Poem fractal
0.042 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.
0.2612 − 0.5409i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
0.2204 − 0.5313i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
I lie on my pallet bed,
And I hear the drip of the rain;
The rain on my garret roof is falling,
And I am cold and in pain.
I lie on my pallet bed,
And my heart is wild with delight;
I hear her voice through the midnight calling,
As I lie awake in the night.
I lie on my pallet bed,
And I see her bright eyes gleam;
She smiles, she speaks, and the world is ended,
And made again in a dream.
by Richard
Old January, wealthy knight,
Thought he’d wed to his delight,
He chose a bride so young and fair,
A maiden named May, with golden hair.
Oh, January, don't you see,
Young May’s not what she seems to be,
With plans so bold and tricks so sly,
This tale will leave you wondering why!
They married in a grand affair,
With food and wine beyond compare,
But January was old and blind,
While May had something else in mind.
Young Damian, a squire sweet,
Caught May’s eye, oh what a treat,
They whispered secrets, planned their game,
While January, none the wiser, lame.
In the garden lush and green,
May and Damian were oft seen,
They climbed a tree, the game was set,
For a tryst that none would soon forget.
Blinded knight, he stood below,
While May and Damian’s love did grow,
Suddenly his sight returned anew,
Caught them in the act, it’s true!
May cried out, a clever dame,
“It’s for your sight, I’m not to blame,
I wrestled with the squire so dear,
To bring your vision back, my dear!”
So if you wed a maiden young,
And think your life will be so sung,
Remember January’s tale of woe,
And be wary, lest your sight you throw!
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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