Ah, God! to have a breast like that To throw at day, Thrust for the hands of dawn To quiver and flare upon.
With a bloody flag sewn in your head And a hook of gold to end you, And all yourself an arch And your soul a white cascade.
On yellow spirals step, step, stalk, And clutch reluctant loam, Hard kernels and brown hens In the brazen blue of noon.
Ah, God! Stab upward with your noise! Tear at the sky! With his spine a tilted flame And the day gone molten down his throat, What singer could not make one song As fine as fire?
Dolores Lane was where she lived Before she lived with me, And when she left Dolores Lane There was no one to see; She left it in the bitter rain To come and live with me.
Within my house is firelight, Without, is bitter rain. She does not love the firelight,— Against the window-pane She leans and looks and longs, to-night, For dull Dolores Lane.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
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.
How the boundary is drawn
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.
What the branching signifies
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.