Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.030 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.

Song of the Fomoroh

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.6335 − 0.2667i

Drawing the boundary…

The Send-Off

by Wilfred Owen

−0.6105 − 0.2480i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Song of the Fomoroh

by Nora Hopper Chesson

Who dare set bounds to the Red Wind, 
The East Wind in his wrath? 
Lo! we have bitted and bridled him, 
And turned him from his path: 
From the waves that beat we have called his feet 
To the long grass of the rath. 

He hath heard our call through his tempest fall, 
And he maketh no delay, 
Though the house of the Dawn's his homestead, 
Yet there he will not stay: 
And the voice that compels his coming 
Is neither of night nor day. 

The voice blows out of the twilight, 
As thistle-drift is blown, 
It's light, and tender, and merry, 
And the seeds that its call has sown 
Are sin, and desire, and sorrow, 
And the world hears, and moves on. 

From his wings we've ta'en the scarlet stain, 
The red plumes from his crest: 
We've snatched from his hands the sea-pinks 
Wherewith his cliffs were drest: 
We have fed our fire to heart's desire, 
With the bird that beat in his breast. 

Ay, we ha' bridled the red East Wind 
With none to say him Nay — 
With his heart's blood red our fires we fed 
That the sword might be swift to slay, 
And the ashes at last to his own wind cast, 
That they might be blown away. 

For we are the dark Formoroh, 
And sore we travail that ye 
May cast off care, and grow strong and fair, 
And still our bondsmen be: 
We shall enter in your souls, our kin, 
And who shall our slaying see? 

The Send-Off

by Wilfred Owen

Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.

Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men's are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent.

Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bells
In wild trainloads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.

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