Poem fractal
0.048 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.
by A. A. Milne
0.4752 − 0.3944i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
0.5167 − 0.4186i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
by A. A. Milne
I want a soldier
(A soldier in a busby),
I want a soldier to come and play with me.
I'd give him cream-cakes
(Big ones, sugar ones),
I'd give him cream-cakes and cream for his tea.
I want a soldier
(A tall one, a red one),
I want a soldier who plays on the drum.
Daddy's going to get one
(He's written to the shopman)
Daddy's going to get one as soon as he can come.
by Richard
By the fireplace we sit each night,
With albums old and frayed,
I hold your hand, so cold and light,
As memories start to fade.
Your eyes, they wander, lost in time,
Where once they saw our love,
Now trapped within a maze so blind,
But still, I won’t give up.
Though the years have worn us down,
And your mind’s a distant shore,
I’ll hold on to the love we found,
Even if you remember no more.
I’ll be the keeper of our days,
In every photo, every song,
Though your mind may drift away,
My heart will keep you strong.
Your voice, a whisper, barely there,
Of times when you were my guide,
Now I’m the one who has to care,
Through every storm, every tide.
These hands, so weak, with every touch,
Try to turn back the years,
But how can love be held so much,
When faced with endless tears?
I see the man you used to be,
In every faded frame,
A pillar, rock, my sanctuary,
Before it all became a game.
With every jar I cannot twist,
Every step that brings me pain,
I fight against the cruel mist,
That tries to take you away again.
One day soon, I know we’ll part,
And I’ll have to let you go,
But I’ll carry you within my heart,
Where our love will always grow.
So here’s to us, my darling dear,
In every tear, in every sigh,
For though you fade, I’ll keep you near,
Our love will never 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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