Poem fractal
0.058 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.
−1.1026 − 0.6588i
Drawing the boundary…
−1.0455 − 0.6477i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
'Stepping westward,' did she say,
At sunset on that long Scotch day?
'Stepping westward,' yes, alway,
With staff and scrip,
Wayfaring songs upon my lip,
Stepping, stepping, to the end.
As down the slanting path I wend,
Behold, a breadth of distant sea,
Between the hills on either hand,
Ships bearing from some unknown land
To other land unknown to me.
'Stepping westward,' all that be,
Body and soul, by land or sea,
Follow still the westering sun;
That must end which has begun.
In empty pockets, freedom rings
No coins to weigh, no purse that swings
Just air and lint, a kingdom's worth
Of possibility from dearth
Cardboard palace, newspaper throne
A realm of cast-offs, all my own
Each scrap and fragment tells a tale
Of riches found beyond the pale
Hunger sharpens wit and sight
Stars shine brighter in the night
When belly's empty, heart is full
Of dreams that poverty can't cull
No tax on breath, no rent on sky
The richest view costs not a dime
In having naught, I've found it all
Wealth in spirit, standing tall
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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