Welcome to Issue 36.

In recent months, we have seen numerous articles in the press about artificial intelligence and how it will benefit our lives and businesses. I myself was tasked with reviewing a new book that proposed AI had at least some level of sentience; presenting poetry generated by the chatbot ChatGPT as supporting evidence. The keen-eyed among you may also have spotted that the cover art for our previous issue was also AI-generated. The image was formed by entering the prompts “pedestrian,” “city,” night,” and “street,” into Midjourney, a text-to-image AI app. The results were undeniably atmospheric – capturing the freedom and vulnerability of walking in the city at night, with an oil painting-like composition. At that moment, we were beguiled by the wonders of AI and impulsively shared the image on our cover. Later, the ethical issues regarding AI art began to gnaw at us. AI relies on drawing information from the work of human artists in order to synthesize techniques and generate images. Those artists are rarely paid or credited for their endeavors. There is also the concern that AI steals jobs from artists as well as their existing art. The cover of our previous issue could have been used to share the work of a fledgling photographer or painter. By showcasing AI art, our cover had no other meaningful use, other than to look pretty. Weighed down by guilt, we have decided never to use AI for our cover art again.

However, the idea of AI possessing some level of sentience continued to intrigue me, so I began to explore further. I created an account with ChatGPT with the intention of instructing the bot to write a flâneur poem for StepAway Magazine. The prompt I entered read simply: “write a flaneur poem about Manhattan in the style of the poet Frank O’Hara.”

ChatGPT’s response was almost instantaneous:

The streets of Manhattan are alive
With the hum of traffic and the buzz of life
The flaneur wanders through the crowds
Drinking in the sights and sounds

The city never sleeps, it seems
And neither does the curious mind
As I stroll along the avenues
In search of something undefined

The buildings rise up to the sky
Tall and proud, they stand in line
Each one a monument to human ingenuity
And the never-ending quest for something new

The people here are as diverse
As the city that they call home
From every corner of the globe they come
To make their mark and claim their own

The parks and squares are oases
Amidst the hustle and bustle of the streets
A place to rest, to breathe, to dream
And take in all that Manhattan meets

The flaneur’s journey has no end
For there is always more to see
In this city that never stops
And forever beckons me.

Anyone who has read O’Hara will immediately recognize that AI has failed to recognize or replicate the poet’s ‘style’. Still, the bot has some semblance of what a flâneur is or does. Our robotic friend imagines what it means to amble along avenues, marvel at skyscrapers and observe the passing crowd. After reading this poem, I wonder if you could recognize that it was written using AI? Granted, it is not a very good poem and somewhat cliched – but could it pass for poetry written by a human who feels, rather than a bot that does not? I’ll leave you to ponder that question for a moment.

I, personally, side with the singer Nick Cave who wrote on the matter of AI: “Songs arise out of suffering, by which I mean they are predicated upon the complex, internal human struggle of creation… as far as I know, algorithms don’t feel. Data doesn’t suffer.” AI requires us to be out there suffering and creating in order to synthesize what we do. Therefore, AI will always be the class cheat who peers over our shoulder for the answer – it will always be the counterfeiter rather than the master painter.

So, on that note, please let me turn you in the direction of ten talented (and very human) poets. Issue 36 includes the work of Glenn Bach, Emecheta Christian, Trevor Conway, Chana Feinstein, John Grey, Farideh Hassanzadeh, Louise J Jones, Christina Lloyd, H. K. G. Lowery & Patrick Wright.

These poets, each in their own individual way, make us appreciate the freedom of walking in the city – the human city – not a digitally re-imagined metropolis. There is some great work in this issue. Enjoy it.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

* hijab /hɪˈdʒɑːb,ˈhɪdʒɑːb/
noun
noun: hijab; plural noun: hijabs
a head covering worn in public by some Muslim women.

• the religious code which governs the wearing of the hijab.

Farideh Hassanzadeh
(Translated by Mojdeh Bahar)

Patrick Wright

[That crisp morning of blue sky
we walked to the western terminus
of N. 7th through the chain link to the
abandoned waterfront and the broken
piers, Snickers nosing through the debris
for whatever dogs seek in the ground

the sweeping vista of Manhattan
an untaxed perk of the Northside
where the night before we watched
the fireworks from the roof
of The Dorm on 242 Wythe,
a recent sweatshop next to
a cement factory (owned
by the Mob!) ]

Williamsburg, 1997

surfacing from the L,
the four corners of N 7th and Bedford Av:

            -      Superior Market
            -      Salvation Army Thrift Store
            -      Northside Pharmacy
            -      Deli Mart

walking down Bedford against traffic,
past the L Cafe and the block of five-
story brownstones, three-tall
on the west (for that brown-and-
white striped awning: a thousand
hearts will break for Greenpoint
Tavern (TK
(to come)
the city in a perpetual state
of manifesting,
an infinite university))

            more of a love letter to Williamsburg

to the left Serrano Bros Realty,
Matamoros Puebla and Veracruz,
to the right S&B and Wing Lee
(red sans serif on white,
the inside not much to look at
(mostly tiles, two small tables
and possibly 4 mismatched
chairs))

north by northwest
up North 6th:

            -      the NYC Transit System building with the grid of blue rectangles on brick
            -      the Del Sol Cafe
            -      Berk-Lombardo Packing Co
            -      Rojo Quality Meats
            -      Tops Gourmet Market
            -      nameless warehouses and meatpackers and forklifts
            -      white box trucks plastered with graffiti
            -      three-story tenements three-windows wide
            -      the blank brick walls framing empty lots
            -      Coyote Studios and Galapagos across the street
            -      the factory next door that made colored aquarium rocks
            -      the maple tree opposite the six steps to the white door

an apartment from an open house
from a flyer on a light pole: pre-war
Brooklyn building, concrete landing
to a dismal stairway (a common thing
here) to crooked and creaky hardwood
floors to an ‘open’ kitchen and ‘airy’ living
room and the dining room walled off
into a ‘bedroom’ for $450:

            -      two foam pads (from Noel)
            -      two sleeping bags (from Mike)
            -      one small plank (from the street) on two white crates (from Adrienne)
            -      one curtain rod (from the street)
            -      one slab of Formica (from the street) on two black crates (from the street)
            -      one external door (from the street), painted red, with windows

             with the instrumentals on the flip?

about that particular time what became
the hipster takeover of Brooklyn

            the Northside was changing so fast
            with every trip down Bedford

everywhere you look picnic tables and smoking
hipsters don’t hold a candle, a place to eat,
a place to drink, a place to live—

            Brooklyn’s answer to the meatpacking district

            -      Yabby: all the fine amenities—

Williamsburg’s answer
to the beer garden

waiting for them to change kegs, watching

the denizens walking by (the grit
was part of the charm)

            as always growing like crazy you probably
            won’t recognize the place

when a place arrived unlike any other,
something like Greenwich Village,
youngsters going there, mostly
newcomers for leisurely stretches,
visible through the storefront window,
for coffee, for soup,
the artists who mostly talked
among themselves

            chains, and chains,

[ I crossed the Williamsburg
Bridge one morning wondering
why I was there ]

            and more chains are coming

[ some party in a walkup in the East
Village, synths and mixers and DJs
milling about with red cups and chat,
the L train after midnight back to
a deserted Williamsburg ]

            there are a lot of galleries around here now

the Brooklyn of yesterday
a landscape outside of time (you can see
when it’s a forced effort and you can see
when it’s real (searching for a common
denominator of passion

            you can get the Times now

making all the right mistakes as looping
seemed to be in the air

            no limos, no cars with shiny paint outside,
            nestled between meat markets and dockside
            hangars, no distinguishing signs or plaques,
            just a red, gold, and green door, the colors
            of the Ethiopian flag, a landmark

BRING BEDFORD AVENUE INTO THE 21st CENTURY

            one of those moments in time that deserved
            to be looked back upon and can we piece together
            the story of what happened so when you ask ten
            different people what they remember about
            something that happened twenty years ago

            -      Plan-Eat Thai a decade ago
            just a little restaurant
            on Bedford

            this place is dead to me what do you expect 30%
            of the available dining occupied by an enormous
            leaky rowboat seriously the economy sucks
            but they had a bulletproof formula—

             Oh, Billyburg, there was a point
            when you seemed like a scary tough
            neighborhood but now it’s obvious
            that the graffiti on your walls gets put there
            by art students

ARTISTS USED TO LIVE HERE

The Williamsburg Bridge is now a staple
in my commute. There is no frame
to support its shape.

            I don’t really go out in the neighborhood
            any more.

An empty N 6th before the rush
at Sweetwater. A schism we didn’t notice
until later.

            This one is the most dramatic. It’s hard to find
            the throughline here. Almost every visible thing
            has changed including the lamp post.

It was quite a tiny place with just a couple
of tables. It’s about the body and it’s about
the knowledge.

            Many more expensive strollers now
            than back then. Given how basically nothing
            is the same.

I only have vague ideas about how to ‘fill’
that space. I recall my time there fondly
and I remember some things.

            The neighborhood is not exactly rolling out
            the welcome mat.

A contradictory history not everyone
can be a part of. We already know
the next question.

            I have no feelings about this place
            either way, a home for underfed hipsters
            and their hangers-on.

We have a wise answer we think this
is a good ending.

from: Atlas
Atlas began in 2003 as a walk-based sound art project, but has since evolved into an open-ended long poem.

Glenn Bach

when we were on a birding kick in Ireland. I don’t need them,
though, to identify the mockingbird you ask about.

Since it’s so close to Clement Street, you’ve already explored
this place, know which path leads to where we’ll part ways.

We are both taken aback by the superbloom of wildflowers.
A park billboard confirms the presence of sticky monkey flower,

Indian paintbrush, silver lupine. I tell you about the Palm Sunday
procession down Rua da Prata in Lisbon last week, how I heard

the microphoned chanting before I saw congregants
making their way into a church you’d have loved.

Christina Lloyd

Old man holds a rake
overhead, them both rusted,
them both can hit hard.

My mom has no time
for anything but sleeping
and beating us kids.

Way down in the wash,
two fat-bellied, dead puppies
will never grow old.

Chana Feinstein

H. K. G. Lowery

and the honest lure of the false, built-up shine
put in by humankind; throbbing lamp-post yellow,
stadium-white mercury vapour arcing bright,
city’s sexy heart where pink and green wink a neon
come-on and night buses shed their loyal glow.
Black cabs rattle their dry throats every night;
roll their private parlours above black rain.
This city’s light outlasts the day; holds us close.

Louise J Jones

In Lagos, street vendors sell everything
that money can lawfully buy.
And you can haggle down the price of an item
until it loses its smugness. The streets are always lined
with hopeful faces, eager for something good to happen.
The smell of fried plantain, also called “Dodo,” and other roadside delicacies
will invade not just your nostrils but also your wallet. The attraction
is often more powerful whenever you step out hungry.

A plate of tasty Jollof rice can dissolve like cotton candy in your mouth,
and the most intelligent option would be to order four more plates.
When the food vendor familiarizes herself with the sound of your footsteps,
she will start calling you “Omo mi,” which means “my child.”
It’s a reminder that she
will never let you go hungry like a good mother.
Her warmth and hospitality will always shield you from
the wickedness and belligerence of an empty stomach.

Colorful commercial buses called “Danfo” are the lifeblood
of Lagos City. They deliver oxygen and nutrition like blood cells
in the human body. Danfo buses are more prevalent than a nose on the face.
Commercial bus drivers here are as dramatic as their yellow buses.
A single honk will not be enough if you urgently need to overtake them;
you must honk as much as the number of alphabets in their names.
Board games are more common than landmarks in Lagos; street corners,
tree sheds, and moto parks are hotspots for this luxury.

Onlookers would often gather at any altercation
with hungry eyes in search of another gossip to spread.
The Bar Beach is where the Atlantic Ocean crashes against the shore,
it’s a view that doesn’t age. The sea breeze often wards off the heat,
although it is a battle that never gets won. Watching happy families
troop in and out of the beach is therapeutic, it reminds the soul
of things that truly matter in life,
aside from green paper and shiny objects.

The sun always sets in Lagos,
with a beautiful shade of orange and pink.
It’s hard not to feel alive in a place like this.
The energy of this city can resurrect the dead,
and the warmth of its people can nurture the coldest of hearts.
Lagos is still an evolving city, but its spirit remains the same.
A place like this is something everyone must experience.
The city that never sleeps. It’s hard not to fall in love with a place like this.

Emecheta Christian

Above, scaffolding torsos
grip tight to sandwiches
to keep them from falling.
Wind blasts up through the subway grid,
flips a skirt or two.
The city’s full of life,
above and below.

At the edge of the human stream,
there’s bargains to be had
in knockoff bags and wristwatches.
One vendor chews on a toothpick.
Another rubs his chin.

The vacationers shove and squeeze their way
to the Wednesday matinees.
Daylight neon modestly glitters
from theater marquees.

Some locals prefer the way it used to be.
It had character then.
They say a guy can’t even get mugged any more.
But at these prices, I can.

John Grey