I ask of thee, love, nothing but relief
I ask of thee, love, nothing but relief.
Thou canst not bring the old days back again;
For I was happy then,
Not knowing heavenly joy, not knowing grief.
Poem fractal
0.029 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.
0.0230 − 0.1643i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
0.0490 − 0.1766i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
I ask of thee, love, nothing but relief.
Thou canst not bring the old days back again;
For I was happy then,
Not knowing heavenly joy, not knowing grief.
by Richard
As the night falls and the world fades to grey,
Memories flood back, like waves in the bay,
A lifetime of choices, so many roads I've crossed,
Now I ponder the wisdom and love I lost.
In this quiet room, shadows dance on the wall,
Time slipping away, but I remember it all,
I see his face, kind and wise,
Tears now filling my fading eyes.
Oh, I wish I'd listened more
To the man I adored,
He was always right.
Could have saved me so much pain
But I was stubborn again and again.
He'd speak softly, with love in his voice,
But I chose the path, I made my own choice,
"Don't tell me what to do," was my refrain,
Now I'm left with echoes of regret and pain.
In the twilight of my years, truth shines bright,
His gentle wisdom, his guiding light,
I pushed away what I needed the most,
Now I'm haunted by the ghost of every lost hope.
Lying here, it's too late to mend,
But I cherish the love he did send,
In his arms, I could have found peace,
Instead, I fought battles that would never cease.
He grew so tired of my stubborn ways,
His frustration grew, his patience swayed,
He stopped offering his wisdom and grace,
Knowing I'd reject it, lost in my own space.
So if you're listening, take my advice,
Heed the ones who love you, be wise,
For in the end, love's the truest guide,
Don't let pride leave you empty inside.
And now I'm left with only the night...
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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