Elves of the hollow and the dewpond still, Take pity! Gather for me dew as chill As ice, and glittering-pure as early dawn, From pink-tipped daisies on the printless lawn And the transparent cups of apple-bloom, And lily bells, to save me from this doom Of being so brown! Bring me an unguent made of scented roots; Pomander of green herbs and scarlet fruits, Verbena leaves, mallow and melilot, And balmy rosemary, that I may not Be brown! O sweet wild rose, You have so fair a colour in your face! Spare me a blush; take from me this disgrace Of being so brown! Lilies, you do not guess, In your pale loveliness, The grief it is to hear, In a voice dispassionate and clear, 'You're very brown!'
There's a name in the Bible (Anathoth, I thought, But memory tricked me), which, interpreted, Means 'place of Echoes.' There a tall crag wrought Reverberation of the voice or tread. And sound came back tenfold, then fell off, dwindling Into tense silence, while some prophet dreamed Of living chariot-wheels and huge eyes kindling In Heaven over Israel redeemed. The place of Echoes! How the tag takes the mind! Every word we hear or utter, nothing more Than echo — echo of no subtle kind. It might not be unwisdom to explore The place of Echoes where shades of sounds combine In thoughts you and I think are yours and mine.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
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.
How the boundary is drawn
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.
What the branching signifies
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.