A face-cloth on my face? I draw no breath? Bound hand and foot? Laid in a stony cave? O Christ of Nazareth, I am in my grave! Speak, Lord of Life, and call Thy dead from death! —Thou speakest! For I hear a voice that saith 'Where have ye laid him? Lazarus, come forth!' —My tomb is cracking like the frozen North When Spring has resurrection from the ground! I breathe—I stir—my pulse begins to bound— My heart leaps up against my folded hands! Off with this winding-sheet that wraps me round! —Weep not, O Master! I have burst my bands! Thy Lazarus comes forth, and here he stands!
Sorrowful dreams remembered after waking Shadow with dolour all the candid day; Even as I read, the silly tears out-breaking Splash on my hands and shut the page away. . . Grief at the root, a dark and secret dolour, Harder to bear than wind-and-weather grief, Clutching the rose, draining its cheek of colour, Drying the bud, curling the opened leaf. Deep is the pond—although the edge be shallow, Frank in the sun, revealing fish and stone, Climbing ashore to turtle-head and mallow— Black at the centre beats a heart unknown. Desolate dreams pursue me out of sleep; Weeping I wake; waking, I weep, I weep.
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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.