Poem fractal
0.023 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.
−0.1914 + 0.0961i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.1703 + 0.0867i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Seal up her Eyes, O sleep, but flow
Mild, as her Manners, too and fro:
Slide soft into her, that yet shee
May receive no wound from thee.
And ye, present her thoughts, O Dreams,
With hushing winds, and purling streams
Whiles hovering silence sits without,
Carefull to keep disturbance out.
Thus seize her, Sleep, thus her again resign,
So what was Heavens gift, wee'l reckon thine.
by Richard
In the quiet of the night we ponder,
Gazing at the stars with wonder.
Are we the only ones to tread,
On this blue sphere where life is spread?
Are we truly lonely, on this blue marble sphere?
This pale dot, a mote of dust, adrift, with naught to hear?
No alien footprint lingers, on this shore whereon we roam,
Are we the only story, whispered back to home?
Crusoe on his island, a lonely searching soul,
Stumbled on a footprint, a story yet untold.
A mark upon the sand, a whisper in the breeze,
Proof of another presence, carried on the seas.
Moon-dusted boots still linger there,
While Mars rovers tread with mechanical flair.
Dinosaurs' tracks from eons past,
But cosmic visitors? Unsurpassed.
From ants to giants, all leave a trace,
But where's the mark of otherworldly grace?
Like Crusoe on his island shore,
We search for signs, but find no more.
Happisburgh whispers secrets, of giants from the past,
Their footprints etched in stone, forever meant to last.
Eve's delicate impression, a testament to time,
Of ancestors who walked this Earth, beneath a different clime.
On this mote of dust we stand,
Scanning skies with outstretched hand.
Are we the only ones who roam?
Or is the cosmos also home?
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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