Green
The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
Poem fractal
0.031 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.
−0.1523 − 0.3664i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.1695 − 0.3406i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
by Richard
In a village far and wide,
Three young men of sinful pride,
To the tavern they did ride,
With gold and ale their hearts confide.
"Death, oh Death, where dost thou hide?
We seek thee out, we shall not bide.
With a curse and a pledge, by dawn's early tide,
We’ll conquer thee, we’ll turn the tide."
An old man they did espy,
Wrinkled face, and hollow eye,
“Why do you live when all must die?”
Said he, “Find Death where shadows lie.”
To an ancient oak they roam,
Found a treasure, bright as foam,
Gold so bright it shone like dome,
“We are rich!” they cried, “This wealth we own.”
One went off to fetch their bread,
Greed and envy filled their head,
Two conspired when he returned,
His life they'd take, their hearts had turned.
The one returned with poisoned wine,
Plans to claim all gold as mine,
The two did strike, their friend lay dead,
Then drank the wine, by poison led.
They drank and died, the gold untouched,
In greed’s cruel grasp, their fate was clutched,
For Death had come, by greed dispatched,
Their souls to Hell, forever snatched.
So heed this tale of folly's cost,
Greed and pride, all lives are lost,
In shadows deep where souls are tossed,
The wages of sin are cold and frost.
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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