Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.034 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.

The neophyte, baptized in smiles

by Dylan Thomas

−0.1487 + 1.0737i

Drawing the boundary…

The Lofty Sky

by Edward Thomas

−0.1146 + 1.0690i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

The neophyte, baptized in smiles

by Dylan Thomas

The neophyte, baptized in smiles,
Is laughing boy beneath his oath,
Breathing no poison from the oval mouth,
Or evil from the cankered heart.
Where love is there’s a crust of joy 
To hide what drags its belly from the egg,
And, on the ground, gyrates as easily
As though the sun were spinning up through it.
Boy sucks no sweetness from the willing mouth,
Nothing but poison from the breath,
And, in the grief of certainty,
Knows his love rots.
Outdo your prude’s genetic faculty
That grew for good
Out of the bitter conscience and the nerves,
Not from the senses’ dualizing tip
Of water, flame, or air.
Wetten your tongue and lip,
Moisten your care to carelessness,
For she who sprinkled on your brow
Soft shining symbols of her peace with you,
Was old when you were young,
Old in illusions turned to acritudes,
And thoughts, be they so kind,
Touched, by a finger’s nail, to dust.

The Lofty Sky

by Edward Thomas

To-day I want the sky,
The tops of the high hills,
Above the last man's house,
His hedges, and his cows,
Where, if I will, I look
Down even on sheep and rook,
And of all things that move
See buzzards only above:—
Past all trees, past furze
And thorn, where nought deters
The desire of the eye
For sky, nothing but sky.
I sicken of the woods
And all the multitudes
Of hedge-trees. They are no more
Than weeds upon this floor
Of the river of air
Leagues deep, leagues wide, where
I am like a fish that lives
In weeds and mud and gives
What's above him no thought.
I might be a tench for aught
That I can do to-day
Down on the wealden clay.
Even the tench has days
When he floats up and plays
Among the lily leaves
And sees the sky, or grieves
Not if he nothing sees:
While I, I know that trees
Under that lofty sky
Are weeds, fields mud, and I
Would arise and go far
To where the lilies are.

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