Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.022 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…

Lament for Chaucer

by Thomas Hoccleve

0.1101 − 0.0913i

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!

Lament for Chaucer

by Thomas Hoccleve

Allas! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and richesse!
Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable
Unto us done: hir vengeable duresse
Dispoiled hath this londe of the swetnesse
Of rethoryk; for unto Tullius
Was never man so like amonges us.

Also who was hier in philosophie
To Aristotle in our tonge but thou?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thou folwedest eeke, men wot wel ynow.
That combre-world that thee my maister slow—
Wolde I slayne were!— Deth, was to hastyfe
To renne on thee and reve the thi lyfe…

She myght han taried hir vengeaunce a while
Til that som man had egal to the be;
Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle
May never man forth brynge like to the,
And hir office nedes do mot she:
God bade hir so, I truste as for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thy soule reste!

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