Poem fractal
0.023 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.
by James Joyce
0.3113 − 0.5603i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
0.2888 − 0.5556i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
by James Joyce
When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling,
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover’s chant,
’Tis I that am your visitant.
by Richard
In the quiet of the evening,
when shadows start to play,
I find myself still searching
for the love that slipped away.
Oh, my love, where have you gone?
Just like my keys, misplaced so long,
I search for you in every room,
In every corner, through the gloom.
My glasses lost, my heart now blind,
In memories, I try to find,
Your gentle touch, your warm embrace,
But you're a ghost, an empty space.
Oh, my darling, I keep losing,
All the things that once felt right,
My heart is aching, ever choosing,
To seek you in the darkest night.
The days are long, the nights so cold,
Without your hand for me to hold,
I call your name, a whispered plea,
But silence is my company.
I see your smile in photographs,
I hear your voice in echoes past,
But like my keys, you’ve slipped away,
In dreams, you’re here, but cannot stay.
I've lost my way, I can't pretend,
That I don't need you, my dear friend,
In every moment, thought, and breath,
I'm searching for the love I left.
So I'll keep searching, through the years,
For all I've lost, through all my tears,
A love that echoes through my song,
Forever missing, since you’ve gone.
A love that echoes through my song,
Forever missing, since you’ve gone.
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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