Poem fractal
0.019 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.
−0.0642 − 0.2371i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.0451 − 0.2373i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
The charm of rouge on fragile cheeks,
Pearl-powder, and, about the eyes,
The dark and lustrous Eastern dyes;
The floating odour that bespeaks
A scented boudoir and the doubtful night
Of alcoves curtained close against the light.
Gracile and creamy white and rose,
Complexioned like the flower of dawn,
Her fleeting colours are as those
That, from an April sky withdrawn,
Fade in a fragrant mist of tears away
When weeping noon leads on the altered day.
by Richard
I buy my ticket every week,
My rational mind, it takes a backseat,
They say I've got no chance, the odds are slim,
But you’ve got to be in it, to ever win.
I see the winners on TV,
They're just like me, it could be me,
But I don't see the countless souls,
Who’ve thrown their money in the hole.
If it’s so easy, then why do we wait?
With rollovers stacking, it’s a tempting bait,
A win could change my life, I believe it’s true,
But the money I’ve lost could have changed it too.
It's a tax on the poor, a fool's delight,
A game of chance that fills the night,
I know I'm one, both poor and dumb,
Yet every week, here I come.
The numbers spin, they taunt my brain,
The odds, they dance, drive me insane,
More likely to be hit, crossing the street,
But my heart skips a beat, with every heat.
We can’t grasp the chance, the odds so vast,
But hope springs eternal, as long as it lasts,
We dream of a future, a fortune's embrace,
Blind to the math, it's a desperate chase.
I see the numbers, they blur and blend,
But still I play, and I pretend,
That someday soon, my luck will turn,
But deep inside, my doubts still burn.
Yet here I stand, ticket in hand,
Hoping for that promised land,
Ignoring the truth, the bitter pain,
That my dreams are just a gambler's game.
I’m a lottery addict, chasing a lie,
With dreams so high, and odds so shy,
Every ticket bought, a hope anew,
In this endless game, I see it through.
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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