Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.095 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.

A Letter to her Husband, absent upon Publick employment

by Anne Bradstreet

−0.0918 + 1.5468i

Drawing the boundary…

Dawn

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.1573 + 1.6157i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

A Letter to her Husband, absent upon Publick employment

by Anne Bradstreet

My head, my heart, mine Eyes, my life, nay more,
My joy, my Magazine of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lye?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever
If but a neck, soon should we be together:
I like the earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in’s Zodiack,
Whom whilst I ’joy’d, nor storms, nor frosts I felt,
His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now nummed lye forlorn;
Return, return sweet Sol from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Then view those fruits which through thy heat I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living Pictures of their Fathers face.
O strange effect! now thou art Southward gone,
I weary grow, the tedious day so long;
But when thou Northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till natures sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one.

Dawn

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Streak upon streak of turquoise in a sheet of heavy gray, 
A space of shining silver where the clouds are torn away,
Stars growing pale in heaven o'erhead, and, lower down,
A fringe of amber touches the roofs of the sleeping town. 
Shadowy wains and waggoners steal slow and softly by, 
There is no sudden swish of whips, there is no carter's cry. 
Upon the lips that cease from speech, the lids that fain would rest, 
A little wind comes whispering out of the lightless west.
Lamps in the road are quenched and die because the day's begun, 
Although there's half an hour to wait ere men salute the sun. 
Steps of a homeless woman sound hollow down the street, 
Laugh of a man rings noisily where man and woman meet, 
And change with languid eyes and lips a fire of idle words, 
A cry of foolish laughter. Then silence; and the birds. 

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