Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.004 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.

Mother to Son

by Langston Hughes

−0.1724 + 0.3513i

Drawing the boundary…

A Song of the Road

by Nora Hopper Chesson

−0.1723 + 0.3477i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Mother to Son

by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

A Song of the Road

by Nora Hopper Chesson

All the mills in the world are grinding gold grain, 
All hearts in the world like my heart should be fain 
For my foot goes in time to a holiday measure 
And the bird in my bosom is singing for pleasure. 

Tall soldiers in gold stand the plumed ranks of corn, 
And the poppies are dancing for joy of the morn: 
They're gipsies and vagrants, the home-keepers say, 
But my heart is at one with the poppies to-day. 

I know not what end to my travel shall be, 
Or what fairy Prince rides a-seeking for me — 
He may be a Sheogue in graithing of gold, 
Or a graybeard who tarries for young maids and old. 

Meanwhile I go tramping the merry world over, 
With the flower of my heart folded close for my lover: 
Folded safely and close till my Prince come and claim 
The bud long asleep, and the flower turn a flame. 

Meanwhile I go tramping, a masterless maid, 
With flowers blowing for me in sunshine and shade, 
White poppies, red poppies, sea-poppies of amber, 
And a wreath for my head of all wild vines that clamber. 

I am one with the wind and the flowers in the corn 
And I and the wind laugh aloud in our scorn 
At the bedesmen who quarrel earth's meadow-lands over, 
While there's roses on bushes and honey in clover. 

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