Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.040 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.

Lament for Chaucer

by Thomas Hoccleve

0.1101 − 0.0913i

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.

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!

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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