Poem fractal
0.013 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.
−0.1162 + 0.2965i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.1283 + 0.2910i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
The Loves who many years held all my mind,
A charge so troublesome at last resign'd.
Among my books a feather here and there
Tells what the inmates of my study were.
Strong for no wrestle, ready for no race,
They only serve to mark the left-off place.
'Twas theirs to dip in the tempestuous waves,
'Twas theirs to loiter in cool summer caves;
But in the desert where no herb is green
Not one, the latest of the flight, is seen.
by Richard
Cold steel in my side, the world fades to gray
Smoke stings my eyes, another soldier gone astray
Comrades lie silent, their faces turned to sky
This wasn't the future we dreamt of, you and I
Sweetheart, this picture, worn with every mile
The memory of your smile, for a little while
It chases away the fear, the sting of defeat
But a lifetime of loving, condensed into this heat
Remember that fight, the night before I left?
Angry words spoken, a love harshly cleft
I should've held you tighter, whispered promises true
Instead, I slammed the door, leaving the worst of me with you
The mud sucks me down, a crimson tide rising high
But in your eyes, my love, forever I can fly
We'll dance beneath the stars, a waltz in the unknown
No battlefield scars, just love we've always known
Sweetheart, this picture, stained with crimson tide
The memory of your smile, by my side, my side
It chases away the fear, the final, fading beat
A lifetime of loving, wrapped around this tattered sheet
Forgive me, darling, for the harsh goodbye
My love for you, eternal, beneath this fading sky
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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