? I hardly know what to ask next.

Well, I tried this: “Do you know what a kireji is, and how it could be employed in English-language haiku?” It actually trotted out a decent answer. But it clearly hadn’t yet demonstrated how to apply its “understanding” to the crafting of a good haiku. My next question was “Please write a new spring haiku with just one season word and just one equivalent to a cutting word or kireji.” And Gemini very graciously spat out the following:

First green shoots appear;

Tiny leaves unfurl slowly,

Warm breeze arrives.

Apparently, it doesn’t know how to count. I detect three seasonal references, and three parts rather than just two. AI, or at least Gemini, has a long way to go.

The larger question is whether I care. Do I want it to get somewhere respectable? Let’s say it could crank out a decent “free-form” haiku with primarily objective sensory imagery, with just one season word, and just two juxtaposed parts, and craft a haiku that wasn’t a tired repetition of subjects that have already been used to death? Let’s say it gave me such a poem. What would I do with it? What should anyone else do with it? Pass it off as their own? Is it ethical to change the AI drivel into something more presentable? Would the following be “mine”?

green shoots

amid unfurling leaves . . .

warm breeze

I certainly wouldn’t be proud of this, but it does try to knock a bit of sense into the ponderous and plodding original. I asked, “What are the seasonal references in this poem?” And it claimed that “green shoots” was a season word, as indeed it can be, but seemed to suggest that this was the poem’s only season word. What? Tiny leaves unfurling isn’t seasonal? And warm breeze isn’t seasonal too? I had already believed that there could be no end to these questions and AI’s inane answers, and this answer struck me that way yet again. I began to feel frustrated, and asked this: “How stupid can you be regarding haiku?” Gemini’s response was “I strive to be accurate and helpful, and I'm always learning to improve.” Okay, if that’s what you want to “think.” And then I reminded myself that it was no use getting upset with a computer algorithm, although I seem to do that frequently with social media. Ahem.

I nevertheless added “please” to my next question: “Please write a haiku using objective sensory imagery.” Here’s what I got:

Yellow buds swell high,

Soft rain drums on new leaves,

Fresh scent fills cool air.

It also included this comment: “This version focuses on presenting sensory details (yellow buds, soft rain, new leaves, fresh scent, cool air) without directly expressing personal feelings or interpretations.” I would agree with its assessment. Is there hope for AI after all? Well, not for me. What’s the word “high” doing in this poem, except to be 5-7-5 filler? And if the rain is soft, how could it “drum” on new leaves? And again, why is the poem so overwrought and wordy? Does it have to list so many “sensory details”? I tried asking this: “Please write a free-form haiku using objective sensory imagery,” and it gave me this:

Rain-soaked petals,

Redolent earth exhales,

Cool air, silent dawn.

Sorry, I have to gag on that middle line. Oh my goodness, let me run away screaming. And has Gemini still not learned about giving haiku no more than two parts? Despite my patience for AI already long ago being on edge, my next question was “Please write a spring haiku using organic form.” The result was at least shorter:

Wild, wet

Burst of green

Silence hums

No punctuation, either! But still those pesky capitals. But what does this mean? Some sort of bursting “green” (buds, maybe?) is somehow “wild.” Aren’t all buds or new plant growth “wild”? And how can silence “hum”? Sorry, just confused here. Maybe it’s flashing around its poetic license, though I doubt it knows what that means. And can it even “know” at all? I tried asking this: “Please write a new spring haiku with organic form, objective sensory imagery, and just two parts.” It very cleverly said, “Here’s a spring haiku with organic form and two parts” (and I presume it took my request for two parts to be just two lines, but no, that’s not what I meant):

Misty light . . .

Unfurling fern fronds.

The punctuation came back, and it still loves its capitals. But this output actually felt a bit more tolerable. In commenting on the poem, if that’s what it is, Gemini said of the “two-part structure” that “The ellipsis creates a pause, dividing the poem into two parts and inviting the reader to connect the images.” That feels accurate, and even aspirational, but boy, it’s been painful to get here, and this still isn’t much more than a so-what poem. I tried refining my question to “Please write a new spring haiku with organic form, objective sensory imagery, and just two parts in three lines.” But we went backwards again:

Pale light through mist,

New leaves unfurl slow,

Bird song.

My patience with AI was expended before I even asked my first question. However, dear friends, anything for science. Or whatever I’m doing. Can we please have just two parts in the poem’s three lines? Pale light through mist is okay, but it’s too much to add new leaves and bird song, but Gemini doesn’t understand that, let alone mixing in some sort of human context. And can we please nuke “unfurl slow”?

Despite my dedication to giving AI a whole-hearted try, I was feeling long past done, and asked one final question, which was “Any parting words of inspiration about writing good haiku?” I was given the following response:

Here are a few thoughts on writing effective haiku:

• • • • Embrace simplicity: Haiku, at their core, are about capturing a moment with a few, well-chosen words. Don’t try to say too much.

      • Focus on sensory details: Use vivid imagery that appeals to the reader’s senses.

      • Show, don’t tell: Instead of stating an emotion, evoke it through descriptions of the natural world.

I wonder what sources this is parroting. And sure, AI does have some potentially useful benefits, like summarizing doctor visits, provided the doctor still reviews and vets what AI provides. But despite the haiku “wisdom” here, the disconnect between what Gemini advises and what it actually writes remains alarming. Sad and pathetic, I might also say. Even to the point of disgust. No wonder, whether late at night or not, that I’d rather just write a haiku myself.

Postscript

This is not a complaint about how poorly AI produces haiku. Nor is this a complaint about one AI regime in comparison with another.  Rather, it’s a complaint about using AI for creative expression at all. Anything can be a tool, and the artist has an obligation to use tools ethically, or to declare or imply intentions if AI use might be extensive or seem unethical. But for me, the very notion of using AI to “write” haiku is antithetical to what I seek as a verbal artist and what I seek as a reader. My putting “write” in scare quotes is a clue. AI isn’t “writing” anything. It is merely a manufacturer. Its output may one day pass the Turing test (feel free to look that up), and even do so with seasoned haiku poets, but that isn’t the point. Making AI “better” or even “excellent” at spitting out “good” or even “excellent” haiku isn’t the point. The point is that I as an artist want to offer work that is my own—to the extent that I am always influenced by other artists and need to understand and be aware of those who have gone before. The point is that I as a consumer or receiver of art, including haiku, want to trust that what I read or receive is the creator’s own. This is a pact, a given understanding, and has been for centuries. If artists have anything to thank AI for, it’s a reminder of this pact. It’s a pact that I do not take lightly. What about you?

—17 April 2025