Poem fractal
0.153 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.
This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.
0.6533 − 1.2394i
Drawing the boundary…
0.5021 − 1.2151i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long.
Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry,
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die.
I cannot live with You—
It would be Life—
And Life is over there—
Behind the Shelf
The Sexton keeps the Key to—
Putting up
Our Life—His Porcelain—
Like a Cup—
Discarded of the Housewife—
Quaint—or Broke—
A newer Sèvres pleases—
Old Ones crack—
I could not die—with You—
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down—
You—could not—
And I—could I stand by
And see You—freeze—
Without my Right of Frost—
Death's privilege?
Nor could I rise—with You—
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’—
That New Grace
Glow plain—and foreign
On my homesick Eye—
Except that You than He
Shone closer by—
They’d judge Us—How—
For You—served Heaven—You know,
Or sought to—
I could not—
Because You saturated Sight—
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid consequence
As Paradise
And were You lost, I would be—
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame—
And were You—saved—
And I—condemned to be
Where You were not—
That self—were Hell to Me—
So We must meet apart—
You there—I—here—
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are—and Prayer—
And that White Sustenance—
Despair—
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.
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