POEMS (or other sundry quotes) that remind you of ASOIAF

[Tijgy]

Hey @ravenous reader It would surprise you, , but I, the-person-who-isn't-really-fan-of-poems, has found (by accident) a poem for your thread . 

I recently bought a book on the myths, legends and folklore about Irelands's animals by NIALL MAC COITIR. And you know enough of my obsession with Bran's search to knowledge  that you could imagine my excitement when I read about the importance in Celtic culture of the notion of transformation into animal forms through shamanism or seer-ship!

He writes the following: "In early pagan Ireland there is evidence that poets and druids practised rituals that were essentially a form of shamanism, with the idea of gaining knowledge from contact with the otherworld. Armed with this knowledge the seer could understand the mysteries of the past, present and future. A central feature of this process of metamorphosis or transformation, whereby the seer mystically adopted the forms of different animals to acquire extra knowledge". (p. 7) 

(I admit I started to hyperventilate when I read "the past, present and future". For the people who aren't obsessive with Bran's chapters, Jojen says Bran would say "The Past. The Future. The Truth" in his dreams.)

According to MAC COITIR "the most famous example of poetic seer-ship appears in the eleventh-century Book of Invasions." (p. 7) This book tells the story of the legendary invasions of Ireland. The first of Irish race to set foot in Ireland is the poet Amairgen/Amergin/... When he does this, "he recites a famous and extraordinary poem in which he proclaims, through the power of his poetry, the ability to take on different natural powers and exercise various powers" (ah, RR, that is why you are interested in poetry ). He takes then not only the form of different animals but also different elements of nature like wind  and water. He also speaks of his knowledge of the movements of the sun and the moon and of exercising his poetic powers of inspiration of satire. 

The poem made me of course think of Bran, Bloodraven, the three-eyed crow and of the moment when Varamyr went into the tree, different animals, ... at his 'death'

And I dedicate it to you, my dear Poetess (of the wind, trees, leaves, ...) and to my favourite little seer, Bran!

Poem in Old Irish (Original version)                  Translation by MAC COITIR in English (p. 8) 

Am gaeth i mmuir                                                 I am wind on sea

Am tonn trethain                                                   I am ocean wave

Am fuaimm i mmuir                                              I am sound of sea

Am dam sethair                                                    I am stag of seven fights

Am séig for aill                                                     I am hawk on cliff

Am dér gréne                                                       I am sundew

Am cain lubai                                                       I am finest herb

Am torc ar gail                                                     I am boar in fury

Am hé i llimd                                                       I am salmon in pool

Am loch i mmaig                                                 I am lake on plain

(???)                                                                    I am vision of promise

Am brí dánae                                                       I am essence of skill

Am gae la fodb feras fechtu                               I am spear bringing trophies of manly deeds

Am dé delbas do chind codnu                          I am god who composes for noble heads

Cóich é nod gleith clochar slébe?                    Who heeds the warning of rumble of mountain stones? 

Cia ón cota-gair aesa éscai?                            Who is it tells of the ages of the moon?

Cia dú i llaig fuiniud gréne?                              Or knows the place where sets the sun?          

Cia beir buar ó thig Thethrach?                       Who brings cattle from the House of Tethra? 

Cia buar Tethrach tibite?                                  Who wins a choice measure of Tethra's cattle?

Cia doen, cia dé delbas faebru?                       Who is the god who composes

Amin ám:                                                           to flay the corrupt kingdom?

Áilsiu cáinte,                                                     Curses around spear

cáinte gaíthe                                                    Words of the wind 

Some little information: 

• Tetra is the Fomorian god of death and the sea (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fomorians) and Cattle of Tetrac are the fish of the sea
• The line "to flay the corrupt kingdom" refers to the power to bring unjust rulers to task. In Gaelic Ireland they believed the poetic satire could ruin a king ruins.

And the poem spoken/sung by Lisa Gerard (because I believe not many people can speak/pronounce Old Irish and it is nice to hear how the poem actually sounds: 

(And it also gives a different translation of the poem )

In other poem Amairgen shows more of his powers after his arrival in Ireland. He claims he has "the ability to draw on the strengths of different animals, he also declares the ability to summon them at his command. He calls the fish of the sea, "invoking the fertility of the sea to draw them into the coastal inlets and so increase Ireland's natural bounty." 

And his poem reminded me of the mythology in Westeros surrounding Those Who Sing The Song Of The Earth: 

Poem in Old Irish                                     Translation by MAC COITIR in English (p. 9)                  

Iascach muir                                             Fish full sea

mothach tír                                               Fertile land

tomaidm n-éisc                                        Upwelling fish

iascach and fo thuind .                            Fish under waves

rethaib én                                                Flocking like birds

                                                                Fair outpouring

                                                                Hundreds of salmon

lethan míl                                                Widespread whales

portach lug                                             Seaport song:

tomaidm n-éisc                                      Upwelling fish

iascach muir.                                           Fish full sea

On the site where I got the text of the poems in Old Irish, they also say something about a third poem: 

"Understandably the Three Kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann are not very pleased to see the invading force arrive at the centre of the country and respectfully ask the Milesians to return to their ships and grant them three days to consider their own position. The answer is left to the Poet-Seer Amhairghin and his pronouncement – referred to as the first judgement ever issued on the island of Ireland – affirms that it is only fair to grant the existing rulers of the land their request and that the Milesians should return to their ships and go out over nine waves beyond the shores for the allotted time.

However while the Milesians return to their ships, the Tuatha Dé Danann have other plans.  They set their Druids the task of issuing forth incantations that conjure up a magical storm to prevent the Milesians from making shore again. But Amhairghin’spowers are a match for those of the Druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann and he issues forth his own powerful incantation, his Third Poem of Invocation that quells the storm;" 

Áiliu iath n-hÉrend  (I invoke the Land of Ireland)

hérmach muir mothach,  (Surging ocean swelling)

mothach sliab srathach,  (Swelling upland meadows)

srathach caill cithach,  (Meadow filled rain-woods)

cithach aub essach,  (Rain-filled rivers cascading)

essach loch lindmar,  (Cascading lakes spreading)

lindmar tor tiara,  (Spreading spring of multitudes)

tipra tuath oenach,  (A spring of peoples, an assembly)

oenach ríg Temrach,  (Assembly of the King of Tara)

Temair tor tuathach,  (Tara tower of tribes)

tuatha mac Míled,  (Tribes of the sons of Míl)

mílid long, libarn,  (Warriors of vessels)

libarn ard hÉriu,  (This vast vessel Ireland)

Éber Dond díglas,  (Éber Donn flourishing)

díchetal rogaeth,  (Wise incantation)

rogaeth ban Bresi,  (of the wise wives of Brese)

brese ban Buagne,  (Outcry of the wives of Buaigne)

bé n-adbul hÉriu,  (Ireland in her vastness:)

Hérimón ortus,  (Éremon smote her)

Ír, Éber, álsius,  (Ír, Éber entreated her,)

Áiliu iath n-hÉrend  (I invoke the Land of Ireland)

And so it is that the Milesians land and conquer the Tuatha Dé Danann who, in their defeat, shroud themselves in a veil of invisibility and retreat into the spiritual dimension of the land; “to the hills and the forests and the waterways of Ireland, taking all of their own magic with them”. And thus the final great mythical invasion recorded in Lebar Gabála Érenn comes to a close with Amhairghin’s Invocation ushering in a new era across the land.

SOURCES: Ireland's Animals: Myths, Legends and Folklore by Mac Coitir; Anu Projects, Áiliu Iath n-hÉrend (I Invoke the Land of Ireland) 2016, http://www.anupictures.com/project/invoking/

--

(In the book I am now at the chapter on donkeys, but at the end of the book there is a whole chapter on Irish animals and Transformation  - all the information above came only from the introduction of the book. )

[Wizz-The-Smith]

22 hours ago, Tijgy said:

I recently bought a book on the myths, legends and folklore about Irelands's animals by NIALL MAC COITIR. And you know enough of my obsession with Bran's search to knowledge  that you could imagine my excitement when I read about the importance in Celtic culture of the notion of transformation into animal forms through shamanism or seer-ship!

He writes the following: "In early pagan Ireland there is evidence that poets and druids practised rituals that were essentially a form of shamanism, with the idea of gaining knowledge from contact with the otherworld. Armed with this knowledge the seer could understand the mysteries of the past, present and future. A central feature of this process of metamorphosis or transformation, whereby the seer mystically adopted the forms of different animals to acquire extra knowledge". (p. 7) 

Hi Tijgy, awesome post. 

Your new book sounds interesting, a lot of the Celtic stories I’ve been reading have the various subjects turn into birds or swans among other things.  The Children of Lir is a good example of transformation into swans, and then they experience a time lapse of three hundred years.  A lot of the old Irish tales have mortals visit/connect with the otherworld and the past, present and future gets mixed up, sometimes people could spend thirty years in the otherworld only to return at the exact time they left, others would be there for mere days but when they return hundreds of years have passed.  The old [Fae] gods in their caves/hollow hills/otherworld capable of visiting the past, present and future, hmm.  I would also be interested whether or not the author mentions what these pagan rituals involve, I’ve been looking into that myself recently, for asoiaf purposes of course.   

22 hours ago, Tijgy said:

through the power of his her poetry, the ability to take on different natural powers and exercise various powers" (ah, RR, that is why you are interested in poetry ).

 Haha, very good point.  She's on to you @ravenous reader   

22 hours ago, Tijgy said:

He takes then not only the form of different animals but also different elements of nature like wind  and water. He also speaks of his knowledge of the movements of the sun and the moon and of exercising his poetic powers of inspiration of satire.

All very cool stuff Tijgy.  I like your mention of the different animals, wind and water etc. Some of the gods would also appear in mists accompanied by some sort of song or beautiful music, again thoughts of Bloodraven and asoiaf come to mind.  And regarding the wind, the early people of Ireland would at that time often cite a presence in the wind when there was 'a rustling of the leaves', again very like Bran and the greenseers. 

22 hours ago, Tijgy said:

Poem in Old Irish (Original version)                  Translation by MAC COITIR in English (p. 8) 

Am gaeth i mmuir                                                 I am wind on sea

Am tonn trethain                                                   I am ocean wave

Am fuaimm i mmuir                                              I am sound of sea

Am dam sethair                                                    I am stag of seven fights

Am séig for aill                                                     I am hawk on cliff

Am dér gréne                                                       I am sundew

Am cain lubai                                                       I am finest herb

Am torc ar gail                                                     I am boar in fury

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~snip~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Awesome catch!!  Although I suppose I would say that, as I too posted this a while back.    Seriously though, some of the Celtic mythology you're obviously reading at the moment has many similarities to asoiaf, it's great fun reading and as you've found can also be rewarding.  I know you'll pick up on loads more of these similarities having spent time posting with you in the Bran threads. 

22 hours ago, Tijgy said:

And the poem spoken/sung by Lisa Gerard (because I believe not many people can speak/pronounce Old Irish and it is nice to hear how the poem actually sounds: 

(And it also gives a different translation of the poem )

Hey thanks, that's a beautiful version of the song. 

22 hours ago, Tijgy said:

On the site where I got the text of the poems in Old Irish, they also say something about a third poem: 

"Understandably the Three Kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann are not very pleased to see the invading force arrive at the centre of the country and respectfully ask the Milesians to return to their ships and grant them three days to consider their own position. The answer is left to the Poet-Seer Amhairghin and his pronouncement – referred to as the first judgement ever issued on the island of Ireland – affirms that it is only fair to grant the existing rulers of the land their request and that the Milesians should return to their ships and go out over nine waves beyond the shores for the allotted time.

However while the Milesians return to their ships, the Tuatha Dé Danann have other plans.  They set their Druids the task of issuing forth incantations that conjure up a magical storm to prevent the Milesians from making shore again. But Amhairghin’spowers are a match for those of the Druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann and he issues forth his own powerful incantation, his Third Poem of Invocation that quells the storm;" 

Áiliu iath n-hÉrend  (I invoke the Land of Ireland)

hérmach muir mothach,  (Surging ocean swelling)

mothach sliab srathach,  (Swelling upland meadows)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~snip~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so it is that the Milesians land and conquer the Tuatha Dé Danann who, in their defeat, shroud themselves in a veil of invisibility and retreat into the spiritual dimension of the land; “to the hills and the forests and the waterways of Ireland, taking all of their own magic with them”. And thus the final great mythical invasion recorded in Lebar Gabála Érenn comes to a close with Amhairghin’s Invocation ushering in a new era across the land.

Nice! 

Regarding the songs/final song/Song of Amergin, as you've noted it was vital to the Milesians as they defeated the magical Tuatha de dannan in battle, enabling them to withstand the Tuatha magic, who themselves controlled the elements and sent forth the storm. With victory assured for the Milesians, both sides then made a pact saying that they would split the island between them.  The Milesians claimed the land above ground and the Tuatha de dannan were given the domain below ground. [That sounds familiar]  This is the time in Irish history that the Tuatha de dannan retreat into the ‘otherworld’ to live in the hollow hills and caves where they would look over and protect their former land [protecting the realm?] The Tuatha are also called the 'Sidhe' and from their hollow hills/caves/otherworld they visit the land occasionally but mainly by inhabiting the wind, mist etc.  Which sounds even more like Bran and Bloodraven.  I have touched on some of this in my hollow hills thread, it would suit in the Bran thread too.   

Back to your quote, it’s said the magic of the Druids [or in this case Amergin] is at its most powerful when in the form of a song, a song that invokes the forest, the sea, the sky etc. The words of wisdom, the words of power, the cutting word, the cold word, which of course RR has written about in her excellent Killing Word thread. 

Anyway, cool post as usual Tijgy, and thanks for the poems.    I hope you enjoy your read into Celtic mythology and all the cool animal transformation/control of the elements/magic and song etc.  And you never know, invoking such poetry may just unleash 'your' hidden powers as the Princess of the Green, you could team up with the poetess.   

[ravenous reader]

@Tijgy -- Hi Tigs!  I apologize for the lateness of my response to your great post.  Unfortunately, my carefully crafted long-and-oh-so-entertaining digression that I've been lovingly preparing for you just got crunched by the website for the second time!   Either the site is ravenous and finds my long posts delicious, or perhaps the forum demons are hinting that my posts could do with some radical editing, he he.  So unfortunately you will have to be content with a slightly shorter version than normal of my ramblings .

On 7/26/2017 at 5:47 PM, Tijgy said:

Hey @ravenous reader It would surprise you, , but I, the-person-who-isn't-really-fan-of-poems, has found (by accident) a poem for your thread . 

I'm glad to see you finally came to your senses after visiting Ireland and standing on the hill of 'Brandon'!  

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I recently bought a book on the myths, legends and folklore about Irelands's animals by NIALL MAC COITIR. And you know enough of my obsession with Bran's search to knowledge  that you could imagine my excitement when I read about the importance in Celtic culture of the notion of transformation into animal forms through shamanism or seer-ship!

He writes the following: "In early pagan Ireland there is evidence that poets and druids practised rituals that were essentially a form of shamanism, with the idea of gaining knowledge from contact with the otherworld. Armed with this knowledge the seer could understand the mysteries of the past, present and future. A central feature of this process of metamorphosis or transformation, whereby the seer mystically adopted the forms of different animals to acquire extra knowledge". (p. 7) 

(I admit I started to hyperventilate when I read "the past, present and future". For the people who aren't obsessive with Bran's chapters, Jojen says Bran would say "The Past. The Future. The Truth" in his dreams.)

On the Bran's re-read thread, you also previously pointed out the tension between the desire to acquire knowledge and the fear of its acquisition, as Jojen cautions Bran there is much to fear when Bran is being too blase about dreams, based on his previous conversation with Maester Luwin.

Quote

According to MAC COITIR "the most famous example of poetic seer-ship appears in the eleventh-century Book of Invasions." (p. 7) This book tells the story of the legendary invasions of Ireland. The first of Irish race to set foot in Ireland is the poet Amairgen/Amergin/... When he does this, "he recites a famous and extraordinary poem in which he proclaims, through the power of his poetry, the ability to take on different natural powers and exercise various powers" (ah, RR, that is why you are interested in poetry ).

Ha ha.  My 'growing powers' gather strength... .  I'm particularly interested in this 'inspiration of satire' of which you speak.  A forum user recently made mock of one of my posts (ironically pertaining to GRRM's preoccupation with mockery), saying:  "Does this proove [sic] or signify anything other than pointing out the great dance of life and death takes place on these pages the same as in our reality ?  It's  like saying, 'aha!  The sun rose!  See that?  That supports my theory!'    We exist in a state of mockery, by definition."  Considering his assertion that 'we exist in a state of mockery, by definition,' then wielding this 'inspiration of satire' to ones advantage would be universally useful indeed!

Quote

He takes then not only the form of different animals but also different elements of nature like wind  and water. He also speaks of his knowledge of the movements of the sun and the moon and of exercising his poetic powers of inspiration of satire. 

The poem made me of course think of Bran, Bloodraven, the three-eyed crow and of the moment when Varamyr went into the tree, different animals, ... at his 'death'

 

Varamyr's shamanistic flight, with his expanding consciousness ascending like a cold wind taking possession of all the lifeforms and the elements themselves is a prime illustration of what Amergin aimed to achieve via his poetic invocation, and also of what we can expect for Bran.  It's worth replicating that striking passage here:

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The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that's in it, he thought, exulting. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. Before their hearts could beat again he had passed on, searching for his own, for One Eye, Sly, and Stalker, for his pack. His wolves would save him, he told himself.

That was his last thought as a man.

(ADWD - Prologue)

 

Also, the Song of Amergin bears a resemblance to the Night's Watch vows.  Just as Amergin via his chant was able to part the storm, unzipping or unlocking it, in order to gain entrance into Ireland, Sam reciting the ancient, original form of the Night's Watch vow succeeds in opening the Black Gate, providing access for Bran and his companions to the realm north of the Wall.  The 'words' therefore are magical, functioning as a key to a portal:

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A Storm of Swords - Bran IV

"I am the sword in the darkness," Samwell Tarly said. "I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"Then pass," the door said. Its lips opened, wide and wider and wider still, until nothing at all remained but a great gaping mouth in a ring of wrinkles. Sam stepped aside and waved Jojen through ahead of him. Summer followed, sniffing as he went, and then it was Bran's turn. Hodor ducked, but not low enough. The door's upper lip brushed softly against the top of Bran's head, and a drop of water fell on him and ran slowly down his nose. It was strangely warm, and salty as a tear.

 

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And I dedicate it to you, my dear Poetess (of the wind, trees, leaves, ...) and to my favourite little seer, Bran!

Thank you!  

 

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Poem in Old Irish (Original version)                  Translation by MAC COITIR in English (p. 8) 

Am gaeth i mmuir                                                 I am wind on sea

Am tonn trethain                                                   I am ocean wave

Am fuaimm i mmuir                                              I am sound of sea

Am dam sethair                                                    I am stag of seven fights

Am séig for aill                                                     I am hawk on cliff

Am dér gréne                                                       I am sundew

Am cain lubai                                                       I am finest herb

Am torc ar gail                                                     I am boar in fury

Am hé i llimd                                                       I am salmon in pool

Am loch i mmaig                                                 I am lake on plain

(???)                                                                    I am vision of promise

Am brí dánae                                                       I am essence of skill

Am gae la fodb feras fechtu                               I am spear bringing trophies of manly deeds

Am dé delbas do chind codnu                          I am god who composes for noble heads

Cóich é nod gleith clochar slébe?                    Who heeds the warning of rumble of mountain stones? 

Cia ón cota-gair aesa éscai?                            Who is it tells of the ages of the moon?

Cia dú i llaig fuiniud gréne?                              Or knows the place where sets the sun?          

Cia beir buar ó thig Thethrach?                       Who brings cattle from the House of Tethra? 

Cia buar Tethrach tibite?                                  Who wins a choice measure of Tethra's cattle?

Cia doen, cia dé delbas faebru?                       Who is the god who composes

Amin ám:                                                           to flay the corrupt kingdom?

Áilsiu cáinte,                                                     Curses around spear

cáinte gaíthe                                                    Words of the wind 

 

 

Indeed -- Words are Wind!

Notice that the first element which is invoked in the sequence is the air -- 'I am wind' -- which makes sense since the power of the poet is imagined to lie in his or her voice or breath.  I'm inevitably reminded of the 'heart tree communion' scene in which Bran memorably demonstrates the power to create wind on a windless night, and moreover translates that wind as his voice, conveying something meaningful to and for Theon.

'I am vision of promise' -- 'the promised prince'

'the warning of rumble of mountain stones' -- 'the song of stones' being the language, or 'dialect 'thereof, learned from the COTF by Brandon the Builder

'I am boar in fury' -- "Robert could piss in a cup and men would call it wine, but I offer them pure cold water and they squint in suspicion and mutter to each other about how queer it tastes." Stannis ground his teeth. "If someone said I had magicked myself into a boar to kill Robert, likely they would believe that as well." (ACOK - Davos II)

'I am hawk on cliff' -- As a little present, here is my favorite 'hawk on cliff' poem (don't worry, it's a short one )-- to be exact, it's about an eagle on a cliff and reminds me of Orell skinchanging the eagle which spies on Jon and later plummets down on Ghost; as well as Bran the boy who climbed too close to the sun falling from the tower in the vicinity of what GRRM curiously terms an 'eyrie', now occupied by crows, but more accurately semantically usually designates the nest of an eagle, falcon, hawk or other bird of prey...

 

The Eagle

 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 

Close to the sun in lonely lands, 

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 

He watches from his mountain walls, 

And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

 

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Some little information: 

• Tetra is the Fomorian god of death and the sea (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fomorians) and Cattle of Tetrac are the fish of the sea
• The line "to flay the corrupt kingdom" refers to the power to bring unjust rulers to task. In Gaelic Ireland they believed the poetic satire could ruin a king ruins.

'Flaying' also evokes the power of skinchanging.  Do you think we might see a skinchanger/greenseer such as Bran bringing justice with his power?  So far, his practice of skinchanging Hodor has rather suggested the opposite.  However, Ned's words to Bran at the execution, following which the direwolves were delivered to the family, seem prescient, strongly suggestive of foreshadowing that 'one day justice will fall to Bran' in his capacity 'swinging the sword' ('swinging the sword [without a hilt]' is a metaphor for wielding the  power of skinchanging/greenseeing IMO, with the implication in light of Ned's words of having to wrestle with the ethical considerations surrounding the exercise of that power):

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"He does," his father admitted. "As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

"One day, Bran, you will be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."

That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. "Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!" Then he was gone again.

(AGOT - Bran I)

Symbolically, I think this indicates that Bran's momentous decision and the manner in which he will swing, or perhaps refrain from swinging, the sword, has the potential of bringing back the summer and/or keeping the Long Night at bay -- just as he saw summerwine splashed in the snow, followed by the joy of finding Summer, after the sword had been swung.  I think Bran is both the Last Greenseer and the Last Hero (I won't elaborate on the rest of my predictions again here, because I know it upsets you...).

 

This poetic 'flaying' or inspiration of satire is also related to a concept 'flyting', to which I've been introduced in the course of my ongoing discussions with @Unchained surrounding the mocking and countermocking that goes on in the Prologue and beyond.  Think of it as a duel with words, of which the modern equivalent would be the 'rap battle'!

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Flyting is a ritual, poetic exchange of insults practised mainly between the 5th and 16th centuries. The root is the Old English word flītan meaning quarrel (from Old Norse word flyta meaning provocation). Examples of flyting are found throughout Norse, Celtic, Anglo-Saxonand Medieval literature involving both historical and mythological figures. The exchanges would become extremely provocative, often involving accusations of cowardice or sexual perversion.

Norse literature contains stories of the gods flyting. For example, in Lokasenna the god Loki insults the other gods in the hall of Ægir and the poem Hárbarðsljóð in which Hárbarðr (generally considered to be Odin in disguise) engages in flyting with Thor.

From: wikipedia

 

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Imagine a world that had swapped its guns for puns and its IEDs for repartees. Such a planet is possible if only those in power would manage their conflicts with flyting, the time-honored sport of verbal jousting.

Flyting is a stylized battle of insults and wits that was practiced most actively between the fifth and 16th centuries in England and Scotland. Participants employed the timeless tools of provocation and perversion as well as satire, rhetoric, and early bathroom humor to publicly trounce opponents. The term “flyting” comes from Old English and Old Norse words for “quarrel” and “provocation.” ‘Tis a form of highly poetic abuse, or highly abusive poetry—a very early precursor to MTV’s Yo Mama and Eminem’s 8 Mile.

“Court flyting” sometimes served as entertainment for royals such as Scottish kings James IV and James V. The most famous surviving exchange is The Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedie, which was performed in the early 16th century by William Dunbar and Walter Kennedy for the court of James IV. A medieval rap battle between two clever men, it featured the first recorded instance of poop being used as an insult. The moment Kennedy called Dunbar a “shit without a wit,” he ushered in a whole new era of scatological humor.

James V, pictured on the left, was known to enjoy some good flyting. (Photo: Public Domain/WikiCommons)

Some choice lines from Dunbar and Kennedie, translated from the Middle Scots, include:  

 

“Gray-visaged gallows-bird, out of your wits gone wild,

Loathsome and lousy, as wet as a cress,

Since you with worship would so fain be styled,

Hail, Monsignor! Your balls droop below your dress.”

 

Those are just four lines of 128—it’s well worth checking out the rest if you want to up your insult game.

 

Of course, flyting was not humanity’s first foray into competitive insults. The popular 1938 book Homo Ludens, written by Dutch historian and theorist Johan Huizinga, makes the basic argument that the dawn of civilization was the moment when people started insulting each other rather than (or in addition to) physically attacking each other. There appear to be forms of verbal jousting in pretty much all cultures; for example, one finds similar rituals in Japanese Haikai, naqa’id in Arabic poetry, the Mande practice of Sanankuya and the Nigerian game Ikocha Nkocha. 

This is the frill-necked lizard’s version of flyting. (Photo: Matt from Melbourne, Australia/WikiCommons CC BY 2.0)

Forms of ritualized combat exist not only across cultures but also across species and spiritual universes. Gods in Norse literature have been known to flyte, and the concept behind flyting exists in the animal kingdom with agonistic behavior, when creatures establish dominance over each other without actually fighting. 

Flyting lacks much written history, but flute-like exchanges of insults exist in early classics such as the epic Old English poem Beowulf and Shakespeare’s King Lear, in which Kent describes Oswald as, among other things:

 

“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a

base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,

hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a

lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,

glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue”

 

The obvious modern-day equivalent of flyting is the rap battle, but it’s unclear whether the two forms of verbal combat have common ancestry. One academic, the late Ferenc Szasz, was convinced of a clear link between flyting and rap battles, applying his theory that American slaves adopted the tradition from Scottish slave owners.

The overlap of European and African culture in the South, and the question of how much European influence went into the rap battle, is a contentious issue, says Wald, author of The Dozens: A History of Rap’s Mama. “The fact is, there are much stronger survivals of deep African traditions than most people realize,” he says. “But, there also has been an amazing ability of African American culture to adapt and reuse stuff they’ve picked up from European culture.”

 From: http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/flyting-was-medieval-england-s-version-of-an-insult-trading-rap-battle

Flyting includes the famous example of the trickster Loki provoking the gods in his quarrel with them, the escalation of the verbal conflict ultimately culminating in Ragnarok, from which we can say that the end of the world began as a rap battle!

In our story, perhaps Littlefinger is the most Lokiesque of the characters with his fondness for engaging in verbal duels, trafficking in defamatory information, and generally stirring the pot of chaos:

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A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

"Gentle, pious, good-hearted Willas Tyrell. Be grateful you were spared, he would have bored you spitless. The old woman is not boring, though, I'll grant her that. A fearsome old harridan, and not near as frail as she pretends. When I came to Highgarden to dicker for Margaery's hand, she let her lord son bluster while she asked pointed questions about Joffrey's nature. I praised him to the skies, to be sure . . . whilst my men spread disturbing tales amongst Lord Tyrell's servants. That is how the game is played.

"I also planted the notion of Ser Loras taking the white. Not that I suggested it, that would have been too crude. But men in my party supplied grisly tales about how the mob had killed Ser Preston Greenfield and raped the Lady Lollys, and slipped a few silvers to Lord Tyrell's army of singers to sing of Ryam Redwyne, Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. A harp can be as dangerous as a sword, in the right hands.

Given his self-confessed modus operandi of employing singers to do the 'flyting' on his account, I wouldn't be surprised if he had hired Marillion to insult all of Lysa's suitors, ensuring that she would be put off by them, continuing to worship him above all others:

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Her uncle's voice was troubled. "Lord Robert," he sighed. "Six years old, sickly, and prone to weep if you take his dolls away. Jon Arryn's trueborn heir, by all the gods, yet there are some who say he is too weak to sit his father's seat. Nestor Royce has been high steward these past fourteen years, while Lord Jon served in King's Landing, and many whisper that he should rule until the boy comes of age. Others believe that Lysa must marry again, and soon. Already the suitors gather like crows on a battlefield. The Eyrie is full of them."

(AGOT - Catelyn VI)

The battlefield is set.  Enter Littlefinger's flyting champion, Marillion, to wage the battle of words and win over public opinion in accordance with Littlefinger's agenda.  Just as he undresses Sansa with his eyes and attempts to sweet-talk her, likewise he shames the suitors with his songs.  This raises an interesting observation regarding the art of poetic invocation -- the flipside of the colorful insult is the praise poem:

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The singer's eyes undressed her as he spoke, but she was used to that.

Marillion was comely, there was no denying it; boyish and slender, with smooth skin, sandy hair, a charming smile. But he had made himself well hated in the Vale, by everyone but her aunt and little Lord Robert. To hear the servants talk, Sansa was not the first maid to suffer his advances, and the others had not had Lothor Brune to defend them. But Lady Lysa would hear no complaints against him. Since coming to the Eyrie, the singer had become her favorite. He sang Lord Robert to sleep every night, and tweaked the noses of Lady Lysa's suitors with verses that made mock of their foibles. Her aunt had showered him with gold and gifts; costly clothes, a gold arm ring, a belt studded with moonstones, a fine horse. She had even given him her late husband's favorite falcon. It all served to make Marillion unfailingly courteous in Lady Lysa's presence, and unfailingly arrogant outside it.

(ASOS - Sansa VII)

 

 

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And the poem spoken/sung by Lisa Gerard (because I believe not many people can speak/pronounce Old Irish and it is nice to hear how the poem actually sounds: 

(And it also gives a different translation of the poem )

I love that song!

 

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In other poem Amairgen shows more of his powers after his arrival in Ireland. He claims he has "the ability to draw on the strengths of different animals, he also declares the ability to summon them at his command. He calls the fish of the sea, "invoking the fertility of the sea to draw them into the coastal inlets and so increase Ireland's natural bounty." 

And his poem reminded me of the mythology in Westeros surrounding Those Who Sing The Song Of The Earth: 

Poem in Old Irish                                     Translation by MAC COITIR in English (p. 9)                  

Iascach muir                                             Fish full sea

mothach tír                                               Fertile land

tomaidm n-éisc                                        Upwelling fish

iascach and fo thuind .                            Fish under waves

rethaib én                                                Flocking like birds

                                                                Fair outpouring

                                                                Hundreds of salmon

lethan míl                                                Widespread whales

portach lug                                             Seaport song:

tomaidm n-éisc                                      Upwelling fish

iascach muir.                                           Fish full sea

On the site where I got the text of the poems in Old Irish, they also say something about a third poem: 

"Understandably the Three Kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann are not very pleased to see the invading force arrive at the centre of the country and respectfully ask the Milesians to return to their ships and grant them three days to consider their own position. The answer is left to the Poet-Seer Amhairghin and his pronouncement – referred to as the first judgement ever issued on the island of Ireland – affirms that it is only fair to grant the existing rulers of the land their request and that the Milesians should return to their ships and go out over nine waves beyond the shores for the allotted time.

However while the Milesians return to their ships, the Tuatha Dé Danann have other plans.  They set their Druids the task of issuing forth incantations that conjure up a magical storm to prevent the Milesians from making shore again. But Amhairghin’spowers are a match for those of the Druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann and he issues forth his own powerful incantation, his Third Poem of Invocation that quells the storm;" 

 

Given that in our story Euron declares himself in a similar kind of poetic invocation to be 'the storm, the first storm and the last,' could we expect someone such as our Bran to provide the antidote 'that quells the storm' in this war of the winds?  The standoff between Amergin of the Milesians vs. the Druids of the Tuath de Danann is basically a greenseer war.

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Áiliu iath n-hÉrend  (I invoke the Land of Ireland)

hérmach muir mothach,  (Surging ocean swelling)

mothach sliab srathach,  (Swelling upland meadows)

srathach caill cithach,  (Meadow filled rain-woods)

cithach aub essach,  (Rain-filled rivers cascading)

essach loch lindmar,  (Cascading lakes spreading)

lindmar tor tiara,  (Spreading spring of multitudes)

tipra tuath oenach,  (A spring of peoples, an assembly)

oenach ríg Temrach,  (Assembly of the King of Tara)

Temair tor tuathach,  (Tara tower of tribes)

tuatha mac Míled,  (Tribes of the sons of Míl)

mílid long, libarn,  (Warriors of vessels)

libarn ard hÉriu,  (This vast vessel Ireland)

Éber Dond díglas,  (Éber Donn flourishing)

díchetal rogaeth,  (Wise incantation)

rogaeth ban Bresi,  (of the wise wives of Brese)

brese ban Buagne,  (Outcry of the wives of Buaigne)

bé n-adbul hÉriu,  (Ireland in her vastness:)

Hérimón ortus,  (Éremon smote her)

Ír, Éber, álsius,  (Ír, Éber entreated her,)

Áiliu iath n-hÉrend  (I invoke the Land of Ireland)

And so it is that the Milesians land and conquer the Tuatha Dé Danann who, in their defeat, shroud themselves in a veil of invisibility and retreat into the spiritual dimension of the land; “to the hills and the forests and the waterways of Ireland, taking all of their own magic with them”. And thus the final great mythical invasion recorded in Lebar Gabála Érenn comes to a close with Amhairghin’s Invocation ushering in a new era across the land.

 

Although I was familiar with the Song of Amergin, thank you for introducing me additionally to the latter two poems of which I was unaware.  In the hypnotic rise and fall of the rhythms of the incantation with which the poet seeks to move the waters with his words, you can almost feel the water surging, as if the poet had harnessed the power of the moon that drives the tides, the force of gravity itself!  It's similar to how I imagine Garin 'called' on the waters of Mother Rhoyne to flood the Valyrians, or how the famous 'hammer of the waters' went down.  Remember that the power of the weirwood includes water magic, as hinted in the name GRRM has chosen for them, a 'weir' being a mechanism to regulate water levels.  I also suspect that 'ice magic' is just another form of 'water magic' (ice is constituted by water molecules arranged in a different form); likewise, the language spoken by the Others (the speech which sounds like 'ice cracking on a winter's lake') is just another dialect of the song of the earth, otherwise known as the language of leviathan in the Iron Islands.

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SOURCES: Ireland's Animals: Myths, Legends and Folklore by Mac Coitir; Anu Projects, Áiliu Iath n-hÉrend (I Invoke the Land of Ireland) 2016, http://www.anupictures.com/project/invoking/

--

(In the book I am now at the chapter on donkeys, but at the end of the book there is a whole chapter on Irish animals and Transformation  - all the information above came only from the introduction of the book. )

Looking forward to hearing more following your further researches!  

 

On 7/27/2017 at 5:40 PM, Wizz-The-Smith said:

Hi Tijgy, awesome post. 

Your new book sounds interesting, a lot of the Celtic stories I’ve been reading have the various subjects turn into birds or swans among other things.  The Children of Lir is a good example of transformation into swans, and then they experience a time lapse of three hundred years.  A lot of the old Irish tales have mortals visit/connect with the otherworld and the past, present and future gets mixed up, sometimes people could spend thirty years in the otherworld only to return at the exact time they left, others would be there for mere days but when they return hundreds of years have passed.  The old [Fae] gods in their caves/hollow hills/otherworld capable of visiting the past, present and future, hmm.  I would also be interested whether or not the author mentions what these pagan rituals involve, I’ve been looking into that myself recently, for asoiaf purposes of course.   

You're looking into escaping into alternate dimensions now....interesting...Are you so afear'd of my 'growing powers' and 'killing words' that you no longer feel secure that your regular hideout at Greywater Watch is sufficiently impervious to prying eyes, so that not even raven(ou)s can find it...?! 

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 Haha, very good point.  She's on to you @ravenous reader   

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All very cool stuff Tijgy.  I like your mention of the different animals, wind and water etc. Some of the gods would also appear in mists accompanied by some sort of song or beautiful music, again thoughts of Bloodraven and asoiaf come to mind.  And regarding the wind, the early people of Ireland would at that time often cite a presence in the wind when there was 'a rustling of the leaves', again very like Bran and the greenseers. 

Awesome catch!!  Although I suppose I would say that, as I too posted this a while back.    Seriously though, some of the Celtic mythology you're obviously reading at the moment has many similarities to asoiaf, it's great fun reading and as you've found can also be rewarding.  I know you'll pick up on loads more of these similarities having spent time posting with you in the Bran threads. 

Hey thanks, that's a beautiful version of the song. 

Nice! 

Regarding the songs/final song/Song of Amergin, as you've noted it was vital to the Milesians as they defeated the magical Tuatha de dannan in battle, enabling them to withstand the Tuatha magic, who themselves controlled the elements and sent forth the storm. With victory assured for the Milesians, both sides then made a pact saying that they would split the island between them.  The Milesians claimed the land above ground and the Tuatha de dannan were given the domain below ground. [That sounds familiar]  This is the time in Irish history that the Tuatha de dannan retreat into the ‘otherworld’ to live in the hollow hills and caves where they would look over and protect their former land [protecting the realm?] The Tuatha are also called the 'Sidhe' and from their hollow hills/caves/otherworld they visit the land occasionally but mainly by inhabiting the wind, mist etc.  Which sounds even more like Bran and Bloodraven.  I have touched on some of this in my hollow hills thread, it would suit in the Bran thread too.   

Back to your quote, it’s said the magic of the Druids [or in this case Amergin] is at its most powerful when in the form of a song, a song that invokes the forest, the sea, the sky etc. The words of wisdom, the words of power, the cutting word, the cold word, which of course RR has written about in her excellent Killing Word thread. 

 

Hear hear!  The song of invocation or summoning prayer is indeed the crux of those excellent and underrated musings!  

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Anyway, cool post as usual Tijgy, and thanks for the poems.    I hope you enjoy your read into Celtic mythology and all the cool animal transformation/control of the elements/magic and song etc.  And you never know, invoking such poetry may just unleash 'your' hidden powers as the Princess of the Green, you could team up with the poetess.   

Why do you think I gave @Tijgy the name 'Princess of the Green' many moons ago..?  Though she be modest about her talents, I have been aware of the considerable power of her lyrical intentions and green stirrings for some time now!  

 

Finally, dear friends, to close I leave you with one of the finest examples I know of the kind of invocation poetry we've been exploring here, which very much captures the spirit of Amergin.  Please be sure to check the video I've linked at the end, in which the poet herself  -- someone who can truly be called a modern seer -- gives a live performance of her own poem; because the force of such poetry, though already residing in the written word, only really comes alive when spoken forth, attaining its full power when voiced aloud, and seen and heard; and because she reminds us in her very being, speaking to us from beyond the grave, that it is possible to slay with words, transforming and elevating both ourselves and others, all without making mock.  So, to hell with lesser forms of 'flyting' and 'fighting,' let's rise...

 

 

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

 

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

 

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

 

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

 

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

 

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

 

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

 

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

 

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

 

 MAYA ANGELOU

 

 

 

 

[Unchained]

Hey @ravenous reader,

 

I really like to see mentions of a flyting.  They are definitely something George is using as a representative as a greenseer fight with windy words.  We have talked about Lokasenna as one he uses at Viserys's death.  Another I think that is used is Harbardslfod.  In Lokasenna Thor wins by threatening Loki with a lightening  hammer blow.  In this other one Thor (the big brother played by Drogo when Viserys dies) instead loses a war of words against a guy named Greybeard who most people think is Odin in disguise but may be Loki.  Greybeard even uses some of the same insults against Thor's wife as Loki does at Lokasenna.  Greybeard denies the crossing of a river to Thor.  Loki takes the form of a salmon after Lokasenna to escape the gods wrath, but gets caught anyway.  Edmure is a trout (cousin of the salmon) and denied Tywin from crossing a river.  That may be a revenge of the Loki brother event.  

[ravenous reader]

@40 Thousand Skeletons I agree that Bran will skinchange a dragon, and that this will be an ice dragon, given the limitation as demonstrated by the fact that Varamyr was unable to tolerate skinchanging the burning eagle (previously Orell's), without being painfully evicted from the host body and almost losing his mind -- a metaphor for someone lacking fire immunity (unlike Dany) attempting to skinchange a fire dragon (skinchanging 'fire made flesh' is like being burned alive). 

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Meera woke him up with a light touch on his arm. "Look," she said, pointing at the sky with her frog spear, "an eagle."

Bran lifted his head and saw it, its grey wings spread and still as it floated on the wind. He followed it with his eyes as it circled higher, wondering what it would be like to soar about the world so effortless. Better than climbing, even. He tried to reach the eagle, to leave his stupid crippled body and rise into the sky to join it, the way he joined with Summer. The greenseers could do it. I should be able to do it too. He tried and tried, until the eagle vanished in the golden haze of the afternoon. "It's gone," he said, disappointed.

"We'll see others," said Meera. "They live up here."

"I suppose."

"Hodor," said Hodor.

"Hodor," Bran agreed.

 

ASOS - Bran II

 

 

This one's for you, sweet peter :

'You will never walk again, but you will fly...'

 

 

The Eagle

1

It was one of those clear,sharp.mustless days
        That summer and man delight in.
Never had Heaven seemed quite so high,
Never had earth seemed quite so green,
Never had the world seemed quite so clean
Or sky so nigh.
        And I heard the Deity’s voice in

  The sun’s warm rays,
        And the white cloud’s intricate maze,
And the blue sky’s beautiful sheen.

         2

I looked to the heavens and saw him there,—
        A black speck downward drifting,
Nearer and nearer he steadily sailed,
Nearer and nearer he slid through space,
In an unending aerial race,
       This sailor who hailed
       From the Clime of the Clouds.—Ever shifting,

  On billows of air
        And the blue sky seemed never so fair,
And the rest of the world kept pace.

         3

On the white of his head the sun flashed bright;
        And he battled the wind with wide pinions,
Clearer and clearer the gale whistled loud,
Clearer and clearer he came into view,—
Bigger and blacker against the blue.
        Then a dragon of cloud
        Gathering all its minions
            Rushed to the fight,
        And swallowed him up in a bite;
And the sky lay empty clear through.

         4

Long I watched.   And at last afar
        Caught sight of a speck in the vastness;
Ever smaller,ever decreasing,
Ever drifting,drifting awayInto the endless realms of day;
        Finally ceasing.
        So into Heaven’s vast fastness
           Vanished that bar
Of black,as a fluttering star
Goes out while still on its way.

         5

So I lost him.   But I shall always see
            In my mind
The warm,yellow sun,and the ether free;
The vista’s sky,and the white cloud trailing,
        Trailing behind,—
And below the young earth’s summer-green arbors,
And on high the eagle,—sailing,sailing
        Into far skies and unknown harbors

ee cummings

 

 

[40 Thousand Skeletons]

@ravenous reader I like it  

I would love for there to be an ice dragon. That would just be the perfect thing to aid the army of the dead. You freeze people to death and then their bodies would be totally intact post-resurrection.

[Tijgy]

On 27-7-2017 at 11:40 PM, Wizz-The-Smith said:

Hi Tijgy, awesome post. 

Thanks

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Your new book sounds interesting, a lot of the Celtic stories I’ve been reading have the various subjects turn into birds or swans among other things.  The Children of Lir is a good example of transformation into swans, and then they experience a time lapse of three hundred years.  A lot of the old Irish tales have mortals visit/connect with the otherworld and the past, present and future gets mixed up, sometimes people could spend thirty years in the otherworld only to return at the exact time they left, others would be there for mere days but when they return hundreds of years have passed.  The old [Fae] gods in their caves/hollow hills/otherworld capable of visiting the past, present and future, hmm.  I would also be interested whether or not the author mentions what these pagan rituals involve, I’ve been looking into that myself recently, for asoiaf purposes of course.   

How GRRM describes the passing of time, makes it a little like time is passing be without Bran and co realizing how much. There are actually at this moment in the otherworld.

On 27-7-2017 at 11:40 PM, Wizz-The-Smith said:

Awesome catch!!  Although I suppose I would say that, as I too posted this a while back. 

You did? I admit I didn't read every post in this thread 

On 27-7-2017 at 11:40 PM, Wizz-The-Smith said:

Hey thanks, that's a beautiful version of the song. 

On 26-7-2017 at 11:47 PM, Tijgy said:

It is the same singer as the one from the Gladiator 

On 27-7-2017 at 11:40 PM, Wizz-The-Smith said:

Regarding the songs/final song/Song of Amergin, as you've noted it was vital to the Milesians as they defeated the magical Tuatha de dannan in battle, enabling them to withstand the Tuatha magic, who themselves controlled the elements and sent forth the storm. With victory assured for the Milesians, both sides then made a pact saying that they would split the island between them.  The Milesians claimed the land above ground and the Tuatha de dannan were given the domain below ground. [That sounds familiar]  This is the time in Irish history that the Tuatha de dannan retreat into the ‘otherworld’ to live in the hollow hills and caves where they would look over and protect their former land [protecting the realm?] The Tuatha are also called the 'Sidhe' and from their hollow hills/caves/otherworld they visit the land occasionally but mainly by inhabiting the wind, mist etc. 

WOW. I already thought my part of the information I found was so similar to the story of the First Men and the CotF. But this make the similarities even bigger!

On 27-7-2017 at 11:40 PM, Wizz-The-Smith said:

nd you never know, invoking such poetry may just unleash 'your' hidden powers as the Princess of the Green, you could team up with the poetess.   

Haha. I do admit, though I might not be a poet or an artistic writer, my daily job does exist of exercising the power of the word (legal profession). My legal texts are just more boring to read than poems or stories.

On 30-7-2017 at 6:32 AM, ravenous reader said:

I'm glad to see you finally came to your senses after visiting Ireland and standing on the hill of 'Brandon'!  

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LOL.

The hill was rather inspiring, especially because it was very misty and windy. We were standing on the hill but we couldn't see anything except for the raven who was flying near us. 

On 30-7-2017 at 6:32 AM, ravenous reader said:

'Flaying' also evokes the power of skinchanging.  Do you think we might see a skinchanger/greenseer such as Bran bringing justice with his power?  So far, his practice of skinchanging Hodor has rather suggested the opposite.  However, Ned's words to Bran at the execution, following which the direwolves were delivered to the family, seem prescient, strongly suggestive of foreshadowing that 'one day justice will fall to Bran' in his capacity 'swinging the sword' ('swinging the sword [without a hilt]' is a metaphor for wielding the  power of skinchanging/greenseeing IMO, with the implication in light of Ned's words of having to wrestle with the ethical considerations surrounding the exercise of that power):

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Yes. I think he will or he even already did.

If you do believe he is actually already interfering in Winterfell and in the North during aDwD - you might say one of purposes of the Bran's Powers Reread Thread is to prove this - he is a 'god' 'composing' (his wind whispers to Theon) "to flay the corrupt the kingdoms". He tries to free the North from the Boltons. 

@evita mgfs even wrote an thread on the subject in the Reread - How Bran May Display his Growing Powers in “A Ghost in Winterfell (x); "

"What follows are speculations proposing that Bran involves himself in the mysterious deaths of several members of the northern contingency.  A few of the fallen are blamed for their own demise by the lords that they serve.  Others who die are beloved by their lords yet not as much by the readers, many of whom are cognizant of their vile deeds deserving of punishment."

She says even at one moment the magic working at Winterfell is turning people's own words against themselves 

Personally I think this is actually an example how Bran's two identities, the Stark of Winterfell and the greenseer, aren't actually conflicted. They are the same, they are intertwined. Bran is being a greenseer and the Stark of Winterfell. 

On 30-7-2017 at 6:32 AM, ravenous reader said:

Given that in our story Euron declares himself in a similar kind of poetic invocation to be 'the storm, the beginning and the last storm,' could we expect someone such as our Bran to provide the antidote 'that quells the storm' in this war of the winds?  The standoff between Amergin of the Milesians vs. the Druids of the Tuath de Danann is basically a greenseer war.

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Bran could indeed be the antidote. Euron failed Bloodraven's test unlike Bran. It would be interesting to see the two apprentices against each other? 

On the other hand I am really rooting for Aeron to be the one responsible for Euron's downfal. Euron is really Aeron's enemy. Until now there hasn't been a real conflict between Bran and Euron while there is been one (from the beginning) between Aeron and Euron.

 

[Unchained]

Hey @ravenous reader, I was reminded of something I read in school while working on some ASoIaF stuff yesterday I wanted to mention. 

 

Are you familiar with "Those who walk away from Omelas"?  It is about a utopian city.  It is set on the summer solstice during a celebration of the day.  It turns out that the perfect society is built on a scapegoat.  A child is kept in horrible conditions for unknown reasons, but it is needed so everyone else can live a happy life.  Certain people "walk away" when they learn.  This brings to mind the beginning of the story set in a really hot summer and the tourney of the hand occurring.  Everyone's happiness is built on Dany's suffering.  The story is similar to "The Tamir Triad" in which an evil usurping uncle is worried about a prophecy of being overthrown by a warrior queen with a better claim than his.  A pair of twins are born, one male and one female.  In order to protect the female to fulfill the prophecy, their genders are switch y a wizard and the original male, now female, is killed and given to the evil uncle.  The surviving prince who is actually a princess is raised haunted by her dead brother's ghost.  She does a bunch of good, but it is all built on the dead brother's unwilling sacrifice.  This seems to be a source for Dany and Viserys's relationship. 

 

I think in the story I am working on laying out, there is a period of peace after the little brother is killed by a hammer of the waters, he becomes the Grey King before he steals the fire of the gods.  Theon and you-know-who from Winds are Grey King figures that suffer horribly.  That is a case of someone suffering for a false peace.  The Grey King is a sacrificial greenseer impaled on a tree to give power to the king to rule.  Aerys's rule was peaceful thanks to Tywin putting up with his cruelty.   

 

Likewise when someone like Littlefinger or Tywin rules through a sacrificial bastard like Sweetrobin, Tommen, or Joffery, peace seems possible, but it is all built on the suffering of one.  The moral argument people have about the Red Wedding about whether it was ok to kill all those people to end a war is exactly the same discussion teachers use "Those who walk away from Omelas" to begin.  Robb stares at Dany with "mute appeal" during her HotU vision.  You have written about mute appeal a few times and you probly have a better understanding of what it means than anyone.  So, I thought you would be interested in these stories.  I think this is the peace that King Robert has.  It is built upon the suffering of Dany and Viserys.   

 

Also, Davos is written almost exactly like one of Those that walk away. 

 

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"If Joffrey should die . . . what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?"

"Everything," said Davos, softly.

 

 

 

I think that is an important point GRRM is trying to make with his complex morality.  If you use an unwilling scapegoat to obtain peace, it will fail eventually.  They will get help, in the story from a woman, and the house of cards collapses. 

 

 

[ravenous reader]

On 8/6/2017 at 10:57 PM, Unchained said:

Hey @ravenous reader, I was reminded of something I read in school while working on some ASoIaF stuff yesterday I wanted to mention. 

Hey Unchained, sorry for the delay in replying -- the site has been on the fritz as per usual.

This is really great stuff -- you are steadily approaching on the elusive heart of the 'gemba'!  

Can't wait to read your essay; I know it's going to be a classic 

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Are you familiar with "Those who walk away from Omelas"?  It is about a utopian city.  It is set on the summer solstice during a celebration of the day.  It turns out that the perfect society is built on a scapegoat.  A child is kept in horrible conditions for unknown reasons, but it is needed so everyone else can live a happy life.  Certain people "walk away" when they learn.  This brings to mind the beginning of the story set in a really hot summer and the tourney of the hand occurring.  Everyone's happiness is built on Dany's suffering.  The story is similar to "The Tamir Triad" in which an evil usurping uncle is worried about a prophecy of being overthrown by a warrior queen with a better claim than his.  A pair of twins are born, one male and one female.  In order to protect the female to fulfill the prophecy, their genders are switch y a wizard and the original male, now female, is killed and given to the evil uncle.  The surviving prince who is actually a princess is raised haunted by her dead brother's ghost.  She does a bunch of good, but it is all built on the dead brother's unwilling sacrifice.  This seems to be a source for Dany and Viserys's relationship. 

 

I think in the story I am working on laying out, there is a period of peace after the little brother is killed by a hammer of the waters, he becomes the Grey King before he steals the fire of the gods.  Theon and you-know-who from Winds are Grey King figures that suffer horribly.  That is a case of someone suffering for a false peace.  The Grey King is a sacrificial greenseer impaled on a tree to give power to the king to rule.  Aerys's rule was peaceful thanks to Tywin putting up with his cruelty.   

 

ETA:  Apparently, the title of the novel 'The ones who walk away from Omelas' was suggested to the author Ursula Le Guin when she read a signpost for Salem Oregon backwards in a rearview mirror!  I wonder if she chose that name deliberately in order to allude to that other Salem in Massachusetts of Salem witch trial fame, introducing the idea of the 'witch' or societal outcast who functions as a scapegoat or 'sineater' upon whom society can unload its unwanted energies, fortifying its own power in return.  Thus, being impaled on a tree or tied to a ship's prow is like being burnt at the stake -- the burning producing a wind/smoke which is simultaneously a purification as well as giving rise to a lingering miasma, to use Voice's terminology.

The other thing which is interesting to contemplate on a philosophical level is whether it's even possible to 'walk away from Omelas.'  Le Guin describes the alternative to Omelas quite cryptically, almost implying that such a place is wishful thinking, just as escaping the constraints of that society is illusory:

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Once citizens are old enough to know the truth, most, though initially shocked and disgusted, ultimately acquiesce with that one injustice which secures the happiness of the rest of the city. However, a few citizens, young and old, silently walk away from the city, and no one knows where they go. The writing ends with "The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas."  

From:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ones_Who_Walk_Away_from_Omelas

This is the lesson meted out to Sansa when she tried to weasel her way out of her dilemma at the Trident by sitting on the fence-- in effect, she tried to 'walk away from Omelas' hoping to escape accountability for what she had witnessed, hoping she could avoid taking a side in the moral dispute, only to discover that extricating oneself without consequence was impossible. Someone like Ned, in contrast, is a hero precisely because in walking away from Omelas, he does not walk away (nor sit on the fence) -- he takes a stand in Omelas at cost to himself.  He sacrifices himself instead of the child(ren).

 

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Likewise when someone like Littlefinger or Tywin rules through a sacrificial bastard like Sweetrobin, Tommen, or Joffery, peace seems possible, but it is all built on the suffering of one.  The moral argument people have about the Red Wedding about whether it was ok to kill all those people to end a war is exactly the same discussion teachers use "Those who walk away from Omelas" to begin.  Robb stares at Dany with "mute appeal" during her HotU vision.  You have written about mute appeal a few times and you probly have a better understanding of what it means than anyone.  So, I thought you would be interested in these stories.  I think this is the peace that King Robert has.  It is built upon the suffering of Dany and Viserys.   

Indeed; to Dany and Viserys, we might also add Jon -- and critically the murder of the Targaryen children sanctioned by Tywin and to which Robert then gave his blessing to Ned's disgust.  Ned is another of those who has the courage to 'walk away from Omelas' and reject Patchface's pernicious dictum of the 'old fish eating the young fish' -- although in the case of Jon while he may have saved Jon's life, by safeguarding the secret (whatever that is) in order to placate several potentially hostile parties, he had to suppress Jon's true identity, leading to the 'broken promises'.  Jon Snow is the epitome of the 'sacrificial bastard' -- 'the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name' (which is another formulation of 'mute appeal'):

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A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Tyrion Lannister had claimed that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, but Jon was done with denials. He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life—however long that might be—he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name. Wherever he might go throughout the Seven Kingdoms, he would need to live a lie, lest every man's hand be raised against him. But it made no matter, so long as he lived long enough to take his place by his brother's side and help avenge his father.

He remembered Robb as he had last seen him, standing in the yard with snow melting in his auburn hair. Jon would have to come to him in secret, disguised. He tried to imagine the look on Robb's face when he revealed himself. His brother would shake his head and smile, and he'd say … he'd say …

He could not see the smile. Hard as he tried, he could not see it. He found himself thinking of the deserter his father had beheaded the day they'd found the direwolves. "You said the words," Lord Eddard had told him. "You took a vow, before your brothers, before the old gods and the new." Desmond and Fat Tom had dragged the man to the stump. Bran's eyes had been wide as saucers, and Jon had to remind him to keep his pony in hand. He remembered the look on Father's face when Theon Greyjoy brought forth Ice, the spray of blood on the snow, the way Theon had kicked the head when it came rolling at his feet.

He wondered what Lord Eddard might have done if the deserter had been his brother Benjen instead of that ragged stranger. Would it have been any different? It must, surely, surely . . . and Robb would welcome him, for a certainty. He had to, or else . . .

It did not bear thinking about. Pain throbbed, deep in his fingers, as he clutched the reins. Jon put his heels into his horse and broke into a gallop, racing down the kingsroad, as if to outrun his doubts. Jon was not afraid of death, but he did not want to die like that, trussed and bound and beheaded like a common brigand. If he must perish, let it be with a sword in his hand, fighting his father's killers. He was no true Stark, had never been one . . . but he could die like one. Let them say that Eddard Stark had fathered four sons, not three.

 

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AGOT - Bran VII

The mention of dreams reminded him. "I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad."

"And why was that?" Luwin peered through his tube.

"It was something to do about Jon, I think." The dream had been deeply disturbing, more so than any of the other crow dreams. 

 

 

Re: 'mute appeal' -- there are three instances which stand out: the example you gave of Robb or whomever the wolf king with the ram scepter is supposed to represent staring at Dany; then, Jinglebell the lackwit (Aegon Frey) beseeching Cat with his eyes not to slice his throat; and finally, Bran watching the captive being sacrificed at the heart tree in which the captive's resistance is strangely matched by Bran watching impotently in the wings without being able to intervene: 

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"No," said Bran, "no, don't," but they could not hear him, no more than his father had. The woman grabbed the captive by the hair, hooked the sickle round his throat, and slashed. And through the mist of centuries the broken boy could only watch as the man's feet drummed against the earth … but as his life flowed out of him in a red tide, Brandon Stark could taste the blood.  (ADWD - Bran III)

To these pivotal moments, we might add the character of Ghost the mute wolf who like Bran communicates with Jon via a 'silent shout', as well as the weirwoods themselves -- the mute appeal stamped on their blood-stained, tear-tracked, silently-screaming faces signifying that a terrible crime went down to make them what they are, a crime which demands redress:  'the trees remember'.  I wouldn't say I have a good understanding of what exactly this is supposed to signify, however!  I originally mentioned the concept, prompted by @GloubieBoulga's idea that there is a secret, a taboo, lying at the very heart of Winterfell and the origin of the Starks and their magic -- something which I imagine is pushing irresistibly to make itself known, a story demanding to be told, a truth struggling to be unchained .

 

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Also, Davos is written almost exactly like one of Those that walk away. 

 

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"If Joffrey should die . . . what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?"

"Everything," said Davos, softly.

 

 

 

I think that is an important point GRRM is trying to make with his complex morality.  If you use an unwilling scapegoat to obtain peace, it will fail eventually.  They will get help, in the story from a woman, and the house of cards collapses. 

I agree that GRRM's 'complex morality' rejects utilitarianism -- it's not OK to sacrifice a few people at a wedding, shattering the social trust in the long term, even if it saves thousands in the short term (complicating the utilitarian projections, those 'few' violated tend to come back 'harder and stronger' later on, demanding recompense with interest...as an ironic case in point, Robert's persecution of 'dragonspawn' arguably contributed to spawning dragons!).  The (un)willingness you've highlighted several times is also an important concept.  Only a willing self-sacrifice can make a lasting peace.   

The man sacrificed at the heart tree came unwillingly.  He had to be bound; he struggled to flee and had to be forced down to his knees before he was butchered by the white-haired woman with the sickle.  Brandon Stark knows it's wrong -- he empathizes with the captive's experience, or he would not perceive blood in his mouth, as if he had had his own throat cut along with the captive (when the throat is cut, blood wells up in the mouth); and yet Brandon tastes the blood in his mouth as if he had simultaneously benefited from the sacrifice personally.  What's going on there?  I think that's at the root of the 'gemba' conundrum, being the last vision in the retrograde sequence and the archetypal scene of scenes, besides this one:

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... a woman heavy with child emerged naked and dripping from the black pool, knelt before the tree, and begged the old gods for a son who would avenge her...

It reminds me of this song:

 

 

 

Mordred's Lullaby

Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep
And carry you down into sleep
Child, the darkness will rise from the deep
And carry you down into sleep

Guileless son, I'll shape your belief
And you'll always know that your father's a thief
And you won't understand the cause of your grief
But you'll always follow the voices beneath

Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty
Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty only to me

Guileless son, your spirit will hate her
The flower who married my brother the traitor
And you will expose his puppeteer behavior
For you are the proof of how he betrayed her loyalty

Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty
Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty only to me

Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep
And carry you down into sleep
Child, the darkness will rise from the deep
And carry you down into sleep

Guileless son, each day you grow older
Each moment I'm watching my vengeance unfold
For the child of my body, the flesh of my soul
Will die in returning the birthright he stole

Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty
Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty only to me

Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep
And carry you down into sleep
Child, the darkness will rise from the deep
And carry you down into sleep

HEATHER DALE

 

 

[ravenous reader]

'The things I do for Love...'


I saw an interesting post on the 'watchers on the wall' forum by a poster calling him- or herself 'The Sybian':
 

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August 6, 2017 at 7:15 pm

Just a little something from last week:
“You really do love her. You poor fool. She’ll be the end of you. She’s a disease. I regret my role in spreading it. You will too.”
(Olenna to Jaime)
Jeanne Moreau died the day after this episode aired, last Monday (RIP). But she left behind “Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves” (from R.W. Fassbinder’s film “Querelle”, lyrics taken from Oscar Wilde’s poem “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”, put to music by Peer Raben). Some notable verses:
“Each man kills the thing he loves; some strangle with the hands of lust, some with the Hands of Gold”
Here’s Laibach’s cover:

 

 

A few excerpts from the poem:

 

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

 

Oscar Wilde, 1854 - 1900

 

I

 

He did not wear his scarlet coat,

For blood and wine are red,

And blood and wine were on his hands

When they found him with the dead,

The poor dead woman whom he loved,

And murdered in her bed.

 

He walked amongst the Trial Men

In a suit of shabby grey;

A cricket cap was on his head,

And his step seemed light and gay;

But I never saw a man who looked

So wistfully at the day.

 

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

With sails of silver by.

 

I walked, with other souls in pain,

Within another ring,

And was wondering if the man had done

A great or little thing,

When a voice behind me whispered low,

"That fellow’s got to swing."

 

Dear Christ! the very prison walls

Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became

Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

 

I only knew what hunted thought

Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved

And so he had to die.

 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

 

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

 

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

 

He does not die a death of shame

On a day of dark disgrace,

Nor have a noose about his neck,

Nor a cloth upon his face,

Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

Into an empty place...

 

The following passages remind me of the Night's Watch recruits being condemned to serving a life sentence (more truly, a gruelling death-in-life sentence) at the Wall, which is basically a penitentiary or penal colony of sorts:

III

In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman’s hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher’s doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother’s soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fool’s Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devil’s Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tomb...


 
V

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother’s life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity’s machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one’s heart by night.

With midnight always in one’s heart,
And twilight in one’s cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.


OSCAR WILDE, From: The Ballad of Reading Gaol (see link for full text of the poem)
 

This poem was written based on Oscar Wilde's own bitter experiences in prison having been sentenced to two years hard labor for homosexuality ('gross indecency').  Like the subject with whom he identifies in his poem -- the condemned man who killed the thing he loves, and was reciprocally killed himself on account of that love -- Wilde was a controversial figure who was found guilty by society of 'the things he did for love'!  To quote Wilde's young lover Lord Alfred Douglas ('Bosie') for whom he was imprisoned, 'the love that dare not speak its name' for fear of society's retribution might in Jaime's case refer to the incest instead of homosexuality.  And like Wilde whose insight is demonstrated in this poem, Jaime is also given to introspective meditations on the complexity of morality and justice, while presenting a facade of the louche sardonic wit ('the smiling knight' persona) to the world.

Quote

Years later that young man, Lord Alfred Douglas would remember his role in in Wilde’s imprisonment as “the cruel position of being, just because I was as God made me, the innocent cause of the ruin of my friend.”

The ballad was written during a brief post-prison period when Wilde and Douglas were sharing a house in Naples. The reunion had infuriated the friends and families of both men. It definitively ended any hope that Wilde would reunite with his wife, Constance, who had seen her family and her way of life torn apart by the trials.

By his own account, Douglas repeatedly asked Wilde what “each man kills the thing he loves” meant. The line cut both ways, and Douglas must have been trying to figure out whether Wilde regretted the damage he had done to his young love or the damage that his young love had done to him.

Wilde’s reply was “you ought to know.”

Although Constance was deeply wounded by her husband’s return to the infamous aristocrat, she loved The Ballad of Reading Gaol.

“[Oscar] says that he loved too much and that that is better than hate!” she wrote to a friend.  “This is true abstractedly, but his was an unnatural love, a madness that I think is worse than hate. I have no hatred for him, but I confess that I am afraid of him.”

A few days later she wrote to the same friend and asked “… Have you see Arthur Symons’ review of the Ballad in the last Saturday Review? I think it I excellent and the best that has appeared and I would like to know what you think of it when you have seen it.”

Franny Moyle, who wrote the biography Constance: The Tragic and Scandalous Life of Mrs. Oscar Wilde, found this a bit contradictory. “Quite why Constance continued to show pride in her husband’s work, in spite of his condemnation of her, and quite why she continued to provide for him are difficult questions,” Moyle wrote.

I doesn’t seem mysterious at all to me. “Each man kills the thing he loves.”  It was as closest thing to a confession and an apology as she was to receive after her husband reunited with Douglas. She died in April, 1898.  Wilde died two years later.

From:  lauraleeauthor.wordpress.com/2015/04/02/each-man-kills-the-thing-he-loves/
See also:  www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2009/mar/23/oscar-wilde-ballad-reading-gaol-poem

 

Wilde's wife's description of the love that dare not speak its name as 'a [fearful] madness worse than hate' finds echoes in Jaime's feelings towards his sister-lover Cersei, a love which is simultaneously associated with loathing, intimately.  In order to graphically demonstrate this juxtaposition, see how closely to one another GRRM places the words 'love' and 'loathing' in the text!

Quote

The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove.

Screaming, Bran went backward out the window into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The courtyard rushed up to meet him.

(AGOT - Bran II)

 

For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face, 
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place...


It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray...


With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From a leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die...

 

The line 'each man kills the thing he loves, but each man does not die' might imply that though others may be just as if not more guilty, life is unfair, so sometimes the innocent are punished, with others who are guilty going free.  With Bran literally and figuratively 'taking the fall' for them, essentially representing a miscarriage of justice, despite what Jaime may say about Bran 'spying' on him and Cersei and therefore having forfeited his innocence; Bran is the hanged man here unfairly condemned in the name of love.  GRRM underscores this relation by his curious description just before the fall, of Bran hanging upside down from the gargoyle, which is the traditional posture represented on the Tarot card 'The Hanged Man,' as well as the position in which St Peter, the first Pope of the 'Holy Roman See', was crucified, introducing a religious dimension to Bran's fate: 

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Bran sat astride the gargoyle, tightened his legs around it, and swung himself around, upside down. He hung by his legs and slowly stretched his head down toward the window. The world looked strange upside down. A courtyard swam dizzily below him, its stones still wet with melted snow.

(AGOT - Bran II)

The description of Bran falling from the ledge into empty air is similar to Wilde's descriptions given above of men being hanged.  Except in Bran's case, instead of Jaime being executed for his crime of love and/or the crimes he was willing to commit in aid of that love; Bran is here made the scapegoat of the twins' love, sacrificed in lieu of Jaime and/or Cersei.  A reckoning is due...

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Jaime IX

"You had best go, Cersei. You're making me angry."

"Oh, an angry cripple. How terrifying." She laughed. "A pity Lord Tywin Lannister never had a son. I could have been the heir he wanted, but I lacked the cock. And speaking of such, best tuck yours away, brother. It looks rather sad and small, hanging from your breeches like that."

When she was gone Jaime took her advice, fumbling one-handed at his laces. He felt a bone-deep ache in his phantom fingers. I've lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me House Lannister won this war.

 

And talking of 'cocks,' phantoms, mockery, and getting ones (un)just deserts...

The cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and loud they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

“Oho!” they cried, “The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame.”

No things of air these antics were
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God’s dreadful dawn was red.

 

 

[hiemal]

For Night's Queen, Nissa Nissa( or her sister-wife?), the Mother of Undeath:

"Exterminating Angel" The Creatures

Here it comes again
Taste of jagged glass and rusty can

There are just black holes
Where the stars would be watching
Just black holes
Where the stars should have been

Plumes of dirt
Caress a urine colored sun
Swarms of angels
Come to kill your sons

And there's nothing but black holes
Where the stars should have been
Nothing but black holes
Where the stars would be watching

Oh, those strange argonauts
Digging again in your pit
Cover them in menstrual stream
Cover them in black gold, plunge them into ingots

Ripping through your menstrual stream
Rising up taste of rusty can
And jagged glass feeling again

Here it comes again
Hordes of locusts blot out your sun

Raining down, rain on everyone
Poor little rich thing, poor little bleeding heart
Poor little misunderstood
Piss on it, I'm sick of it

Enough is enough
I wanna fuck it up
In spite of it

Just for the hell of it
I wanna fuck it up
Out of sync, out of phase
Out of sight, out of spite

Raining down, raining everyone
Poor little rich thing, poor little bleeding heart
Poor little misunderstood
Piss on it, I'm sick of it

Here it comes again
Taste of jagged glass and rusty can

There are just black holes
Where the stars should have been
Just black holes
Where the stars would be watching

 

Not just for the Hel-like Ragnarockin' imagery but the dark corybantic beat. The "cycle" interrupted, the grain unsprung, Kore frozen beneath the earth.

Can you dig it?

 

[ravenous reader]

On 8/19/2017 at 2:40 PM, hiemal said:

For Night's Queen, Nissa Nissa( or her sister-wife?), the Mother of Undeath:

"Exterminating Angel" The Creatures

Here it comes again
Taste of jagged glass and rusty can

There are just black holes
Where the stars would be watching
Just black holes
Where the stars should have been

Plumes of dirt
Caress a urine colored sun
Swarms of angels
Come to kill your sons

And there's nothing but black holes
Where the stars should have been
Nothing but black holes
Where the stars would be watching

Oh, those strange argonauts
Digging again in your pit
Cover them in menstrual stream
Cover them in black gold, plunge them into ingots

Ripping through your menstrual stream
Rising up taste of rusty can
And jagged glass feeling again

Here it comes again
Hordes of locusts blot out your sun

Raining down, rain on everyone
Poor little rich thing, poor little bleeding heart
Poor little misunderstood
Piss on it, I'm sick of it

Enough is enough
I wanna fuck it up
In spite of it

Just for the hell of it
I wanna fuck it up
Out of sync, out of phase
Out of sight, out of spite

Raining down, raining everyone
Poor little rich thing, poor little bleeding heart
Poor little misunderstood
Piss on it, I'm sick of it

Here it comes again
Taste of jagged glass and rusty can

There are just black holes
Where the stars should have been
Just black holes
Where the stars would be watching

 

Not just for the Hel-like Ragnarockin' imagery but the dark corybantic beat. The "cycle" interrupted, the grain unsprung, Kore frozen beneath the earth.

Can you dig it?

 

Hi Hiemal!  I can most certainly 'dig it'...  Thank you for introducing me to all these luscious, dark ditties and to words I never knew existed like 'corybantic' (I'll even forgive you for Love's Secret Domain...)!  'Nothing but black holes where the stars would be watching,' together with the allusion to the jarring imagery of 'jagged glass' and 'rusty can,' evokes the gouged-out eyes of the weirwoods from which the vengeful Nissa Nissa tree spirit peers out through bloodstained tears (see @LmL's latest essay 'It's an Arya Thing').  Strange that the vengeance should be characterised by a lot of excretion imagery (including 'raining piss,' 'urine' and 'menstrual stream,' and 'plumes of dirt'), which not only describes a 'meteor shower' rather well, but also accords nicely with @Pain killer Jane's and my suggestion of the Others as 'backdoor' secretions or excretions of the weirwoods, as well as @Voice's concept of the 'miasma.'

Since you're into hypnotic 'ragnarocking' 'corybantic beats,' perhaps you like Abney Park?  While the following song is a bit lower key than some of their other offerings, it seems to convey what I understand by 'the trees remember', which is more than a mere repository of information, being at heart a smoldering sentience embodying the warning or promise of the wounded trees: 'We will not be thrown away / We will not be torn / We will never fall astray / We've seen your kind before.'  Fittingly, it's been associated in the accompanying video with the Lord of the Rings movie, particularly the 'Ents' (from whom GRRM surely drew inspiration for his own personified trees) who having been violated feel moved to mobilize themselves in the war effort:

 

 

 

Thorns and Brambles

 

Black rivers hard as stone, lined with corpses of our own
Through the bloodied trees, carving through our canopy

Through the forest, cutting through the forest floor
Scars of man, furrows through our lands
All the cities' toils, defeats our forest lore
Broken nails, filthy, filthy hands

Spiderwebs of steel and stone
Subdivide our given home
Remembrance of ancestral sage
Thorns and brambles of a different age

We will not be thrown away
We will not be torn
We will never fall astray
We've seen your kind before

Black rivers hard as stone, with corpses of our own
Through the bloodied trees, carving through our canopy

Through the quiet, cutting through the forest floor
Scars of man, furrows through our lands
Ghostly silent, all the trees are long since gone
Broken nails, filthy, filthy hands

Spiderwebs of steel and stone
Subdivide our given home
Remembrance of ancestral sage
Thorns and brambles of a different age

We will not be thrown away
We will not be torn
We will never fall astray
We've seen your kind before

 

ABNEY PARK

 

[ravenous reader]

NO AND YES

 

James Joyce (concluding excerpt of Molly Bloom's monologue, from his novel 'Ulysses')

 

...as for them saying theres no God I wouldnt give a snap of my two fingers for all their learning why dont they go and create something I often asked him atheists or whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves first then they go howling for the priest and they dying and why why because theyre afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas 2 glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

 

 

Sally Potter (excerpts of the cleaning lady's asides, from her film 'Yes')

 

I think of what I do as therapy

For homes.  You know I often see the pain

Imprinted on a bed.  You spot a stain

That should not be in there.  Of course you know

At once what’s going on…

 

Dirt doesn’t go, it just gets moved around…

It travels slowly – one could say it creeps –

It’s all the water underneath…it seeps…

There is no thing as spotless.  You just send

The dirt to somewhere else, push it around

When we expire perhaps we change, at most,

But never vanish.

No – we leave a stain.

A fingerprint.  Some mess.  Perhaps some pain.

 

When you look closer, nothing goes away.

It changes, see, like night becomes the day

And day the night; but even that is not true:

It’s really about your point of view,

Depending on where you’re standing on the earth…

And, in the end, it simply isn’t worth

Your while to try and clean your life away.

You can’t.  For everything you do or say

Is there, forever.  It leaves evidence.

In fact it’s really only common sense;

There’s no such thing as nothing, not at all.

It may be really very, very small

But it’s still there.  In fact I think I’d guess

That ‘no’ does not exist.  There’s only ‘yes.’

 

 

GRRM

 

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AGOT - Daenerys II

They rode out together as the stars came out, leaving the khalasar and the grass palaces behind. Khal Drogo spoke no word to her, but drove his stallion at a hard trot through the gathering dusk. The tiny silver bells in his long braid rang softly as he rode. "I am the blood of the dragon," she whispered aloud as she followed, trying to keep her courage up. "I am the blood of the dragon. I am the blood of the dragon." The dragon was never afraid.

Afterward she could not say how far or how long they had ridden, but it was full dark when they stopped at a grassy place beside a small stream. Drogo swung off his horse and lifted her down from hers. She felt as fragile as glass in his hands, her limbs as weak as water. She stood there helpless and trembling in her wedding silks while he secured the horses, and when he turned to look at her, she began to cry.

Khal Drogo stared at her tears, his face strangely empty of expression. "No," he said. He lifted his hand and rubbed away the tears roughly with a callused thumb.

"You speak the Common Tongue," Dany said in wonder.

"No," he said again.

Perhaps he had only that word, she thought, but it was one word more than she had known he had, and somehow it made her feel a little better. Drogo touched her hair lightly, sliding the silver-blond strands between his fingers and murmuring softly in Dothraki. Dany did not understand the words, yet there was warmth in the tone, a tenderness she had never expected from this man.

He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head, so she was looking up into his eyes. Drogo towered over her as he towered over everyone. Taking her lightly under the arms, he lifted her and seated her on a rounded rock beside the stream. Then he sat on the ground facing her, legs crossed beneath him, their faces finally at a height. "No," he said.

"Is that the only word you know?" she asked him.

Drogo did not reply. His long heavy braid was coiled in the dirt beside him. He pulled it over his right shoulder and began to remove the bells from his hair, one by one. After a moment Dany leaned forward to help. When they were done, Drogo gestured. She understood. Slowly, carefully, she began to undo his braid.

It took a long time. All the while he sat there silently, watching her. When she was done, he shook his head, and his hair spread out behind him like a river of darkness, oiled and gleaming. She had never seen hair so long, so black, so thick.

Then it was his turn. He began to undress her.

His fingers were deft and strangely tender. He removed her silks one by one, carefully, while Dany sat unmoving, silent, looking at his eyes. When he bared her small breasts, she could not help herself. She averted her eyes and covered herself with her hands. "No," Drogo said. He pulled her hands away from her breasts, gently but firmly, then lifted her face again to make her look at him. "No," he repeated.

"No," she echoed back at him.

He stood her up then and pulled her close to remove the last of her silks. The night air was chilly on her bare skin. She shivered, and gooseflesh covered her arms and legs. She was afraid of what would come next, but for a while nothing happened. Khal Drogo sat with his legs crossed, looking at her, drinking in her body with his eyes.

After a while he began to touch her. Lightly at first, then harder. She could sense the fierce strength in his hands, but he never hurt her. He held her hand in his own and brushed her fingers, one by one. He ran a hand gently down her leg. He stroked her face, tracing the curve of her ears, running a finger gently around her mouth. He put both hands in her hair and combed it with his fingers. He turned her around, massaged her shoulders, slid a knuckle down the path of her spine.

It seemed as if hours passed before his hands finally went to her breasts. He stroked the soft skin underneath until it tingled. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, pinched them between thumb and forefinger, then began to pull at her, very lightly at first, then more insistently, until her nipples stiffened and began to ache.

He stopped then, and drew her down onto his lap. Dany was flushed and breathless, her heart fluttering in her chest. He cupped her face in his huge hands and looked into his eyes. "No?" he said, and she knew it was a question.

She took his hand and moved it down to the wetness between her thighs. "Yes," she whispered as she put his finger inside her.

 

 

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AFFC - Samwell IV

 

"I like you too, Sam," whispered Gilly. "And I like this drink. It tastes like fire."

Yes, Sam thought, a drink for dragons. Their cups were empty, so he went over to the cask and filled them once again. The sun was low in the west, he saw, swollen to thrice its proper size. Its ruddy light made Gilly's face seem flushed and red. They drank a cup to Kojja Mo, and one to Dalla's boy, and one to Gilly's babe back on the Wall. And after that nothing would do but to drink two cups for Aemon of House Targaryen. "May the Father judge him justly," Sam said, sniffing. The sun was almost gone by the time they were done with Maester Aemon. Only a long thin line of red still glowed upon the western horizon, like a slash across the sky. Gilly said that the drink was making the ship spin round, so Sam helped her down the ladder to the women's quarters in the bow of the ship.

There was a lantern hanging just inside the cabin, and he managed to bang his head on it going in. "Ow," he said, and Gilly said, "Are you hurt? Let me see." She leaned close . . .

. . . and kissed his mouth.

Sam found himself kissing her back. I said the words, he thought, but her hands were tugging at his blacks, pulling at the laces of his breeches. He broke off the kiss long enough to say, "We can't," but Gilly said, "We can," and covered his mouth with her own again. The Cinnamon Wind was spinning all around them and he could taste the rum on Gilly's tongue and the next thing her breasts were bare and he was touching them. I said the words, Sam thought again, but one of her nipples found its way between his lips. It was pink and hard and when he sucked on it her milk filled his mouth, mingling with the taste of rum, and he had never tasted anything so fine and sweet and good. If I do this I am no better than Dareon, Sam thought, but it felt too good to stop. And suddenly his cock was out, jutting upward from his breeches like a fat pink mast. It looked so silly standing there that he might have laughed, but Gilly pushed him back onto her pallet, hiked her skirts up around her thighs, and lowered herself onto him with a little whimpery sound. That was even better than her nipples. She's so wet, he thought, gasping. I never knew a woman could get so wet down there. "I am your wife now," she whispered, sliding up and down on him. And Sam groaned and thought, No, no, you can't be, I said the words, I said the words, but the only word he said was, "Yes."

 

 

[Voice]

On 8/20/2017 at 1:42 PM, ravenous reader said:

my suggestion of the Others as 'backdoor' secretions or excretions of the weirwoods, as well as @Voice's concept of the 'miasma.'

Very much so. Backdoor secretions sounds about right in my book. But unlike other emissions, the Others are a contagious power that have an independent life of their own. These are the makings of a miasma as the ancient Greeks understood them. What's more, we even have a sacred-grove violation event to fit that tragic device.

[hiemal]

On 8/20/2017 at 4:42 PM, ravenous reader said:

@LmL@Pain killer Jane@Voice

Since you're into hypnotic 'ragnarocking' 'corybantic beats,' perhaps you like Abney Park?  While the following song is a bit lower key than some of their other offerings, it seems to convey what I understand by 'the trees remember', which is more than a mere repository of information, being at heart a smoldering sentience embodying the warning or promise of the wounded trees: 'We will not be thrown away / We will not be torn / We will never fall astray / We've seen your kind before.'  Fittingly, it's been associated in the accompanying video with the Lord of the Rings movie, particularly the 'Ents' (from whom GRRM surely drew inspiration for his own personified trees) who having been violated feel moved to mobilize themselves in the war effort:

 

 

 

Thorns and Brambles

 

Black rivers hard as stone, lined with corpses of our own
Through the bloodied trees, carving through our canopy

Through the forest, cutting through the forest floor
Scars of man, furrows through our lands
All the cities' toils, defeats our forest lore
Broken nails, filthy, filthy hands

Spiderwebs of steel and stone
Subdivide our given home
Remembrance of ancestral sage
Thorns and brambles of a different age

We will not be thrown away
We will not be torn
We will never fall astray
We've seen your kind before

Black rivers hard as stone, with corpses of our own
Through the bloodied trees, carving through our canopy

Through the quiet, cutting through the forest floor
Scars of man, furrows through our lands
Ghostly silent, all the trees are long since gone
Broken nails, filthy, filthy hands

Spiderwebs of steel and stone
Subdivide our given home
Remembrance of ancestral sage
Thorns and brambles of a different age

We will not be thrown away
We will not be torn
We will never fall astray
We've seen your kind before

 

ABNEY PARK

 

I'm listening now. I DO like.

It reminds me of the improbable lovechild of the Pogues and Lycia.

[Bluetiger]

12 minutes ago, hiemal said:

I'm listening now. I DO like.

It reminds me of the improbable lovechild of the Pogues and Lycia.

Spoiler

 

And here's 'The Ent's Marching Song' from LOTR, by J.R.R. Tolkien:

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At nightfall he brought them to his ent-house: nothing more than a mossy stone set upon turves under a green bank. Rowan-trees grew in a circle about it, and there was water (as in all ent-houses), a spring bubbling out from the bank. They talked for a while as darkness fell on the forest. Not far away the voices of the Entmoot could be heard still going on; but now they seemed deeper and less leisurely, and every now and again one great voice would rise in a high and quickening music, while all the others died away. But beside them Bregalad spoke gently in their own tongue, almost whispering; and they learned that he belonged to Skinbark's people, and the country where they had lived had been ravaged. That seemed to the hobbits quite enough to explain his 'hastiness', at least in the matter of Orcs.

'There were rowan-trees in my home,' said Bregalad, softly and sadly, 'rowan-trees that took root when I was an Enting, many many years ago in the quiet of the world. The oldest were planted by the Ents to try and please the Entwives; but they looked at them and smiled and said that they knew where whiter blossom and richer fruit were growing. Yet there are no trees of all that race, the people of the Rose, that are so beautiful to me. And these trees grew and grew, till the shadow of each was like a green hall, and their red berries in the autumn were a burden, and a beauty and a wonder. Birds used to flock there. I like birds, even when they chatter; and the rowan has enough and to spare. But the birds became unfriendly and greedy and tore at the trees, and threw the fruit down and did not eat it. Then Orcs came with axes and cut down my trees. I came and called them by their long names, but they did not quiver, they did not hear or answer: they lay dead.

O Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carnimírië!

O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!

O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day,

Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft:

Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bore aloft!

O rowan dead, upon your head your hair is dry and grey;

Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day.

O Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carnimírië!

The hobbits fell asleep to the sound of the soft singing of Bregalad, that seemed to lament in many tongues the fall of trees that he had loved.

The next day they spent also in his company, but they did not go far from his 'house'. Most of the time they sat silent under the shelter of the bank; for the wind was colder, and the clouds closer and greyer; there was little sunshine, and in the distance the voices of the Ents at the Moot still rose and fell, sometimes loud and strong, sometimes low and sad, sometimes quickening, sometimes slow and solemn as a dirge. A second night came and still the Ents held conclave under hurrying clouds and fitful stars.

The third day broke, bleak and windy. At sunrise the Ents' voices rose to a great clamour and then died down again. As the morning wore on the wind fell and the air grew heavy with expectancy. The hobbits could see that Bregalad was now listening intently, although to them, down in the dell of his ent-house, the sound of the Moot was faint.

The afternoon came, and the sun, going west towards the mountains, sent out long yellow beams between the cracks and fissures of the clouds. Suddenly they were aware that everything was very quiet; the whole forest stood in listening silence. Of course, the Ent-voices had stopped. What did that mean? Bregalad was standing up erect and tense, looking back northwards towards Derndingle.

Then with a crash came a great ringing shout: ra-hoom-rah! The trees quivered and bent as if a gust had struck them. There was another pause, and then a marching music began like solemn drums, and above the rolling beats and booms there welled voices singing high and strong.

We come, we come with roll of drum: ta-runda runda runda rom!

The Ents were coming: ever nearer and louder rose their song:

We come, we come with horn and drum: ta-rûna rûna rûna rom!

Bregalad picked up the hobbits and strode from his house.

Before long they saw the marching line approaching: the Ents were swinging along with great strides down the slope towards them. Treebeard was at their head, and some fifty followers were behind him, two abreast, keeping step with their feet and beating time with their hands upon their flanks. As they drew near the flash and flicker of their eyes could be seen.

'Hoom, hom! Here we come with a boom, here we come at last!' called Treebeard when he caught sight of Bregalad and the hobbits. 'Come, join the Moot! We are off. We are off to Isengard!'

'To Isengard!' the Ents cried in many voices.

'To Isengard!'

To Isengard! Though Isengard be ringed and barred with doors of stone;

Though Isengard be strong and hard, as cold as stone and bare as bone,

We go, we go, we go to war, to hew the stone and break the door;

For bole and bough are burning now, the furnace roars - we go to war!

To land of gloom with tramp of doom, with roll of drum, we come, we come;

To Isengard with doom we come!

With doom we come, with doom we come!

So they sang as they marched southwards.

Bregalad, his eyes shining, swung into the line beside Treebeard. The old Ent now took the hobbits back, and set them on his shoulders again, and so they rode proudly at the head of the singing company with beating hearts and heads held high. Though they had expected something to happen eventually, they were amazed at the change that had come over the Ents. It seemed now as sudden as the bursting of a flood that had long been held back by a dike.

'The Ents made up their minds rather quickly, after all, didn't they?' Pippin ventured to say after some time, when for a moment the singing paused, and only the beating of hands and feet was heard.

'Quickly?' said Treebeard. 'Hoom! Yes, indeed. Quicker than I expected. Indeed I have not seen them roused like this for many an age. We Ents do not like being roused; and we never are roused unless it is clear to us that our trees and our lives are in great danger. That has not happened in this Forest since the wars of Sauron and the Men of the Sea. It is the orc-work, the wanton hewing - rárum - without even the bad excuse of feeding the fires, that has so angered us; and the treachery of a neighbour, who should have helped us. Wizards ought to know better: they do know better. There is no curse in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of Men bad enough for such treachery. Down with Saruman!'

'Will you really break the doors of Isengard?' asked Merry.

'Ho, hm, well, we could, you know! You do not know, perhaps, how strong we are. Maybe you have heard of Trolls? They are mighty strong. But Trolls are only counterfeits, made by the Enemy in the Great Darkness, in mockery of Ents, as Orcs were of Elves. We are stronger than Trolls. We are made of the bones of the earth. We can split stone like the roots of trees, only quicker, far quicker, if our minds are roused! If we are not hewn down, or destroyed by fire or blast of sorcery, we could split Isengard into splinters and crack its walls into rubble.'

'But Saruman will try to stop you. won't he?'

'Hm, ah, yes, that is so. I have not forgotten it. Indeed I have thought long about it. But, you see, many of the Ents are younger than I am, by many lives of trees. They are all roused now, and their mind is all on one thing: breaking Isengard. But they will start thinking again before long; they will cool down a little, when we take our evening drink. What a thirst we shall have! But let them march now and sing! We have a long way to go, and there is time ahead for thought. It is something to have started.'

Treebeard marched on, singing with the others for a while. But after a time his voice died to a murmur and fell silent again. Pippin could see that his old brow was wrinkled and knotted. At last he looked up, and Pippin could see a sad look in his eyes, sad but not unhappy. There was a light in them, as if the green flame had sunk deeper into the dark wells of his thought.

'Of course, it is likely enough, my friends,' he said slowly, 'likely enough that we are going to our doom: the last march of the Ents. But if we stayed at home and did nothing, doom would find us anyway, sooner or later. That thought has long been growing in our hearts; and that is why we are marching now. It was not a hasty resolve. Now at least the last march of the Ents may be worth a song. Aye,' he sighed, 'we may help the other peoples before we pass away. Still, I should have liked to see the songs come true about the Entwives. I should dearly have liked to see Fimbrethil again. But there, my friends, songs like trees bear fruit only in their own time and their own way: and sometimes they are withered untimely.'

The Ents went striding on at a great pace. They had descended into a long fold of the land that fell away southward; now they began to climb up, and up, on to the high western ridge. The woods fell away and they came to scattered groups of birch, and then to bare slopes where only a few gaunt pine-trees grew. The sun sank behind the dark hill-back in front. Grey dusk fell.

Pippin looked behind. The number of the Ents had grown - or what was happening? Where the dim bare slopes that they had crossed should lie, he thought he saw groves of trees. But they were moving! Could it be that the trees of Fangorn were awake, and the forest was rising, marching over the hills to war? He rubbed his eyes wondering if sleep and shadow had deceived him; but the great grey shapes moved steadily onward. There was a noise like wind in many branches. The Ents were drawing near the crest of the ridge now, and all song had ceased. Night fell, and there was silence: nothing was to be heard save a faint quiver of the earth beneath the feet of the Ents, and a rustle, the shade of a whisper as of many drifting leaves. At last they stood upon the summit, and looked down into a dark pit: the great cleft at the end of the mountains: Nan Curunír, the Valley of Saruman.

'Night lies over Isengard,' said Treebeard.

 

 

[ravenous reader]

 

"Did I ever tell you I used to think the sea was called the see... 

...because it was nothing but water as far as the eye could see?

 -- I don’t think so.

Sea, see. They’re spelled different, but they sound the same!"

 

 

 

maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may 
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang 
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing 
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone 
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) 
it's always ourselves we find in the sea 

 

E. E. Cummings

 

 

 

Hello friends (and enemies...) -- I'm pleased to see , although I don't frequent these parts as much as I used to (never fear, I do 'lurk,' as ravens do...), that Gilly and I -- in our fascination with the semantic subtleties of the sea -- have become canon. 

0:33-0:56:

Spoiler

 

 

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, the following is quite a good summary:

 

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On 8/3/2017 at 3:27 AM, @Durran Durrandon said:

...The whole thing brought me back to the whole weirwood net though and your idea of these mythical being being in the weirwood net and just the notion of the spirits in the trees, like dryads.Unrelated to what you were specifically talking about at the moment, but touching on this idea, I was thinking of a children's movie my daughter has been into called the Song of the Sea. It's worth checking out actually. It's an Irish production company, not Americanized stuff, and the story revolves around a little girl whose mother is a selkie, and at the end of the movie the girl has to sing the Song of the Sea so that the fey folks can leave this world and go across the sea to Tir na Nog. This of course always makes me think of Tolkien, and then I start thinking about the Sunset Sea and the the Farwyns at Lonely Light, and the references to sea lion and seals and skinchanging surrounding them, and of course this is because it is all rooted in the same Irish and Welsh source mythology.

Anyhow, the point of that little stream of consciousness rant is that, It seems increasingly obvious that the whole Ironborn mythology metaphorically references the weirwood net. In Irish folklore, Tir na Nog, is accessed through burial mounds or by passing underwater or crossing the sea. The Ironborn seem to have more than their share of the last two in their mythology. And now we finally know what the crap Patchface is talking about when he says under the sea. It's not exactly death like so many people assume. It's the weirwood net, which is the stand in for Tir na Nog.

 

 

On 8/4/2017 at 1:11 PM, LmL said:

Yeah that's how I see that passage - the surface meaning is just "next month," with the Ironborn referring to the new moon as a drowning. But in terms of symbolism it is the moon drowning or the moon meteors drowning, and as you say, we now know from @ravenous reader's discovery that under the sea means under the see, and that means entering the wwnet. In fact, it's not just the Ironborn myth that is actually talking about the wwnet, it's all the aquatic symbolism. Which, 90% of it is Ironborn, but also the Velaryons and a few other things. Thats way Arya is "Cat of the Canals," a cat woman (cotf) that lives in the water.. the canals being the under the see motif crossed with the webbing of a spiderweb. 

 

This is a clip from the movie to which Durran Durrandon was alluding; it's rather evocative (there's even some 'silver seaweed' evolving into magical tree roots as underworld portal at 2:46) :

 

The Lyrics of the song:

 

"Song Of The Sea"
 

[Gaelic:]

Idir ann is idir as
Idir thuaidh is idir theas
Idir thiar is idir thoir
Idir am is idir áit

Casann sí dhom
Amhrán na farraige
Suaimhneach nó ciúin
Ag cuardú go damanta
Mo ghrá

Idir gaoth is idir tonn
Idir tuilleadh is idir gann
Casann sí dhom
Amhrán na Farraige
Suaimhneach nó ciúin
Ag cuardú go damanta

Idir cósta, idir cléibh
Idir mé is idir mé féin
Tá mé i dtiúin

[English:]

Between the here, between the now
Between the north, between the south
Between the west, between the east
Between the time, between the place

From the shell
The song of the sea
Neither quiet nor calm
Searching for love again
Mo ghrá (My love)

Between the winds, between the waves
Between the sands, between the shore
From the shell
The song of the sea
Neither quiet nor calm
Searching for love again

Between the stones, between the storm
Between belief, between the sea
Tá mé i dtiúin (I am in tune)

 

 

Finally, this is a very beautiful tune I happened upon (you can find a copy of the translation on you tube).  It's about a woman attempting to extricate herself -- using the power of song, or 'killing word' -- from the clutches of the 'Each-uisge' --  the Gaelic mythic equivalent of ''the deep ones' or 'squishers' capturing unwitting victims via a kind of 'bodysnatching,' one might even call it 'skinchanging,' whereby the rider of the magical 'sea-horse' becomes irretrievably stuck or fused to the back of the horse, who plunges under the sea, drowning the hapless rider in that deep (green) sea:

 

P.S.  The 'deep ones,' 'squishers,' or 'Drowned God' are all synonyms for none other than the weirwood collective (as I've discussed before, 'drowning' is a fundamental metaphor for greenseeing):

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A Dance with Dragons - Bran II

The child went in front with the torch in hand, her cloak of leaves whispering behind her, but the passage turned so much that Bran soon lost sight of her. Then the only light was what was reflected off the passage walls. After they had gone down a little, the cave divided, but the left branch was dark as pitch, so even Hodor knew to follow the moving torch to the right. [like the path taken by Dany in the House of the Undying, 'always the door to the right...']

The way the shadows shifted made it seem as if the walls were moving too. Bran saw great white snakes slithering in and out of the earth around him, and his heart thumped in fear. He wondered if they had blundered into a nest of milk snakes or giant grave worms, soft and pale and squishy. Grave worms have teeth.

Hodor saw them too. "Hodor," he whimpered, reluctant to go on. But when the girl child stopped to let them catch her, the torchlight steadied, and Bran realized that the snakes were only white roots like the one he'd hit his head on. "It's weirwood roots," he said. "Remember the heart tree in the godswood, Hodor? The white tree with the red leaves? A tree can't hurt you."

Irony.

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A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

Under the hill they still had food to eat. A hundred kinds of mushrooms grew down here. Blind white fish swam in the black river, but they tasted just as good as fish with eyes once you cooked them up. They had cheese and milk from the goats that shared the caves with the singers, even some oats and barleycorn and dried fruit laid by during the long summer. And almost every day they ate blood stew, thickened with barley and onions and chunks of meat. Jojen thought it might be squirrel meat, and Meera said that it was rat. Bran did not care. It was meat and it was good. The stewing made it tender.

The caves were timeless, vast, silent. They were home to more than three score living singers and the bones of thousands dead, and extended far below the hollow hill. "Men should not go wandering in this place," Leaf warned them. "The river you hear is swift and black, and flows down and down to a sunless sea.   And there are passages that go even deeper...

 

The sunless sea, dark-seeing, you see?

 

 

[Cridefea]

On 14/10/2017 at 3:32 AM, ravenous reader said:

Hello friends (and enemies...) -- I'm pleased to see , although I don't frequent these parts as much as I used to (never fear, I do 'lurk,' as ravens do...), that Gilly and I -- in our fascination with the semantic subtleties of the sea -- have become canon. 

hey RR is good to read you here, I missed your posts!

I love the aquatic symbolisms, and the dark-seeing parallelism. It's really interesting. Was there already a thread about this?

 

[Durran Durrandon]

I like it @Ravenous Reader. This is becoming my new answer to anyone who asks what is west of Westeros. Nothing, this page was intentionally left blank for a metaphor. 

[ravenous reader]

On 10/17/2017 at 6:55 PM, Cridefea said:

hey RR is good to read you here, I missed your posts!

I love the aquatic symbolisms, and the dark-seeing parallelism. It's really interesting. Was there already a thread about this?

 

Ciao Cara, thank you for your message! 

There is not really one thread on the aquatic symbolism -- but in my opinion the most iconic one is @hiemal's  Nennymoans and merlings more Patchface tinfoil, which won the first prize at the end of last year for the best symbolism thread.  I also have a particular fondness for that thread (so perhaps I'm biased...), because not only did it bring me into @LmL's orbit, but in it I developed some of my most original contributions on this forum -- namely, my identification of, and ongoing delight in the cardinal 'GREEN SEA' = 'GREEN SEE' pun with which GRRM is playing.  It's a very long post, so if you're interested, perhaps read the sections (purple headings) on 'The Wedding,' 'Drowning as a metaphor for greeenseeing', 'Bran's phenomenology of greenseeing,' and 'A note on the sunless sea,' in which I elaborate on GRRM's blatant reference to Coleridge's poem 'Kubla Khan' (we've already discussed some of these themes before, when you and I shared our ideas around the 'Rime of the Ancient Mariner'!)  Basically, the idea is that all of the aquatic symbolism refers to the weirnet, in which the one-eyed 'ancient mariners', as it were, having undergone a 'sea change,' are the greenseers!

 

As @sweetsunray has underscored in her classic 'Chthonic Cycle' conception, the 'underworld' includes the subaquatic together with the subterranean realms:

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The subaquatic is also a type of "underworld" in mythology. The older Greek mythology for example had Poseidon be the ruler of the underworld, and there you don't have the rape of Persephone, but the rape of Demeter... and this was not just a rape in the old meaning of "against a guardian's consent", but Demeter trying to escape and being chased and being angry over it afterwards.George certainly used this with his merman, squishers and the drowned god. What we see happening once Robb goes South, and certainly after Ned's death (the ruler) while there is only a young Stark boy in WF is that other possible underworld rulers try to acquire the seat. The Ironborn who are rulers of the sea, and then this Mexican underworldly type of family that loves flaying skin. The problem is that WF is indeed at heart of the land. Even if a tidal wave can come along, the water will eventually get soaked up by earth and become groundwater. Hence, we see them try, but fail. And by aDwD we have Stannis making the North is home base. He was master-of-sea, so he's a Poseidon like lord.

The underworld encrouching south of the Neck, begins with the Lions of the West causing mayhem in the RL. While lions are a sun symbol, the lions of the west, imply the setting sun. They're like Ra-Atum, the night sun, not the day sun. They begin by setting the lands on fire, especially around the gods eye. But we also see already in aCoK, how the Lannisters are bringing death with them into Kings Landing. As Tyrion makes his first tour in KL he notices the dead bodies lying around, without anyone even attempting to bury them. So, the Lannisters (with Cersei and Joffrey and Tywin foremost) begin the process. Then Robb, ruler of the North goes South and is proclaimed king of North as well as the Riverlands. He basically does an annexation of a southern region (like Horus) and makes it one kingdom. From then on the Riverlands become more and more chthonic.

And in that sense you know that Jaime trying to put things back to "peace" is quite useless. As a Lannister, lion of the West, lion of the night, he can't undo what his family started and Robb completed with his annexation, certainly not when the High Sparrow dumps all those bones at Baelor's statue in KL. As you mention, the floodgates are open already. Try pushing water flowing from a tap back into the tap? And of course the underworld is more successful working from the "underground", "unseen", "in the darkness", "unrecognized".

Quoted from the essay: Them Bones...

 

@Crowfood's Daughter has written a lot about the aquatic mythology and has given much thought to what the Ironborn may signify in the novels, with a special emphasis on piecing together their history:  I recommend Ironborn Mythos pt 2: the Little Mermaid and Ironborn Mythos pt 3: the Monomyth.

 

Apropos, I love the strikingly original discussion between @Crowfood's Daughter and @Seams speculating about Littlefinger's plan to drown Brandon Stark in the duel on the water stair!  (I think symbolically that Littlefinger, with his 'grey-green' amphibian eyes that don't match his smile, is a 'lizard-lion,' not a bird -- a 'lizard-lion' is a crocodile, and they kill their prey by hiding underwater, then striking when the prey least suspects it, and then dragging them into and drowning them in the water; it's a trap, and a nasty death!)

Fittingly, Sansa is disquieted by the idea of what may be lurking beneath the water, lying in wait for her:

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A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

Arya shrugged. "Hold still," she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you." Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion."

Sansa shuddered. They had been twelve days crossing the Neck, rumbling down a crooked causeway through an endless black bog, and she had hated every moment of it. The air had been damp and clammy, the causeway so narrow they could not even make proper camp at night, they had to stop right on the kingsroad. Dense thickets of half-drowned trees pressed close around them, branches dripping with curtains of pale fungus. Huge flowers bloomed in the mud and floated on pools of stagnant water, but if you were stupid enough to leave the causeway to pluck them, there were quicksands waiting to suck you down, and snakes watching from the trees, and lizard-lions floating half-submerged in the water, like black logs with eyes and teeth.

Littlefinger fantasizes at various times about decapitating, interring, melting, and notably drowning Ned:

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A Game of Thrones - Eddard VIII

"Do you always find murder so amusing, Lord Baelish?"

"It's not murder I find amusing, Lord Stark, it's you. You rule like a man dancing on rotten ice. I daresay you will make a noble splash. I believe I heard the first crack this morning."

"The first and last," said Ned. 

 

However, my favourite essay in the aquatic vein would have to be @LmL's The Grey King and the Sea Dragon, because he elegantly succeeded in unifying the elements of fire and water (or ice, since ice is the solid phase of water).  He put the fire in the sea to give a 'sea dragon' -- which is really, according to my green sea/see-pun, a 'see dragon' or greenseer, symbolically!  That's why we have Bloodraven, a dragon whose one eye 'burns like the last coal in a dead fire' lurking in the subterranean cavern 'under the sea' (he is tethered to the weirwood like the worm-riddled, eroded figurehead of a shipwrecked boat lying on the sea bottom); or Bran 'kissed-by-fire' (Bran has red hair and multiple fire associations, despite being associated with the north) the Summer child with Summer wolf submerged along with Bloodraven in the cavern fed by the 'sunless sea'.  Having lost the use of his legs on land as a consequence of his paralysis, and being half-Tully anyway, Bran can be thought of as a merman or -maid; but actually, they are both dragons, in my book. Yes, you heard me right -- Bran is a dragon of sorts, a 'sea dragon'!  'Waking the dragon,' therefore, has a further meaning, besides Dany hatching the dragon eggs in a literal sense: namely, kindling a greenseer's power in a figurative sense.  I also believe he will skinchange an ice dragon, as I suggested to @40 Thousand Skeletons above, so perhaps Bran's dragon associations are foreshadowing of this nature.

 

As for 'dark-seeing,' try @Macgregor of the North's thread: Bran the Darkness and a return to thoughts on that Jon Ghost Bran weirwood dream from ACOK.  I wrote some thoughts over there on the 'River of Time' and what it means to go 'upriver,' inspired by the reference to the Joseph Conrad novel 'Heart of Darkness', as highlighted for us by @Black Crow:

 

“Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off forever from everything you had known once -somewhere- far away in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect.” 

― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

 

 

Finally -- I couldn't leave you without a poem, could I?!   --

Here is an elegy by Wheelwright reflecting on the occasion of the death of a fellow poet, Hart Crane, who committed suicide by jumping off a ship and drowning in the Gulf of Mexico, after an ill-fated love affair and being persecuted on account of his homosexuality; he also struggled with alcoholism chronically (so he can be said to have 'drowned in the drink,' on so many levels).  His body was never found.  Interestingly, Hart Crane himself used the trope of the sea as a means to explore identity and plumb the depths of the psyche, particularly its more forbidding (and 'forbidden') aspects at the extremes of human experience (e.g. in the poem inspired by his lover, 'Voyages'), both moments of agony and ecstasy.  It's sad that in his case, that 'sea exploration' proved too painful in the 'seeing' and overwhelmed him, leaving us with exquisite fragments of poetry like carved driftwood remnants (or indeed 'revenants') of his intimate anguish, washed up after the flood.  'Seeing' -- by which I mean in broad terms 'higher consciousness' -- is a risky business; and the price of this (self-)knowledge is high.  But Crane's a very difficult poet -- so that's for another day! 

In the last line of the poem dedicated to him, the writer poignantly seeks to reassure his deceased friend (and/or himself and the reader), 'you saw or heard no evil', which is a nice sentiment; however, what has once been seen or heard cannot be unseen nor unheard:

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A Game of Thrones - Bran IV

In his dream he was climbing again, pulling himself up an ancient windowless tower, his fingers forcing themselves between blackened stones, his feet scrabbling for purchase. Higher and higher he climbed, through the clouds and into the night sky, and still the tower rose before him. When he paused to look down, his head swam dizzily and he felt his fingers slipping. Bran cried out and clung for dear life. The earth was a thousand miles beneath him and he could not fly. He could not fly. He waited until his heart had stopped pounding, until he could breathe, and he began to climb again. There was no way to go but up. Far above him, outlined against a vast pale moon, he thought he could see the shapes of gargoyles. His arms were sore and aching, but he dared not rest. He forced himself to climb faster. The gargoyles watched him ascend. Their eyes glowed red as hot coals in a brazier. Perhaps once they had been lions, but now they were twisted and grotesque. Bran could hear them whispering to each other in soft stone voices terrible to hear. He must not listen, he told himself, he must not hear, so long as he did not hear them he was safe. But when the gargoyles pulled themselves loose from the stone and padded down the side of the tower to where Bran clung, he knew he was not safe after all. "I didn't hear," he wept as they came closer and closer, "I didn't, I didn't."

He woke gasping, lost in darkness, and saw a vast shadow looming over him. "I didn't hear," he whispered, trembling in fear, but then the shadow said "Hodor," and lit the candle by the bedside, and Bran sighed with relief.

The reiteration of the reference to 'falling', as the poet imagines his friend drowning, is also evocative of Bran's fall.

I was reminded of the poem in question while re-reading your post about the sea voyage as a plunge into the emotional depths which always threatens to inundate, engulf, and even annihilate the self.  As you so eloquently put it upthread in our previous discussion (by the way, where can I read your 'brief thesis' on the journey symbolism?  That would interest me):

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Exactly, the Journey is very symbolic in all the litterature (I've written a brief thesis about it), and the sea journey even more. For me they are both interior journey, but  the difference is that in the Quest or similar journey (Brienne, Arya) the symbolism concerns the identity issue, the personal growth and problem solving, while the sea journey concerns the emotive part of yourself, the risk is to lose yourself it is something deeper and powerful, you can't decide where you are going, you are at the mercy of forces  outside your control.(Euron)

Journeys are loved by readers because of their function: they provide us examples of characters that confront their own blocks and overcome them. And I think this is one of the reason why Asoiaf  is so popular, it shows many plots and characters people can use as a "mirror" . Sea journey, too. But they are often more tormented, it's easier to feel the anguish.

And in this interpretation it's interesting the one-eye symbolism, in this troubled time you loose the clear vision. If you "survive" you lost an eye but the vision of the world is different.

 

 

FISH FOOD

An Obituary to Hart Crane

 

As you drank deep as Thor, did you think of milk or wine? 
Did you drink blood, while you drank the salt deep? 
Or see through the film of light, that sharpened your rage with its stare, 
a shark, dolphin, turtle? Did you not see the Cat
who, when Thor lifted her, unbased the cubic ground? 
You would drain fathomless flagons to be slaked with vacuum--
The sea's teats have suckled you, and you are sunk far
in bubble-dreams, under swaying translucent vines
of thundering interior wonder. Eagles can never now
carry parts of your body, over cupped mountains
as emblems of their anger, embers to fire self-hate
to other wonders, unfolding white, flaming vistas.

Fishes now look upon you, with eyes which do not gossip.
Fishes are never shocked. Fishes will kiss you, each
fish tweak you; every kiss take bits of you away, 
till your bones alone will roll, with the Gulf Stream's swell.
So has it been already, so have the carpers and puffers
nibbled your carcass of fame, each to his liking. Now
in tides of noon, the bones of your thought-suspended structures
gleam as you intended. Noon pulled your eyes with small
magnetic headaches; the will seeped from your blood. Seeds
of meaning popped from the pods of thought. And you fall. And the unseen
churn of Time changes the pearl-hued ocean; 
like a pearl-shaped drop, in a huge water-clock
falling; from came to go, from come to went. And you fell.

Waters received you. Waters of our Birth in Death dissolve you.
Now you have willed it, may the Great Wash take you.
As the Mother-Lover takes your woe away, and cleansing
grief and you away, you sleep, you do not snore.
Lie still. Your rage is gone on a bright flood
away; as, when a bad friend held out his hand
you said, 'Do not talk any more. I know you meant no harm.'
What was the soil whence your anger sprang, who are deaf
as the stones to the whispering flight of the Mississippi's rivers? 
What did you see as you fell? What did you hear as you sank? 
Did it make you drunken with hearing? 
I will not ask any more. You saw or heard no evil.

John Brooks Wheelwright