Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.048 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.

Clever Tom Clinch Going to Be Hanged

by Jonathan Swift

−0.1756 + 1.6597i

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.

Clever Tom Clinch Going to Be Hanged

by Jonathan Swift

As clever Tom Clinch, while the Rabble was bawling,
Rode stately through Holbourn, to die in his Calling;
He stopt at the George for a Bottle of Sack,
And promis'd to pay for it when he'd come back.
His Waistcoat and Stockings, and Breeches were white,
His cap had a new Cherry Ribbon to ty't.
The Maids to the Doors and the Balconies ran,
And said, lack-a-day! he's a proper young Man.
But, as from the Windows the Ladies he spy'd,
Like a Beau in the Box, he bow'd low on each Side;
And when his last Speech the loud Hawkers did cry,
He swore from his Cart, it was all a damn'd Lye.
The Hangman for Pardon fell down on his Knee;
Tom gave him a Kick in the Guts for his Fee.
Then said, I must speak to the People a little,
But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.
My honest Friend Wild, may he long hold his Place,
He lengthen'd my Life with a whole Year of Grace.
Take Courage, dear Comrades, and be not afraid,
Nor slip this Occasion to follow your Trade.
My Conscience is clear, and my Spirits are calm,
And thus I go off without Pray'r-Book or Psalm.
Then follow the Practice of clever Tom Clinch,
Who hung like a Hero, and never would flinch.

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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