Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.033 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.

In my own shire

by A.E.Housman

0.0887 + 0.1639i

Drawing the boundary…

The Romancing Poet

by Helen Hamilton

0.1162 + 0.1449i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

In my own shire

by A.E.Housman

In my own shire, if I was sad
Homely comforters I had:
The earth, because my heart was sore,
Sorrowed for the son she bore;
And standing hills, long to remain,
Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.
And bound for the same bourn as I,
On every road I wandered by,
Trod beside me, close and dear,
The beautiful and death-struck year:
Whether in the woodland brown
I heard the beechnut rustle down,
And saw the purple crocus pale
Flower about the autumn dale;
Or littering far the fields of May
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
And like a skylit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood.

Yonder, lightening other loads,
The seasons range the country roads,
But here in London streets I ken
No such helpmates, only men;
And these are not in plight to bear,
If they would, another's care.
They have enough as 'tis: I see
In many an eye that measures me
The mortal sickness of a mind
Too unhappy to be kind.
Undone with misery, all they can
Is to hate their fellow man;
And till they drop they needs must still
Look at you and wish you ill.

The Romancing Poet

by Helen Hamilton

Granted that you write verse,
Much better than I,
(Which isn’t saying much!)
I wish you would refrain
From making glad romance
Of this most hideous war.
It has no glamour,
Save man’s courage,
His indomitable spirit,
His forgetfulness of self!
If you have words –
Fit word, I mean,
Not your usual stock-in-trade,
Of tags and clichés-
To hymn such greatness,
Use them.
But have you?
Anyone can babble.
If you must wax descriptive,
Do get the background right,
A little right!

The blood, the filth, the horrors,
Suffering on such a scale
That you and I, try as we may,
Can only faintly vision it.
Don’t make a pretty song about it!
It is an insult to the men,
Doomed to be crucified each day,
For us at home!
Abstain too, if you can,
From bidding us to plume ourselves
For being of the self-same breed
As these heroic souls,
With the obvious implication
We have the right to take the credit,
Vicarious credit,
For their immortal deeds!
What next?
It is an outrage!
We are not glory-snatchers!

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