Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.028 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.

The Weary Blues

by Langston Hughes

0.1185 + 0.5913i

Drawing the boundary…

Am I a prisoner?

by Anna Hempstead Branch

0.1465 + 0.5945i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Weary Blues

by Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

Am I a prisoner?

by Anna Hempstead Branch

Am I a prisoner? What have I done?…
What is this silence and this heavy door?
Suppose 'tis bolted and I go out no more?
I sweat all over and I seem like one
Hid in a dungeon by some cruel king.
There is an evil in this atmosphere.
Here is the sudden thrust of swordlike fear.
The air seems full of subtle reasoning.
What web of craft here weaves its rich design!
With sighs of men forgotten! What prayers are these!
Some whispering of things strange and malign
Masters my will with cruel images!
Now fierce magnetic energies constrain
My flesh to shake and all but freeze my brain.

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