There is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb: And, healed in their own tears and with long sleep, My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep; But, in the corner of the narrow room, Behold Love’s spirit standeth, with the bloom That things made deathless by Death’s self may keep. O what a change! for now his looks are deep, And a long patient smile he can assume: While Memory, in some soft low monotone, Is pouring like an oil into mine ear The tale of a most short and hollow bliss, That I once throbbed indeed to call my own, Holding it hardly between joy and fear,— And how that broke, and how it came to this.
It's age, not youth, alone can truly love: Only when thought has mastered sex and found It one with treetops, hills, and stars above, One with all roots, springs, minerals underground, Only when grief again, again, has laid Hot hands upon cold bodies of our dead, Can man approach love truly unafraid, And know the warmth and whispers of love's bed; And only a man who's clambered many a peak, And heard the lava boil, the vapor hiss, Or walked burnt cities in the flame and reek, Can pour a life-time in a single kiss. Against all poets I would stake this truth, Except your love for me is born — of youth.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
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.
How the boundary is drawn
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.
What the branching signifies
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.