Poem fractal
0.049 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.
by Richard Jago
0.5797 + 0.2548i
Drawing the boundary…
0.6280 + 0.2443i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
by Richard Jago
Once of forbidden fruit the mortal taste
Chang'd beauteous Eden to a dreary waste.
Here you may freely eat, secure the while
From latent poison, or insidious guile.
Yet O! cou'd I but happily infuse
Some secret charm into the sav'ry juice,
Of pow'r to tempt your gentle breast to share
With me the peaceful cot, and rural fare:
A diff'rent fate shou'd crown the blest device,
And change my Desart to a Paradise.
O where ha you been, Lord Randall, my son?
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?
I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.
And wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha met ye there, my handsome young man?
I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.
And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?
Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.
And what gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And what gat your leavins, my handsome young man?
My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.
And what becam of them, Lord Randall, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?
They stretched their legs out and died; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.
O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!
O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?
My gold and my silver; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?
My houses and my lands; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randall, my son?
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
I leave her hell and fire; mother mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.
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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