I dreamed one man stood against a thousand, One man damned as a wrongheaded fool One year and another he walked the streets, And a thousand shrugs and hoots Met him in the shoulders and mouths he passed.
He died alone And only the undertaker came to his funeral.
Flowers grow over his grave anod in the wind, And over the graves of the thousand, too, The flowers grow anod in the wind.
Flowers and the wind, Flowers anod over the graves of the dead, Petals of red, leaves of yellow, streaks of white, Masses of purple sagging... I love you and your great way of forgetting.
Once upon a time I sat Making verses, while the cat, Half-asleep against my knee, Clawed a cushion purringly. As I watched the moving claws, Musing wisely on the cause— Early habit ruling yet In this droll domestic pet— Suddenly I was aware That a Cat, as well, was there, Through the slits in his round eyes Watching me without surprise; Cat, whose purring seemed to say, “Some day—some day—”
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
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.
How the boundary is drawn
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.
What the branching signifies
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.