Poem fractal
0.003 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.
−0.3782 + 0.2181i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.3804 + 0.2157i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
For warmth alone, for shelter only
From the cold anger of the eyeless wind,
That knows my whereabouts, and mainly
To be at your door when I go down
Is abroad at all tonight in town,
I left my phrase in air, and sinned,
Laying my head against your arm
A moment, and as suddenly
Withdrawing it, and sitting there,
Warmed a little but far from warm,
And the wind still waiting at the foot of the stair,
And much harm done, and the phrase in air.
by Richard
In the valley of death, where the cannons roar,
Six hundred brave souls, they marched evermore,
With sabres drawn high, their spirits ablaze,
Riding into the fire, through the smoke and the haze.
Oh, Charge of the Light Brigade, in the face of the fray,
Valiant hearts, undeterred, led the way,
With courage unyielding, they stormed through the night,
In the annals of history, their names shining bright.
Born of the cavalry, the finest and bold,
Men of the Light Brigade, with stories untold,
From Britain’s green fields, to Crimea's dread shore,
They answered the call, to battle once more.
Forward, the order, no time for delay,
Into the jaws of death, they surged to obey,
With thunder and fury, the cannons did sound,
Yet onward they charged, on that blood-soaked ground.
Half a league, half a league, onward they rode,
Into the valley, where bravery flowed,
Broken but unbowed, through the heart of the fight,
Their legend immortal, in the eternal light.ght.
Cannon to the right, cannon to the left,
They fought through the fire, though so many bereft,
Boldly they rode, into the mouth of hell,
A story of valour, we’ll forever tell.
In the aftermath’s shadow, with echoes of pain,
Few returned homeward, but honour they gained,
The Light Brigade's charge, a testament to,
The brave and the fallen, the fearless and true.
Honour the charge, remember the day,
When six hundred heroes showed us the way,
With swords and with glory, they rode into fate,
The Charge of the Light Brigade, forever great.
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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