Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.016 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.

I, Being born a Woman and Distressed

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

0.2088 + 0.5215i

Drawing the boundary…

After All the Tragedies Are Over

by D. H. Lawrence

0.2243 + 0.5221i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

I, Being born a Woman and Distressed

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I, being born a woman and distressed 
By all the needs and notions of my kind, 
Am urged by your propinquity to find 
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest 
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast: 
So subtly is the fume of life designed, 
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, 
And leave me once again undone, possessed. 
Think not for this, however, the poor treason 
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, 
I shall remember you with love, or season 
My scorn with pity, —let me make it plain: 
I find this frenzy insufficient reason 
For conversation when we meet again. 

After All the Tragedies Are Over

by D. H. Lawrence

After all the tragedies are over and worn out
and a man can no longer feel heroic about being a Hamlet—

When love is gone, and desire is dead, and tragedy has left the heart
then grief and pain go too, withdrawing
from the heart and leaving strange cold stretches of sand.

So a man no longer knows his own heart;
he might say into the twilight: What is it?
I am here, yet my heart is bare and utterly empty.
I have passed from existence, I feel nothing any more.
I am a nonentity.

Yet, when the time has come to be nothing, how good it is to be nothing!
a waste expanse of nothing, like wide foreshores where not a ripple is left
and the sea is lost
in the lapse of the lowest of tides.

Ah, when I have seen myself left by life, left nothing!

Yet even waste, grey foreshores, sand, and sorry, far-out clay
are sea-bed still, through their hour of bare denuding.
It is the moon that turns the tides.
The beaches can do nothing about it.

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