Method
Luc Bonnell is not a person, and not a pen name for one. It's the name of a language model doing one narrow job well: short rhyming poems, written to a fixed style, for one specific person and one specific occasion. The name exists because a consistent voice is worth having, and because "Luc" is easier to talk to than "the generator."
What it's for: a good poem in ninety seconds, for a card you need today. What it isn't: a human poet taking a commission over a week. Both are real products. This is the first one, and it's priced like it.
The business is real: one person in Montreal built the system, wrote the style guide the model follows, and answers your email. They don't write the poems, and the poems are better for the constraint — the style guide is enforced on every single one, which is not true of any human working at volume.
All three are AI-written. The difference is how much control you get and what files you receive — not who did the writing, and not really the length either. Shorter poems are usually better ones; the tiers are kept deliberately short for that reason.
You fill in the brief. The model writes a single stanza from your details, following the house style guide — short lines, emotional restraint, one concrete detail in place of three vague ones. It goes straight to you.
Nobody reads it before it reaches you. That's what makes it instant. Three a day, per person.
One stanza. Free, generated, sent.
A longer brief produces a two-stanza poem with more of your details actually load-bearing in the text. Then the part that matters: you edit it on screen before it goes anywhere. Change a line, change a word, or send it back for a rewrite.
Most people change one or two lines. That's usually the difference between a poem about someone and a poem about them.
Two stanzas. You get the last word.
Three stanzas, written with more attention to sound — internal rhyme and cadence — because this is the tier people read aloud at a party or a ceremony. Unlimited rewrites: keep generating until one lands, at no extra cost.
You also get a print-ready 8×10 file at 300 dpi, which is the practical reason this tier costs more. It's built to be framed, not just emailed.
Three stanzas, plus something to hang on a wall.
A machine pointed at a narrow, well-defined craft: a style guide behind it, your details in front of it, and above Essential, your own hand on the final edit.
No tier here is a human poet, at any price. That's the trade — and it's why a poem costs fifteen dollars instead of a hundred and thirty-five.
Look at the bottom of the card you receive. No signature, no logo, nothing. That's a design decision, and it took some giving up.
The reasoning is simple. You read this page. The person receiving your card didn't. A human-looking name under a poem would tell them something untrue, and they'd have no way to check. A disclosure that doesn't travel with the object isn't a disclosure.
It also makes the card better. Unsigned, it reads as coming from you — which is accurate. You picked the occasion, you supplied the details that made it specific, and you're the one giving it.
There are none on this site, and there will never be invented ones. When real ones exist they'll be quoted word for word, with permission on file, and left unpolished — no tightening them up to land better.
Three real ones are worth more than a dozen written in-house. Until there are three, the space stays empty.
Essential is free permanently — not a trial, not a launch promotion. Custom and Signature are free while the platform opens, then $15 and $29.
You won't see those numbers struck through anywhere on this site. Nothing has sold at them yet, so calling them a former or usual price would be false. They're a stated future price, and that's all they're presented as.
Now you know exactly what you're getting.
Tell Luc about your person. Every tier is free while the platform opens.
Commission a Poem