I had a mother who read to me Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea, Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth, “Blackbirds” stowed in the hold beneath
I had a Mother who read me lays Of ancient and gallant and golden days; Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe, Which every boy has a right to know.
I had a Mother who read me tales Of Celert the hound of the hills of Wales, True to his trust till his tragic death, Faithfulness blent with his final breath.
I had a Mother who read me the things That wholesome life to the boy heart brings- Stories that stir with an upward touch, Oh, that each mother of boys were such.
You may have tangible wealth untold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be — I had a Mother who read to me.
When thou, poore excommunicate From all the joyes of love, shalt see The full reward, and glorious fate, Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine owne inconstancy.
A fayrer hand than thine, shall cure That heart, which thy false oathes did wound; And to my soul, a soul more pure Than thine, shall by Loves hand be bound, And both with equall glory crown’d.
Then shalt thou weepe, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee; When all thy teares shall be as vain As mine were then, for thou shalt bee Damn’d for thy false Apostasie.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
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.
How the boundary is drawn
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.
What the branching signifies
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.