Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.106 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.

The Air Plant

by Hart Crane

−0.9456 − 0.0183i

Drawing the boundary…

With windmills turning wrong directions

by Dylan Thomas

−0.8413 − 0.0345i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Air Plant

by Hart Crane

This tuft that thrives on saline nothingness,
Inverted octopus with heavenward arms
Thrust parching from a palm-bole hard by the cove—
A bird almost—of almost bird alarms,

Is pulmonary to the wind that jars
Its tentacles, horrific in their lurch.
The lizard's throat, held bloated for a fly,
Balloons but warily from this throbbing perch.

The needles and hack-saws of cactus bleed
A milk of earth when stricken off the stalk;
But this,—defenseless, thornless, sheds no blood,
Almost no shadow—but the air's thin talk.

Angelic Dynamo! Ventriloquist of the Blue!
While beachward creeps the shark-swept Spanish Main
By what conjunctions do the winds appoint
Its apotheosis, at last—the hurricane!

With windmills turning wrong directions

by Dylan Thomas

With windmills turning wrong directions,
And signposts pointing up and down
Towards destruction and redemption,
No doubt the wind on which the rooks
Tumble, not flying, is false,
Plays scurvy tricks with values and intentions,
Guides and blows wickedly, for larks
Find hard to dart against a cloud,
To London’s turned, and thirsty loads
Of men with flannel shirts
And girls with flowered hats
Intent on visiting the famous spots,
Ride in their charabancs on roads
That lead away to dirty towns
Dirtier with garages and cheap tea signs.

Faith in divinity would solve most things,
For then the wrong wind certainly
Would be the devil’s wind, and the high trinity
Be guiltless of the windy wrongs.

But ways have changed, and most ways lead
To different places than were said
By those who planned the obvious routes
And now, mistaking the direction,
On miles of horizontal milestones,
Perplexed beyond perplexion,
Catch their poor guts.

The wind has changed, blown inside out
The coverings of dark and light,
Made meaning meaningless. The wrong wind stirs,
Puffed, old with venom, from a crusted mouth.
The changed wind blows, and there’s a choice of signs
To Heaven’s turned, and pious loads
Of neophytes take altered roads.

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