Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.043 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.

Man, the Creator!

by James Oppenheim

0.0966 − 0.1085i

Drawing the boundary…

Detail

by Genevieve Taggard

0.0760 − 0.0710i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Man, the Creator!

by James Oppenheim

Man, the Creator!
But why be man-the-anything?

Man's a dubious venture:
A split-off Question from the Unquestioning:
He and Nature he knows as "I" and " It."

This sundering: what has he gained by it?
He has edged out on a spring-board over the abyss…

I envy the spider:
Her fat belly spins silk for scooping nets, so she may eat,
And bags for her eggs, so she may procreate:
Her life's a tiny river that runs smooth and without question
Emptying into eggs:
As a single drop of blood in my wrist throbs one with my heart
So she with Nature.

Has she a reason for living?
No: but neither a reason for not-living.

But I, I have a hundred reasons for hating life:
For I hurl questions at its pains, failures, botches and funerals,
And it gives no answers...

Or thus it answers, my echo:
Emptiness!
Nothingness!

Detail

by Genevieve Taggard

On A New York evening of thin tedium
A woman with blue eyes and some feeling read
A poem; while the city like a drum
Heavied her voice. Casually, she was dead

A little later. I recall and cannot find
The poem. It was a poem then,
About a clock that ticked and would unwind
In an old house, and strike out nine or ten

While sparrows chaffered and feathered on outside.
By Thomas Hardy. Three quatrains.
We were not friends. We were polite. She died
In a meagre way, I think, of minor pains…

And in the deckle edges of his thick
Books I have looked, but I cannot find
The poem. Still the clock does tick
Somewhere, and the springs unwind.

(And the insignificant woman, and the dull, polite
Evening…the subway crammed and stale…. )
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, goodnight,
Woman and poem in limbo.
Detail, detail,
Of the infallible city of our failure, drawn to scale.

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