Poem fractal
0.012 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.
−0.1574 − 0.2714i
Drawing the boundary…
−0.1481 − 0.2643i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Enslav'd by Passions, swell'd with Pride,
In Love with one whom all deride;
A Carcass well, yet Mind in Pain,
Reduc'd to beg, but beg in vain;
To live reserv'd, and free from Blame
And yet incur an evil Fame:
Let this! this, be the wretched Fate,
Of Rosalinda, whom I hate.
Do you love to walk at the blush of dawn,
Where the grim rock frowns o'er the joyous sea?
Do you love to ride o'er the dewy lawn,
Where the deer springs by in its reckless glee?
Or to view the hill ere its veil be drawn,
Enrobed in its cloudy drapery?
Do you love the fir-groves' sombre shade,
When noon her fiercest radiance flings;
And to drink the pleasant murmur made
By the young Zephyrs' purple wings?
Or on the brooklet's margin laid,
To watch its bright meanderings?
Do you love the hour of Nature's rest,
The sun-set of the summer day,
When each tiny cloud of the gorgeous west
Is melting in that sun's last ray;
And earth too looks her loveliest,
As anxious to persuade his stay?
And do you love, the best of all,
The deep and pulseless hush of night?
To list the voice of the waterfall,
That dimly glimmers into sight;
And to view the vast sky's shadowy pall,
Bedropped with all its gems of light?
Oh, lov'st thou these?— then earth to thee
Is not of all her joy bereft;
And whatsoe'er thy grief may be,
Her purest, holiest charm is left:
Thou still hast Nature's sympathy,
Though every other tie be cleft.
And be it so!— how merciful
Is the great Lord of earth and sky,
To leave us still such flowers to cull
From the dark fields of destiny!
Else life would prove a thing so full
Of pain—the wish might rise to die.
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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