Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.023 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.

In March

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

−0.3316 − 0.2859i

Drawing the boundary…

We see rise the secret wind

by Dylan Thomas

−0.3484 − 0.2707i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

In March

by Patrick Reginald Chalmers

There is cloud and a splash of blue sky over-head,
And the road by the common's the brave road to tread; 
You miss all your neighbours, 
And hear the wind play 
His pipes and his tabors 
Along the king's way. 

From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble out 
To dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout; 
For all honest people 
There's gold on the whin, 
And bells in the steeple, 
And ale at the inn. 

The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun, 
And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton. 
They stamp and they sidle. 
Their great necks they arch, 
And snatch at the bridle 
This morning of March. 

For Winter is over, you see the fine sights — 
The geese on the common, the boys flying kites, 
The daffydowndillies 
That stoop on the stem, 
And my pretty Phyllis 
Who's gathering them. 

We see rise the secret wind

by Dylan Thomas

We see rise the secret wind behind the brain,
The sphinx of light sit on the eyes,
The code of stars translate in heaven.
A secret night descends between
The skull, the cells, the cabinned ears
Holding for ever the dead moon.

A shout went up to heaven like a rocket,
Woe from the rabble of the blind
Adorners of the city’s forehead,
Gilders of streets, the rabble hand
Saluting the busy brotherhood
Of rod and wheel that wake the dead.

A city godhead, turbine moved, steel sculptured,
Glitters in the electric streets;
A city saviour, in the orchard
Of lamp-posts and high-volted fruits,
Speaks a steel gospel to the wretched
Wheel-winders and fixers of bolts.

We hear rise the secret wind behind the brain,
The secret voice cry in our ears,
The city gospel shout to heaven.
Over the electric godhead grows
One God, more mighty than the sun.
The cities have not robbed our eyes.

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