Poem fractal
0.034 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.
by Clifford Bax
−0.1674 − 0.8393i
Drawing the boundary…
−0.1566 − 0.8720i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
by Clifford Bax
The limpid river flows at ease
Along the level pasture-land;
A wood there is on either hand
Of little twisting trees.
For such a while has water run
Across the roots that everywhere,
Like fallen harp-strings, clean and bare
They glitter back the sun.
And now along the ever-shifting
Leafy shadows of the tide
A little boat is seen to glide,—
But whither is it drifting?
Only down the riverside
Half a mile away one sees
A cottage all among the trees.
Keep your dreams—they're richer far
Than the facts discovered are.
Do not seek all things to touch;
Do not want to know too much.
Growing old, still play the child;
Keep some glory undefiled.
What if clouds are mist and air?
Still see ships sailing there.
What would life be if we knew
Only those things which are true?
If the things of bad and good
Were by all men understood,
Nature's hills and brooks and springs
Would be catalogued as things.
Keep your dreams, for in them lies
Joy denied to men grown wise.
Still build castles in the air!
Still see white ships sailing there!
Still have something to pursue,
Something which you wish you knew.
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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