Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.017 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.

The Broken Heart

by John Donne

0.1027 − 0.0929i

Drawing the boundary…

Man, the Creator!

by James Oppenheim

0.0966 − 0.1085i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Broken Heart

by John Donne

He is stark mad, who ever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say,
I saw a flask of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into love's hands it come!
All other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some;
They come to us, but us love draws,
He swallows us, and never chaws:
By him, as by chained shot, whole ranks do die,
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If 'twere not so, what did become
Of my heart, when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the room,
But from the room, I carried none with me:
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
More pity unto me: but Love, alas,
At one first blow did shiver it as glass.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite,
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite;
And now as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.

Man, the Creator!

by James Oppenheim

Man, the Creator!
But why be man-the-anything?

Man's a dubious venture:
A split-off Question from the Unquestioning:
He and Nature he knows as "I" and " It."

This sundering: what has he gained by it?
He has edged out on a spring-board over the abyss…

I envy the spider:
Her fat belly spins silk for scooping nets, so she may eat,
And bags for her eggs, so she may procreate:
Her life's a tiny river that runs smooth and without question
Emptying into eggs:
As a single drop of blood in my wrist throbs one with my heart
So she with Nature.

Has she a reason for living?
No: but neither a reason for not-living.

But I, I have a hundred reasons for hating life:
For I hurl questions at its pains, failures, botches and funerals,
And it gives no answers...

Or thus it answers, my echo:
Emptiness!
Nothingness!

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