Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.001 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.

To the Cloud Juggler

by Hart Crane

0.0698 − 0.0327i

Drawing the boundary…

The Damp

by John Donne

0.0698 − 0.0335i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

To the Cloud Juggler

by Hart Crane

What you may cluster 'round the knees of space
We hold in vision only, asking trace
Of districts where cliff, sea and palm advance
The falling wonder of a rainbow's trance.

Your light lifts whiteness into virgin azure ...
Disclose your lips, O Sun, nor long demure
With snore of thunder, crowding us to bleed
The green preëmption of the deep seaweed.

You, the rum-giver to that slide-by-night,—
The moon's best lover,—guide us by a sleight
Of quarts to faithfuls—surely smuggled home—
As you raise temples fresh from basking foam.

Expose vaunted validities that yawn
Past pleasantries ... Assert the ripened dawn
As you have yielded balcony and room
Or tempests—in a silver, floating plume.

Wrap us and lift us; drop us then, returned
Like water, undestroyed,—like mist, unburned ...
But do not claim a friend like him again,
Whose arrow must have pierced you beyond pain.

The Damp

by John Donne

When I am dead, and doctors know not why,
And my friends’ curiosity
Will have me cut up to survey each part,
When they shall find your picture in my heart,
You think a sudden damp of love
Will through all their senses move,
And work on them as me, and so prefer
Your murder to the name of massacre.

Poor victories! But if you dare be brave,
And pleasure in your conquest have,
First kill the enormous giant, your disdain,
And let the enchantress Honor next be slain.
And like a Goth and Vandal rise,
Deface records and histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And without such advantage kill me then.

For I could muster up as well as you
My giants, and my witches too,
Which are vast constancy and secretness,
But these I neither look for, nor profess.
Kill me as woman; let me die
As a mere man. Do you but try
Your passive valor, and you shall find then,
In that you have odds enough of any man.

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