Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.014 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.

Guinevere

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.0127 − 0.0371i

Drawing the boundary…

After Jonah

by Hart Crane

−0.0259 − 0.0403i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Guinevere

by Nora Hopper Chesson

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. 

After Jonah

by Hart Crane

In my beginning was the memory, somehow
contradicting Jonah, that essential babe
of unbaptised digestion, being a nugget
to call pity on Jerusalem and on Nature, too.

We have his travels in the snare so widely
ruminated,—of how he stuck there, was reformed,
forgiven, also—
and belched back like a word to grace us all.

There is no settling tank in God. It must be borne
that even His bowels are too delicate to board
a sniping thief that has a pious beard.
We must hail back the lamb that went unsheared.

O sweet deep whale as ever reamed the sky
with high white gulfs of vapor, castigate
our sins, but be hospitable as Hell.
And keep me to the death like ambergris,
sealed up, and unforgiven in my cell.

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