You are the safe and firelit room, I am the open wold; You are the city, and this your doom- Never to feel the outer cold, Never to fear the inner dark: Never to strain the ears, and hark For any foot but the foot of Time; Never to know a loss worth gain Or soul that's worth the birthing-pain; Never to find hill worth the climb Or joy that may be worth the tear — My Dear!
You are shut in from snow and sleet, I am out in the wind; My feet are strange to the trodden street As you are strange to the winds that beat. The mists that hover and blind. I cannot stay, you cannot bind — My hands unclasp and let you go, As if you were no more than snow That slips away from me in rain. I love you, yet our souls are twain. For I am knowledge, you are fear. My Dear.
O'Leary was a poet—for a while: He sang of many ladies frail and fair, The rolling glory of their golden hair, And emperors extinguished with a smile. They foiled his years with many an ancient wile, And if they limped, O'Leary didn't care: He turned them loose and had them everywhere, Undoing saints and senates with their guile.
But this was not the end. A year ago I met him—and to meet was to admire: Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre, And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream. By questioning I found a man to know— A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
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.
How the boundary is drawn
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.
What the branching signifies
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.