Poem fractal
0.027 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.
by Mina Loy
−0.3132 + 0.1994i
Drawing the boundary…
−0.3222 + 0.1737i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
by Mina Loy
I don't care
Where the legs of the legs of the furniture are walking to
Or what is hidden in the shadows they stride
Or what would look at me
If the shutters were not shut
Red a warm colour on the battle-field
Heavy on my knees as a counterpane
Count counter
I counted the fringe of the towel
Till two tassels clinging together
Let the square room fall away
From a round vacuum
Dilating with my breath
If I should die to-night
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair,
And, laying snow white flowers against my hair
Would smooth it down with thankful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress,
Poor hands—so empty and so cold to-night.
If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind with loving thought
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words would all be laid aside;
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.
If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully,
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore perchance,
As often in the old familiar way;
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So might I rest by all forgiven to-night.
Oh friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my cold dead brow.
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me, I am travel-worn,
My faltering feet are pierced by many a thorn.
Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead,
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.
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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