Poem fractal
0.009 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.
−0.4408 − 0.3103i
Drawing the boundary…
−0.4482 − 0.3048i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Long after we have ceased to be
The sun will light in bush and tree
And shine unchanged; the high turf hill
Shall stand up in beauty still;
And all the valleys that we knew
Put on again the summer's hue,
When we are gone, when we are gone,
And are what green things feed upon.
By Heaven! it is a shameful thing
That, in this age of deepening might,
There live so few whose souls dare cling
Forever to the right!
By Heaven! it is a crying sin
That, in this hour of ripening thought,
Where so much greatness lies within,
So little is outwrought.
The world is full of puling fools
Who prate of love in sickening rhymes,
Or bring stale tomes of trusty rules
To curb the chafing times;
But where be they whose prophet-souls
Outlooking on life's Ocean waves,
Do warn us of the rocks and shoals
Which else become our graves?
What care we for our father's creed?
What reck we of the ancient themes?
Is Truth less true in newer deeds
Than in decrepit dreams?
All honor to our brave old Sires—
The unforgotten, worthy dead;
Yet shall our loftier desires
Be on their dulness fed?
Give us new Truth altho' it break
Upon us with the lightning's flash!
Give us new Truth! The Nations quake
Beneath the shifting crash.
Give us new Truth! Our souls despise
This blinding rush of deadly strife.
Past forms of Truth are present lies
Which canker all our life.
Therefore, new Truth! And let it burst
Like red-hot thunderbolts on those
In whom this fair world stands a curse
With such a hell of woes!
New Truth! Which ever more shall right
Earth's wronged and patient multitude;
And robe us all in rare delight
Of deep and earnest good.
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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