ravenous reader

POEMS (or other sundry quotes) that remind you of ASOIAF -- V2

51 posts in this topic

On 2/2/2018 at 9:52 PM, ravenous reader said:

“I have Grateful Dead lyrics rattling around in my head all the time,” he said, when questioned about the references. “Ripple is one of my favorite songs of all time ... [quotes song] ‘There is a road, no simple highway.’”

I guess, when the author of 'the Song [of ice and fire]' says that 'Ripple' is his favorite song, we ought to pay attention...

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Bran II

Hodor knew Bran's favorite place, so he took him to the edge of the pool beneath the great spread of the heart tree, where Lord Eddard used to kneel to pray. Ripples were running across the surface of the water when they arrived, making the reflection of the weirwood shimmer and dance. There was no wind, though. For an instant Bran was baffled.

And then Osha exploded up out of the pool with a great splash...

I've just discovered the above is a paraphrase of the Grateful Dead lyrics!

 

RIPPLE

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung

I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of men

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night

And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone

If you should stand then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home

-- Written by Jerome J. Garcia, Robert C. Hunter

 

 

Edited by ravenous reader

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On 11/2/2017 at 2:21 PM, GyantSpyder said:

When people wrestle with the idea of gods and what they mean, and when I recognize the urge to insist on concrete certainty for stories that are deliberately mysterious, especially in their relationship between humans and nature, this section from Wallace Stevens's "Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction" comes to mind. It would be good advice to a Red Priest looking for someone to burn alive:

It Must Be Abstract

I

Begin, ephebe, by perceiving the idea
Of this invention, this invented world,
The inconceivable idea of the sun.

You must become an ignorant man again
And see the sun again with an ignorant eye
And see it clearly in the idea of it.

Never suppose an inventing mind as source
Of this idea nor for that mind compose
A voluminous master folded in his fire.

How clean the sun when seen in its idea,
Washed in the remotest cleanliness of a heaven
That has expelled us and our images . . .

The death of one god is the death of all.
Let purple Phoebus lie in umber harvest,
Let Phoebus slumber and die in autumn umber,

Phoebus is dead, ephebe. But Phoebus was
A name for something that never could be named.
There was a project for the sun and is.

There is a project for the sun. The sun
Must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be
In the difficulty of what it is to be.

 

You talk about "the urge to insist on concrete certainty for stories that are deliberately mysterious" as pertains to the relationship between humans and their gods, which might equally apply to the relationship between GRRM and his readers!  Toward the end of this quest in which we are engaged, we may have to conclude of GRRM:

A symbol was all he could hope to convey,

An intimation, a shot of ray,

A meaning I was supposed to seek,

And finding, wasn't disposed to speak...

 

 

One More Brevity


I opened the door so my last look

Should be taken outside a house and book.

Before I gave up seeing and slept

I said I would see how Sirius kept

His watch-dog eye on what remained

To be gone into, if not explained.

But scarcely was my door ajar,

When, past the leg I thrust for bar

Slipped in to be my problem guest,

Not a heavenly dog made manifest,

But an earthly dog of the carriage breed;

Who, having failed of the modern speed,

Now asked asylum -- and I was stirred

To be the one so dog-preferred.

He dumped himself like a bag of bones,

He sighed himself a couple of groans,

And head to tail then firmly curled

Like swearing off on the traffic world.

I set him water, I set him food,

He rolled an eye with gratitude

(Or merely manners it may have been),

But never so much as lifted chin.

His hard tail loudly smacked the floor

As if beseeching me, “Please, no more,

I can’t explain -- tonight at least.”

His brow was perceptibly trouble-creased.

So I spoke in terms of adoption thus:

“Gustie, old boy, Dalmatian Gus,

You’re right, there’s nothing to discuss.

Don’t try to tell me what’s on your mind,

The sorrow of having been left behind,

Or the sorrow of having run away.

All that can wait for the light of day.

Meanwhile feel obligation-free.

Nobody has to confide in me.”

‘Twas too one-sided a dialogue,

And I wasn’t sure I was talking dog.

I broke off baffled. But all the same,

In fancy, I ratified his name,

Gustie, Dalmatian Gus, that is,

And started shaping my life to his,

Finding him in his right supplies

And sharing his miles of exercise.



Next morning the minute I was about

He was at the door to be let out

With an air that said, “I have paid my call.

You mustn’t feel hurt if now I’m all

For getting back somewhere or further on.”

I opened the door and he was gone.

I was to taste in little the grief

That comes of dogs’ lives being so brief,

Only a fraction of ours at most.

He might have been the dream of a ghost

In spite of the way his tail had smacked

My floor so hard and matter-of-fact.

And things have been going so strangely since,

I wouldn’t be too hard to convince,

I might even claim, he was Sirius.

(Think of presuming to call him Gus)

The star itself, heaven’s greatest star,

Not a meteorite, but an avatar,

Who had made an overnight descent

To show by deeds he didn’t resent

My having depended on him so long,

And yet done nothing about it in song.

A symbol was all he could hope to convey,

An intimation, a shot of ray,

A meaning I was supposed to seek,

And finding, wasn't disposed to speak.


ROBERT FROST
 

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These might be a bit of a stretch, but I've been thinking about Tarth, the Evenstar, Dawn, Nightfall, and Lightbringer so...

Star of the Evening

BEAUTIFUL STAR in heav'n so bright ,

Softly falls thy silv'ry light,

As thou movest from earth afar,

Star of the evening, beautiful star,

Star of the evening, beautiful star.

Chorus:

 Beautiful star,—

 Beautiful star,—

 Star of the evening,

Beautiful, beautiful star. . . .

Shine on, oh star of love divine,

And may our soul's affections twine

Around thee as thou movest afar,

Star of the twilight, beautiful star.

 

to Lewis Carrol's mock turtle ode (House Estermont of Greenshit?)

Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!

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Posted (edited)

On 3/10/2018 at 3:32 PM, hiemal said:

Lewis Carrol's mock turtle ode (House Estermont of Greenshit?)

Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!

Hi Hiemal!  'Soup of the Evening...' LOL.  Got me thinking about all those sinister bowls of soup associated with death:

PEA SOUP

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

The one-armed armorer was hard headed, tough, and well seasoned in war. Ser Wynton Stout, on the other hand . . . well, he had been a good man once, everyone agreed, but he had been eighty years a ranger, and both strength and wits were gone. Once he'd fallen asleep at supper and almost drowned in a bowl of pea soup.

WEASEL SOUP

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Arya IX

All morning she watched the Bloody Mummers strip the dead of their valuables and drag the corpses to the Flowstone Yard, where a pyre was laid to dispose of them. Shagwell the Fool hacked the heads off two dead knights and pranced about the castle swinging them by the hair and making them talk. "What did you die of?" one head asked. "Hot weasel soup," replied the second.

BLOODY BROTH

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Arya IX

Then she heard the ugly sound of Rorge's voice. "Cook," he shouted. "We'll take your bloody broth." Arya let go of the spoon in dismay. I never told him to bring them. Rorge wore his iron helmet, with the nasal that half hid his missing nose. Jaqen and Biter followed him into the kitchen.

"The bloody broth isn't bloody ready yet," the cook said. "It needs to simmer. We only now put in the onions and—"

"Shut your hole, or I'll shove a spit up your ass and we'll baste you for a turn or two. I said broth and I said now."

MURKY BROWN

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Arya IX

If I jumped over the side, the river would wash me away before the Hound even knew that I was gone. She looked back over a shoulder, and saw Sandor Clegane struggling with his frightened horse, trying to calm him. She would never have a better chance to get away from him. I might drown, though. Jon used to say that she swam like a fish, but even a fish might have trouble in this river. Still, drowning might be better than King's Landing. She thought about Joffrey and crept up to the prow. The river was murky brown with mud and lashed by rain, looking more like soup than water. Arya wondered how cold it would be. I couldn't get much wetter than I am now. She put a hand on the rail.

GREY-GREEN SOUP

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Jaime III

At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton's red salmon still flew above the castle on its hill, but the town walls were deserted, the gates smashed, half the homes and shops burned or plundered. They saw nothing living but a few feral dogs that went slinking away at the sound of their approach. The pool from which the town took its name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup.

Jaime took one look and burst into song. "Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool . . ."

'Grey-green soup' -- Green sea/green see pun...Symbolically, drowning in the river, pool or soup, is like 'going into the trees.'  Moreover, the uncomfortable truth or 'terrible knowledge' that the weirnet is nourishing to others who 'drink of that green fountain' of knowledge fed by sacrifice.

MURKY GREY CESSPOOL SOUP

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion V

"The conquerors did not believe either, Hugor Hill," said Ysilla. "The men of Volantis and Valyria hung Garin in a golden cage and made mock as he called upon his Mother to destroy them. But in the night the waters rose and drowned them, and from that day to this they have not rested. They are down there still beneath the water, they who were once the lords of fire. Their cold breath rises from the murk to make these fogs, and their flesh has turned as stony as their hearts."

The stump of Tyrion's nose was itching fiercely. He gave it a scratch. The old woman may be right. This place is no good. I feel as if I am back in the privy again, watching my father die. He would go mad as well if he had to spend his days in this grey soup whilst his flesh and bones turned to stone.

WARM GREY SOUP

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - The Prince of Winterfell

The mists were so thick that only the nearest trees were visible; beyond them stood tall shadows and faint lights. Candles flickered beside the wandering path and back amongst the trees, pale fireflies floating in a warm grey soup. It felt like some strange underworld, some timeless place between the worlds, where the damned wandered mournfully for a time before finding their way down to whatever hell their sins had earned them. Are we all dead, then? Did Stannis come and kill us in our sleep? Is the battle yet to come, or has it been fought and lost?

SEA OF WARM MILK

Quote

A Game of Thrones - Prologue

"It was the cold," Gared said with iron certainty. "I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don't have the strength to fight it. It's easier just to sit down or go to sleep. They say you don't feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it's like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like."

"Such eloquence, Gared," Ser Waymar observed. "I never suspected you had it in you."

CORPSE WINE

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Jon V

"As you wish." Mormont lifted the flap of the tent and Qhorin Halfhand stooped and stepped through.

Edd stood over the kettle swishing the eggs about with a spoon. "I envy those eggs," he said. "I could do with a bit of boiling about now. If the kettle were larger, I might jump in. Though I would sooner it were wine than water. There are worse ways to die than warm and drunk. I knew a brother drowned himself in wine once. It was a poor vintage, though, and his corpse did not improve it."

"You drank the wine?"

"It's an awful thing to find a brother dead. You'd have need of a drink as well, Lord Snow." Edd stirred the kettle and added a pinch more nutmeg.

STARFISH SOUP UNDER THE SEA

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - Jon X

Ser Malegorn offered his arm, and Queen Selyse took it stiffly. Her other hand settled on her daughter's shoulder. The royal ducklings fell in behind them as they made their way across the yard, marching to the music of the bells on the fool's hat. "Under the sea the mermen feast on starfish soup, and all the serving men are crabs," Patchface proclaimed as they went. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

Melisandre's face darkened. "That creature is dangerous. Many a time I have glimpsed him in my flames. Sometimes there are skulls about him, and his lips are red with blood."

SCUMMY SOUP

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - The Iron Suitor

Maester Kerwin pressed the dagger deep. This time it hurt, but blood welled up as well as pus, blood so dark that it looked black in the lantern light.

Blood was good. Victarion grunted in approval. He sat there unflinching as the maester dabbed and squeezed and cleaned the pus away with squares of soft cloth boiled in vinegar. By the time he finished, the clean water in his basin had become a scummy soup. The sight alone would sicken any man. "Take that filth and go." Victarion nodded at the dusky woman. "She can bind me up."

Even after the boy had fled, the stink remained. Of late, there was no escaping it. The maester had suggested that the wound might best be drained up on deck, amidst fresh air and sunlight, but Victarion forbade it. This was not something that his crew could see. They were half a world away from home, too far to let them see that their iron captain had begun to rust.

BOWL OF BROWN

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

"You don't." Tyrion turned his horse. "Give him three days, then inform him that Hamish the Harper has broken his arm. Tell him that his clothes will never serve for court, so he must be fitted for new garb at once. He'll come with you quick enough." He grimaced. "You may want his tongue, I understand it's made of silver. The rest of him should never be found."

Bronn grinned. "There's a pot shop I know in Flea Bottom makes a savory bowl of brown. All kinds of meat in it, I hear."

"Make certain I never eat there." Tyrion spurred to a trot. He wanted a bath, and the hotter the better.

WEIRWOOD BOWL

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

"For the next step. For you to go beyond skinchanging and learn what it means to be a greenseer."

"The trees will teach him," said Leaf. She beckoned, and another of the singers padded forward, the white-haired one that Meera had named Snowylocks. She had a weirwood bowl in her hands, carved with a dozen faces, like the ones the heart trees wore. Inside was a white paste, thick and heavy, with dark red veins running through it. "You must eat of this," said Leaf. She handed Bran a wooden spoon.

The boy looked at the bowl uncertainly. "What is it?"

SINGER'S STEW

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

His fingers moved across the strings of the high harp, filling the throne room with sweet sound. "From his throne of bones the Lord of Death looked down on the murdered lord," Hamish began, and went on to tell how Renly, repenting his attempt to usurp his nephew's crown, had defied the Lord of Death himself and crossed back to the land of the living to defend the realm against his brother.

And for this poor Symon wound up in a bowl of brown, Tyrion mused.

 

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion XII

"Your mother's cooking?"

"Rats wouldn't eat my mother's cooking. There was this pot shop, though. No one ever made a bowl o' brown like them. So thick you could stand your spoon up in the bowl, with chunks of this and that. You ever have yourself a bowl o' brown, Halfman?"

"A time or two. Singer's stew, I call it."

SISTER'S STEW

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - Davos I

"I am, my lord."

"A pity. Gella's not. Homely women make the best wives. There's three kinds of crabs in there. Red crabs and spider crabs and conquerors. I won't eat spider crab, except in sister's stew. Makes me feel half a cannibal." His lordship gestured at the banner hanging above the cold black hearth. A spider crab was embroidered there, white on a grey-green field. "We heard tales that Stannis burned his Hand."

DOGTAIL SOUP WITH MUSHROOMS A LA TYRION

Quote

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion XI

"Water will help the master," Penny said. "That's what the healer said, it must be so. Sweet fresh water."

"Sweet fresh water didn't help Nurse." Poor old Nurse. Yezzan's soldiers had tossed him onto the corpse wagon last night at dusk, another victim of the pale mare. When men are dying every hour, no one looks too hard at one more dead man, especially one as well despised as Nurse. Yezzan's other slaves had refused to go near the overseer once the cramps began, so it was left to Tyrion to keep him warm and bring him drinks. Watered wine and lemonsweet and some nice hot dogtail soup, with slivers of mushroom in the broth. Drink it down, Nursey, that shitwater squirting from your arse needs to be replaced. The last word Nurse ever said was, "No." The last words he ever heard were, "A Lannister always pays his debts."

 

On a lighter note, there's this poem by Shel Silverstein previously contributed by @The Fattest Leech:

Quote

How about this for a common theme that runs through the series? A willing sacrifice that has bowels/boles, singing, wooden spoons, salt, a sun location reference, and farewell.

ME-STEW

by Shel Silverstein 

 

I have nothing to put in my stew, you see,

Not a bone or a bean or a black-eyed pea,

So I'll just climb in the pot to see

If I can make a stew out of me.

I'll put in some pepper and salt and I'll sit

In the bubbling waterI won't scream a bit.

I'll sing while I simmer, I'll smile while I'm stewing,

I'll taste myself often to see how I'm doing.

I'll stir me around with this big wooden spoon

And serve myself up at a quarter to noon.

So bring out your stew bowls,

You gobblers and snackers.

Farewelland I hope you enjoy me with crackers! 

 

Edited by ravenous reader

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@ravenous reader wow, I almost forgot this. Thanks for the reminder. 

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36 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

Hi Hiemal!  'Soup of the Evening...' LOL.  Got me thinking about all those sinister bowls of soup associated with death:

PEA SOUP

WEASEL SOUP

BLOODY BROTH

MURKY BROWN

GREY-GREEN SOUP

'Grey-green soup' -- Green sea/green see pun...Symbolically, drowning in the river, pool or soup, is like 'going into the trees.'  Moreover, the uncomfortable truth or 'terrible knowledge' that the weirnet is nourishing to others who 'drink of that green fountain' of knowledge fed by sacrifice.

MURKY GREY CESSPOOL SOUP

WARM GREY SOUP

SEA OF WARM MILK

CORPSE WINE

STARFISH SOUP UNDER THE SEA

SCUMMY SOUP

BOWL OF BROWN

WEIRWOOD BOWL

SINGER'S STEW

 

SISTER'S STEW

DOGTAIL SOUP WITH MUSHROOMS A LA TYRION

 

On a lighter note, there's this poem by Shel Silverstein previously contributed by @The Fattest Leech:

 

 Dolorous Edd's Corpse Wine mishmashed with Hornwood Lady's Fingers.

Hmmm- soup is an alchemical process. Bowl o' Wildfire?

 

 

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Posted (edited)

Speaking of Frost:

Mending Wall

 
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
 
On another note:
Have I pitched you the idea that Melisandre is a GRRM'esque mishmash of the Iliad's Cassandra and Amelia Bedilia? Poetry and children's nonsense. Not entirely unlike Patchface his nennymoans.
Edited by hiemal

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20 hours ago, hiemal said:

 Dolorous Edd's Corpse Wine mishmashed with Hornwood Lady's Fingers.

Hmmm- soup is an alchemical process. Bowl o' Wildfire?

Exactly. In alchemy, the first stage 'nigredo' is about cooking up a dark night of the soul...it sounds like 'soup of the evening', wouldn't you say..?! :P

Quote

In alchemy, nigredo, or blackness, means putrefaction or decomposition. Many alchemists believed that as a first step in the pathway to the philosopher's stone, all alchemical ingredients had to be cleansed and cooked extensively to a uniform black matter.[1]

In analytical psychology, the term became a metaphor 'for the dark night of the soul, when an individual confronts the shadow within' (from wikipedia)

 

20 hours ago, hiemal said:

Speaking of Frost:

Mending Wall

 
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
 

That poem is one of my favorites. @Voice likes it too -- he has queried what the Wall is 'walling in or walling out' exactly, 'heretically' questioning why it was built in the first place.  Mostly, I love this poem because Frost is so disingenuous, so walled-off from the truth of himself being the one who loves a wall. 

20 hours ago, hiemal said:
On another note:
Have I pitched you the idea that Melisandre is a GRRM'esque mishmash of the Iliad's Cassandra and Amelia Bedilia? Poetry and children's nonsense. Not entirely unlike Patchface his nennymoans.

No, I'm unfamiliar with Amelia Bedilia. Pray tell!

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Posted (edited)

7 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

Exactly. In alchemy, the first stage 'nigredo' is about cooking up a dark night of the soul...it sounds like 'soup of the evening', wouldn't you say..?! :P

 

Delicious!

7 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

 

 

That poem is one of my favorites. @Voice likes it too -- he has queried what the Wall is 'walling in or walling out' exactly, 'heretically' questioning why it was built in the first place.  Mostly, I love this poem because Frost is so disingenuous, so walled-off from the truth of himself being the one who loves a wall.

The weird thing is often as that poem pops into my head (invariably when faced with a wall in disrepair) it never made the leap for me to ASoIaF until a few days ago. This line caught me:

"I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly,"
Hmmmmm
7 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

 

No, I'm unfamiliar with Amelia Bedilia. Pray tell!

She is the protagonist of Peggy Parish's series of children's books. Amelia takes everything literally, to humorous and silly effect. She also has red hair. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amelia_Bedelia

. My admittedly bordering-on-the-absurd tinfoil is that "Melisandre" is a combination of "Cassandra" and "Amelia". Let's face it- if it's in a vision, Melisandre is going to get it wrong: unlike Cassandra she is believed (although I believe her visions are probably true barring interference from Quaithe with either a glass candle or Dark Sister) and unlike Amelia her misinterpretations aren't exactly about being taken literally (and she's really not very funny and makes shadow babies instead of pies) it feels plausible to me and I could see GRRM being weird enough to do it.

 

 

Edited by hiemal

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Lyrics:

Red! The Blood of Angry Men! Black! The Dark of Ages Past! Red! A World about to Dawn! Black! THE NIGHT THAT ENDS AT LAST!

-ABC Cafe/Red and Black, Les Miserables

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You might add the Turtle Soup confessional to the noxious soups, although it was not lethal. Tyrion was risking death by mocking.

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