Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.017 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…

Nightingale and Cuckoo

by Alfred Austin

0.1345 + 0.5971i

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.

Nightingale and Cuckoo

by Alfred Austin

Yes, nightingale and cuckoo! it was meet 
That you should come together; for ye twain 
Are emblems of the rapture and the pain 
That in the April of our life compete, 
Until we know not which is the more sweet, 
Nor yet have learned that both of them are vain! 
Yet wherefore, nightingale! break off thy strain, 
While yet the cuckoo doth his call repeat? 
Not so with me. To sweet woe did I cling 
Long after echoing happiness was dead, 
And so found solace. Now, alas! the sting! 
Cuckoo and nightingale alike have fled; 
Neither for joy nor sorrow do I sing, 
And autumn silence gathers in their stead. 

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