Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.019 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…

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

by Dylan Thomas

−0.6384 − 0.2487i

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? 

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

by Dylan Thomas

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

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