Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

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.

It Couldn't be Done

by Edgar A. Guest

0.0988 + 0.1716i

Drawing the boundary…

The Romancing Poet

by Helen Hamilton

0.1162 + 0.1449i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

It Couldn't be Done

by Edgar A. Guest

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

The Romancing Poet

by Helen Hamilton

Granted that you write verse,
Much better than I,
(Which isn’t saying much!)
I wish you would refrain
From making glad romance
Of this most hideous war.
It has no glamour,
Save man’s courage,
His indomitable spirit,
His forgetfulness of self!
If you have words –
Fit word, I mean,
Not your usual stock-in-trade,
Of tags and clichés-
To hymn such greatness,
Use them.
But have you?
Anyone can babble.
If you must wax descriptive,
Do get the background right,
A little right!

The blood, the filth, the horrors,
Suffering on such a scale
That you and I, try as we may,
Can only faintly vision it.
Don’t make a pretty song about it!
It is an insult to the men,
Doomed to be crucified each day,
For us at home!
Abstain too, if you can,
From bidding us to plume ourselves
For being of the self-same breed
As these heroic souls,
With the obvious implication
We have the right to take the credit,
Vicarious credit,
For their immortal deeds!
What next?
It is an outrage!
We are not glory-snatchers!

—
—
0:00
0:00
Track 1
Skip to main content