Poem fractal
0.032 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.
0.4561 − 0.3325i
Drawing the boundary…
0.4249 − 0.3404i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Out of the window the trees in the Square
Are covered with crimson May—
You, that were all of my love and my care,
Have broken my heart to-day.
But though I have lost you and though I despair
Till even the past looks gray—
Out of the window the trees in the Square
Are covered with crimson May.
From candle-douting to candle-teening
I labour at the weary gleaning:
The scattered ears I gather up,
Eat of your bread, drink of your cup;
And yet no ray of light can guide you
To guess a Pixy works beside you —
You of your wisdom overweening.
I only of my wayward clan
Accept the food and wage of man:
I labour in your fields all day,
Whence my own folk have fled away.
No voices call me to the moor
When at the noon the heat grows sore —
I bear my burden as I can.
My fairy birthright I have lost;
And yet I never grudge the cost,
Because of one who gleans beside me,
Whose cloud of russet hair shall hide me
From Sorrow, who goes seeking ever
For hearts to break and lives to sever.
The running brooks for her I crossed:
Thresholds of human homes I passed,
My lot among you mortals cast,
Because a gleaner's eyes were kind,
A gleaner's voice rang down the wind
Like a bird's music, lost in leaves.
I'll bind a whole green shire of sheaves
If she will love me at the last.
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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