In too much seeking love I found but grief; I have but multiplied the means of pain; A thousand ties too poignant or too brief Bind me to things that love not back again.
All things with equal power my heart have won — Truth by its light, the Unknown by its veil — A tenuous gold thread binds me to the sun, And to each star a silken thread more frail.
The cadence chains me to the melody, Its velvet softness to the rose I touch; One smile soon robbed my eye of liberty, And for my mouth the first kiss did as much.
My life now hangs upon these fragile threads, Captive of all fair things I feel or see; Each breath that change or trouble o'er them sheds Rends from my heart itself a part of me.
In my beginning was the memory, somehow contradicting Jonah, that essential babe of unbaptised digestion, being a nugget to call pity on Jerusalem and on Nature, too.
We have his travels in the snare so widely ruminated,—of how he stuck there, was reformed, forgiven, also— and belched back like a word to grace us all.
There is no settling tank in God. It must be borne that even His bowels are too delicate to board a sniping thief that has a pious beard. We must hail back the lamb that went unsheared.
O sweet deep whale as ever reamed the sky with high white gulfs of vapor, castigate our sins, but be hospitable as Hell. And keep me to the death like ambergris, sealed up, and unforgiven in my cell.
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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.