I made a posy for Pierrot To give his wilful Columbine, Of satin-flowers as soft as snow And bluebells fine. She sent them back with laugh and fleer, And Pierrot never knew, I wis, That in the posy lay a tear That was not his.
I made a posy for Pierrot All white and green and yellow; And sweeter posy ne'er, I know, Graced any pretty fellow. 'Twas gold and white for Love's delight With roses brave to see: But there for grief we laid a leaf Of rosemary.
I made a posy for Pierrot, The last of all my posies: 'Twas thick with lilies cold as snow, And pallid Christmas roses. We set white hyacinth a-row Through feathery cypress peeping, And Columbine and I — heigho! Threw it with heavy weeping Into a grave, that it might go Wither with Pierrot sleeping.
Have you ever loved a word Better than the man who spoke it? So the moment that you heard Its delightful syllables Fall upon the air You went wandering idly home Dreaming of the way it cooled That uncomfortable room? Trying to repeat it slowly Standing back from it and watching Like a lover To discover What it meant and why you loved it? Mostly words like hailstones tumble On the thin air and disperse In indiscriminating jumble Incoherent or perverse.
Why did you speak this evening Suddenly like that Just as I was going?
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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.