Poem fractal
0.053 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.
0.6618 + 0.0994i
Drawing the boundary…
by Robert Jones
0.6921 + 0.0554i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Though I be foul, ugly, lean, and mis-shape,
Yet there is none in all this worldë wide
That may my power withstande or escape;
Therefore, sage father, greatly magnified,
Descend from your chair, set apart your pride,
Witsafe to lend—though it be to your pain—
To me, a fool, some of your wise brain.
by Robert Jones
Farewell, dear love, since thou wilt needs be gone
Mine eyes do show my life is almost gone
Nay, I will never die so long as I can spy.
There be many more though that she do go,
There be many more I fear not,
Why then let her go, I care not.
Farewell, farewell, since this I find is true
I will not spend more time in wooing you.
But I will seek elsewhere if I may find love there
Shall I bid her go? What and if I do?
Shall I bid her go and spare not?
Oh no no no, I dare not.
Ten thousand times farewell; yet stay awhile
Sweet, kiss me once; sweet kisses time beguile.
I have no pow'r to move. How now am I in love?
Wilt thou needs begone? Go then, all is one
Wilt thou needs begone? Oh hie thee!
Nay, stay, and do no more deny me.
Once more adieu, I see loath to depart
Bids oft adieu to her that holds my heart.
But seeing I must lose thy love, which I did choose,
Go thy way for me since that may not be.
Go, thy ways for me. But whither?
Go, of but where I may come thither.
What shall I do? My love is now departed
She is as fair as she is cruel-hearted.
But seeing I must lose thy love with prayers oft repeated
If she come no more, shall I die therefore?
If she come no more, what care I?
Faith, let her go, or come, or tarry!
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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