Poem fractal
0.016 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.
0.0009 − 0.0452i
Drawing the boundary…
−0.0127 − 0.0371i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Now fie on foolish love, it not befits
Or man or woman know it.
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray the straw, and features in their brain,
And shall have Bedlam for their pain:
If simple love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.
Amid the blossoms of the whitethorn wood,
Flower of all flowers, in Arthur's dream she stood,
No lily, but a rose of womanhood.
Gold veil blown backward from her golden hair,
Green-clad like young leaves in the April air:
Too fair the dream is, Arthur: deadly fair!
Yet thou shalt have the rose awhile to hold,
But for its sweetness' sake thy hearth grows cold —
Thy sword is rusted all for hair of gold!
How should he dream of sorrow, shame, or fear,
So loud the birds sang round the magic mere
Whose lightest ripple whispered "Guinevere!"
How should he dream of grief who dreams of love?
Or guess how sore the cage shall fret his dove
When she grows weary of the gold thereof?
Dream: it is good to dream when day is young —
Thy Queen shall dream another wood among
When love has loosed the bonds on Lancelot's tongue.
Dream: as in Avalon (if oaths hold good)
To-day thou dreamest of her as she stood
Among the blossoms of the whitethorn wood.
Dream: I, too, dream who saw but yesterday
Queen Guinevere among the blossomed may,
A rose, a rose that shall not fade away.
Not fade, nor fail, but quicken still men's blood
In an uncourtly age, a lighter mood —
A rose that blossoms in a whitethorn wood.
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.
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.
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.
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