Jake Crane, Creole Sue,
Dove Campbell, the diffusion
of daybreak, down, for

instance there was nothing for
you. Prove that gospel. O well

connected. The joy,
the feel of her lord that she
used to overhear.

She used to say a
word of it out of plumb. From
me, he says? At a

wake when the torrid and the
nun of that I am here to

read a name?  Were there
obverse meditations of
possibility.

People looking up
at the exertion of the
spine. Better get this

job over quick.  In the dark
chords. Her grave is over here:

the world. Here, sir: the
slow music. You see most of
the dark land they heard.

Is there any... no
trouble I expect. Mr.
Bloom promptly did as

suggested and removed the
saucepan to the blessed: looked at

his feet. Heart to kneel.
His first puff violently
towards the tombstones.

O, the eloquent
fact remained that morning. Then
he murmured then with

force like men. All these rocks with
lines and scars and letters. From

his rank and fame that
tempted thee, and in the past
day, the ghosts of him.

*
A series of renga created with Gnoetry0.2's statistical analysis of Ulysses, as facilitated by end-user Eric Elshtain.

 
 
Max Froumentin is a French artist and software engineer who created joyce-textorized, a fantastic image based on a photo of James Joyce that appears on the International James Joyce Foundation website, as well as here on Bloomsday2012.org. 


Froumentin created the Textorizer software that was used to generate the image on the right. Click here to try it out! 
joyce-textorized by Max Froumentin. This image
is being used with permission from the artist. 
 
 
Molly told me.  I understand, but don't
keep me waiting, while feeling
his lips, as he could spin those yarns for hours.  Molly in Citron's
Saint Kevin's parade.  She answered, going out.  I could
produce a bottle?  He howled, without looking up: and at
the tender mercy of God
is love pasted round there?  Make
a scrap picnic.  Tell you.  There's a bloody chance.  Old monks, the blond girl
in Meath Street that night in

the time of the stomach.  I will.  That's right, says Alf.  Robert
Emmet was buried here, Stephen said, frowning: I
won't trespass on your shift.  Dark dome received, reverbed.  I seen a fair
face for me?  Quietly, stumbling
a little serious,
equanimity.  Can't he
hear the inquest.  To catch rattlesnakes.
Heavy greasy smell there always
is in fashion.  Bloom: I am old

furniture.  Write me a long laugh down his
nose and promised him the card with
the baby.  Armed heroes spring up from the house of the
erudite and certainly by reason of change out
of this intermittent and increasingly conveyed from
the cemetery, Martin Cunningham began to shave
in its free state, Saint Patrick's, George's and Gay Malahide.  Make
room for your book, eh?  Wise child that
knows.  While you have no cities nor no wealth: our

lives.  Mr. Bloom asked, looking down on their striped petticoats, in
their habitual position clamped by three, he had learned of the
trees of the other so he was painting the landscape with his
heavy hand took his eyes to hear the voice of that and,
clinging to animals.  Bald pat at a certain
extent under the ground till the matter?  The flood.  I paid
the rent.  Young stephen what was it, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over them with your waters,
cows lowing, the scheme fell through the thousand virgins.



This poem was composed in collaboration with Gnoetry0.2, a poetry-generating software developed by Jon Trowbridge.  The software statistically analysed Ulysses, and the end-user, Eric Elshtain, made edits within the parameters of the software itself.  For more information on Gnoetry and other computer-generated poetry programs go here.