Poem fractal
0.002 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.
−0.4900 + 0.3328i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.4897 + 0.3345i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Only the chemist can tell, and not always the chemist,
What will result from compounding
Fluids or solids.
And who can tell
How men and women will interact
On each other, or what children will result?
There were Benjamin Pantier and his wife,
Good in themselves, but evil toward each other:
He oxygen, she hydrogen,
Their son, a devastating fire.
I Trainor, the druggist, a mixer of chemicals,
Killed while making an experiment,
Lived unwedded.
by Richard
Felt like a king with an army, always there
Under city lights, the bonds seemed so tight
But shadows whispered truths, hidden from my sight
Blindly trusted hearts, tales of loyalty proclaimed
Never saw the cracks, until the light of shame
I thought I had it all, a close circle of friends
We'd laugh until dawn, have each other’s backs, through thick and thin
But when the tide turned rough, and I needed them the most
They vanished in the night, leaving me like a ghost
I believed they had my back, always by my side
Turns out they were just pretending, with secrets to hide
When the going got tough, they scattered in the wind
Left me feeling lost, my trust wearing thin
Won't be fooled by their plastic crowns
Rise above the ashes, with newfound strength I'm found
Real connections waiting to be made
Open my heart, where true loyalty's displayed
Now I see their friendship was never truly real
They kept a running score, my worth they’d try to steal
Always judging my flaws, never lifting me high
Leaving me drained, as they silently passed by
It hurts to let go, to acknowledge the pain
But I'm better off now, free from their toxic chain
I'll focus on healing, on finding my way
To friendships that uplift, come what may
Yearning for connections, built on trust and care
So I'll keep my heart open, my eyes wide awake
Seeking out true friends, no longer a mistake
No more false pretences, or half-hearted care
I know what I deserve, and real love will be there
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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