ravenous reader

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

42 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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