Jangle the gourds And rumble on the drum! Fresh from the death Of an enemy I come, Like a timber-wolf Whose stomach is filled With the heart and flesh Of an elk he has killed.
Sound on your war-drums Lightning and thunder, For dancing I come With my sacred plunder: The scalp of Whirling-Bird, A coward in battle— His yellow teeth chattered Like the stones in my rattle.
Blood on my fingers, Blood on my lips, Rivers of blood From his scalp that drips Its red like the sun In the sinking light, That streams its hair Like the trailing night.
Blood on my battle-ax, Blood on my lance, Blood in the music Of my medicine-dance; Blood in my throat And blood in my cry That splinters the moon And the bloody sky.
Unmindful of the roses, Unmindful of the thorn, A reaper tired reposes Among his gathered corn: So might I, till the morn!
Cold as the cold Decembers, Past as the days that set, While only one remembers And all the rest forget,— But one remembers yet.
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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.