Jump to content

Archived

This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

ravenous reader

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

Recommended Posts

14 hours ago, Wizz-The-Smith said:

TREE AT MY WINDOW – ROBERT FROST

 

Tree at my window, window tree

My sash is lowered when night comes on;

But let there never be curtain drawn

Between you and me

 

Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,

And thing next most diffuse to cloud,

Not all your light tongues talking aloud

Could be profound

 

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,

And if you have seen me when I slept,

You have seen me when I was taken and swept

And all but lost.

 

That day she put our heads together,

Fate had her imagination about her,

Your head so much concerned with outer,

Mine with inner, weather.

 

Frost was reluctant to parse any of his own poetry, leading to many an opinion on his work.  But the relationship between man, tree and nature in this particular poem reminds me of Bran.  In particular Bran 'watching/seeing' events unfold through his window at Winterfell in AGOT [WF being described as a 'monstrous stone tree']  There are also the 'dreams' and the trees being 'taken and tossed', [rustling leaves] plus Bran could also be seen as have being 'taken, swept and lost' while in his coma state, and if Bloodraven was present then so was the weirwood tree, 'watching as he slept'. 

Sorry for the delayed reply, and thank you for having me delve deeper into poetry than I ever have before.  Having caught up with the thread, and read some of the analysis on the poems I have come across, I can honestly say I've enjoyed every minute of it.  So again my thanks go out to you, my most poetic friend.  :)  

:)

 

Quote

Your head so much concerned with outer,

Mine with inner, weather.

Wow.

 

@Wizz-The-Smith--

This is my favorite Robert Frost poem:

 

I love it, because I don't understand it.

I love it,  because it's true.

I love it, because he's vastly different to me --

and yet I feel at home.

I love it, because he's forgiven me in advance, 

for not understanding.

 

DIRECTIVE

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss

Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,

May seem as if it should have been a quarry –
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there's a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods' excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone's road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you're lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home
. The only field
Now left's no bigger than a harness gall.
First there's the children's house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.

Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny's

A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it,

So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.
(I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

 

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

You guys go serious.

Here's my 2 cent. Martin is apparently a fan of these guys. Meet what I think it's Bran's song.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dare
Disturb the sound of silence

“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
On 12/21/2016 at 0:49 PM, King Merrett I Frey said:

You guys go serious.

Here's my 2 cent. Martin is apparently a fan of these guys. Meet what I think it's Bran's song.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dare
Disturb the sound of silence

“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”

Hi there, welcome to our thread -- where no contribution is too long or too short, too simple or too complex, too serious or too silly -- and which I declare cannot be derailed!  :)

You might be interested that @LynnS had a similar idea.  She left a wonderful rendition of the song as performed by 'Disturbed' here which you might enjoy.

Someone -- I think it may have been @Seams or @Pain killer Jane, I'm not sure -- also pointed out the wordplay with Symeon Star-Eyes...which is an amalgamation of Paul Simon's and Art Garfunkel's last names ('funkel' means 'twinkle' in German, like 'twinkle twinkle, little star'!) ***

There's also a singer called Simon, isn't there -- the one Tyrion had killed:

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Tyrion X

"Sweetling," he called her. "And who is this?"

The singer raised his eyes. "I am called Symon Silver Tongue, my lord. A player, a singer, a taleteller—"

 

***ETA:  Actually, I've now discovered it was @Evolett who, to my knowledge, first made the observation regarding 'Garfunkel'...You can read about it here.

Also, I was also thinking that perhaps since 'Art' is short for 'Arthur' and in ASOIAF the most important character named Arthur is also known as the 'Sword of the morning' which is a star...that could be an extra reason for Arthur Garfunkel being associated with 'Star-Eyes'.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

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! 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
1 hour ago, The Fattest Leech said:

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! 

Almost sounds like he is talking about putting himself into his art. 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
10 minutes ago, LmL said:

Almost sounds like he is talking about putting himself into his art. 

No doubt! :blink: 

I feel also compares to the frame of mind George said he was in when he wrote Meathouse Man. 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
1 hour ago, The Fattest Leech said:

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! 

Hi Leech!  That one certainly captures both your own and GRRM's hearty wit, not to mention GRRM's obvious love of cooking and eating which shines through in his liberal sprinkling of recipes which crop up throughout the text, mixing up the mouth-watering savoury with a hint of unsavoury, of course... :)

It reminds me of the 'bowls of brown' in Fleabottom, particularly the 'Singer's stew' Tyrion arranged; as well as 'Sister's stew' which has always struck me as suspiciously lumpy:

Quote

 The beer was brown, the bread black, the stew a creamy white. She served it in a trencher hollowed out of a stale loaf. It was thick with leeks, carrots, barley, and turnips white and yellow, along with clams and chunks of cod and crabmeat, swimming in a stock of heavy cream and butter. It was the sort of stew that warmed a man right down to his bones, just the thing for a wet, cold night. Davos spooned it up gratefully.

  “You have tasted sister’s stew before?”

  “I have, my lord.” The same stew was served all over the Three Sisters, in every inn and tavern.

  “This is better than what you’ve had before. Gella makes it. My daughter’s daughter. Are you married, onion knight?”

  “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. 

...

The woman brought them a fresh loaf of bread, still hot from the oven. When Davos saw her hand, he stared. Lord Godric did not fail to make note of it. “Aye, she has the mark. Like all Borrells, for five thousand years. My daughter’s daughter. Not the one who makes the stew.” He tore the bread apart and offered half to Davos. “Eat. It’s good.”

  It was, though any stale crust would have tasted just as fine to Davos; it meant he was a guest here, for this one night at least. The lords of the Three Sisters had a black repute, and none more so than Godric Borrell, Lord of Sweetsister, Shield of Sisterton, Master of Breakwater Castle, and Keeper of the Night Lamp … but even robber lords and wreckers were bound by the ancient laws of hospitality. I will see the dawn, at least, Davos told himself. I have eaten of his bread and salt.

  Though there were stranger spices than salt in this sister’s stew. “Is it saffron that I’m tasting?” Saffron was worth more than gold. Davos had only tasted it once before, when King Robert had sent a half a fish to him at a feast on Dragonstone.

  “Aye. From Qarth. There’s pepper too.” Lord Godric took a pinch between his thumb and forefinger and sprinkled his own trencher. “Cracked black pepper from Volantis, nothing finer. Take as much as you require if you’re feeling peppery. I’ve got forty chests of it. Not to mention cloves and nutmeg, and a pound of saffron. Took it off a sloe-eyed maid.” He laughed. He still had all his teeth, Davos saw, though most of them were yellow and one on the top was black and dead. “She was making for Braavos, but a gale swept her into the Bite and she smashed up against some of my rocks. So you see, you are not the only gift the storms have brought me. The sea’s a treacherous cruel thing.”

  Not as treacherous as men, thought Davos. Lord Godric’s forebears had been pirate kings until the Starks came down on them with fire and sword. These days the Sistermen left open piracy to Salladhor Saan and his ilk and confined themselves to wrecking. The beacons that burned along the shores of the Three Sisters were supposed to warn of shoals and reefs and rocks and lead the way to safety, but on stormy nights and foggy ones, some Sistermen would use false lights to draw unwary captains to their doom.

 

1 minute ago, The Fattest Leech said:

No doubt! :blink: 

I feel also compares to the frame of mind George said he was in when he wrote Meathouse Man. 

Tell me more -- I'm not familiar with 'Meathouse Man'!

 

13 minutes ago, LmL said:

Almost sounds like he is talking about putting himself into his art. 

Funny how that happens, isn't it Lucifer?

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

@ravenous reader I'm on my phone and Christmas shopping so this will be brief. Meathous Man is one of George's earlier short stories where the main character is creepy and dark, yet very nice, but chooses to partake in some strange carnal pleasures because he likes it. George has said this story was written when he was in a pressured, dark place and nobody wanted to publish it because it was too dark, but he kept on anyway. 

Its a favorite of mine because yeah, it is hearty and weird :cheers:

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and best wishes to all.

IMO there's only one kind of poetry it fits to share on this special evening.

A traditional Christmas carol.

Here is Bóg się rodzi (God is born) from 1792 by Franciszek Karpiński.

When God is born, no power prevails, 
Our Lord in nakedness enwound.
All fire congeals, all luster pales, 
Contained is He that knows no bound.
Despised, in glory comes untold,
A mortal king for aye to reign.
The Word of God in flesh behold,
Now born to share our life mundane.

What have ye Heavens o'er the earth, 
That God forsook His sweet delight,
And wished to take a human birth, 
To share our every toil and plight?
And He did suffer unconsoled,
And we were guilty of His pain.
The Word of God in flesh behold,
Now born to share our life mundane.

A meager shed for Him they found,
And in a manger there He lay.
What was He, and what was there 'round? 
Poor shepherds, cattle, sheep and hay.
The poor had hailed Him, we are told,
Before the rich would entertain. 
The Word of God in flesh behold,
Now born to share our life mundane.

'Twas then, they say, appeared the kings, 
And jostled through the gathering dense.
For Him they brought their offerings:
The myrrh, and gold, and frankincense. 
The frankincense, and myrrh, and gold
With rustic gifts He did retain.
The Word of God in flesh behold,
Now born to share our life mundane.

Raise now Thy hand, oh Child divine,
And bless our homeland from the Height.
By good advice and times benign,
Support her strength with Thine own might:
The hamlets, cities and the wold,
Our houses, and our every gain.
The Word of God in flesh behold,
Now born to share our life mundane.

original text:

Bóg się rodzi, moc truchleje,
Pan niebiosów obnażony,
Ogień krzepnie, blask ciemnieje,
Ma granice nieskończony,
Wzgardzony, okryty chwałą;
Śmiertelny, Król nad wiekami;

A Słowo Ciałem się stało,
I mieszkało między nami!

Cóż masz niebo nad ziemiany?
Bóg porzucił szczęście twoje,
Wszedł między lud ukochany,
Dzieląc z nim trudy i znoje:
Niemało cierpiał, niemało,
Żeśmy byli winni sami,
A Słowo Ciałem się stało,
I mieszkało między nami.

W nędznej szopie urodzony,
Żłób mu za kolebkę dano;
Cóż jest, czem był otoczony?
Bydło, pasterze i siano.
Ubodzy! was to spotkało,
Witać go przed bogaczami,
A Słowo Ciałem się stało,
I mieszkało między nami.

Potem i Króle widziani
Cisną się między prostotą,
Niosąc dary Panu w dani:
Mirę, kadzidło i złoto:
Bóstwo to razem zmieszało,
Z wieśniaczemi ofiarami!
A Słowo Ciałem się stało,
I mieszkało między nami.

Podnieś rękę Boże Dziecie,
Błogosław krainę miłą,
W dobrych radach, w dobrym bycie,
Wspieraj iej siłę swą siłą,

Dom nasz i majętność całą,
I twoje wioski z miastami!
A Słowo Ciałem się stało,
I mieszkało między nami.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Hey RR, and Merry Christmas to you and all.  :)

Having started to research the Sidhe a little further, I came across a couple of poems by W.B Yeats that reminded me of Asoiaf. (And you)  The first poem is inspired by my Celtic based research for anything that may have inspired George. (The clue is in the name I suppose)  Anyway, here are those two Yeats poems ……

THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE:  W.B Yeats

THE HOST is riding from Knocknarea

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;

Caolte tossing his burning hair

And Niamh calling Away, come away:

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

         

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

  

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.

The host is rushing ’twixt night and day,

And where is there hope or deed as fair?

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling Away, come away.

 

THE EVERLASTING VOICES:  W.B Yeats

O SWEET everlasting Voices be still;

Go to the guards of the heavenly fold

And bid them wander obeying your will

Flame under flame, till Time be no more;

 

Have you not heard that our hearts are old,

That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,

In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?

O sweet everlasting Voices be still.

 

The next examples are a collection of ancient Celtic poems that were a click away from my research, so here are a couple that again reminded me of Asoiaf….. (No-one apparently wrote these poems)   :P

Little Bird

Little bird! O little bird!

I wonder at what thou doest,

Thou singing merry far from me,

I in sadness all alone!

 

Little bird! O little bird!

I wonder at how thou art

Thou high on the tips of branching boughs,

I on the ground a-creeping!

 

Little bird! O little bird!

Thou art music far away,

Like the tender croon of the mother loved

In the kindly sleep of death.

 

NEW MOON  (In Celtic culture, the new moon was greeted in this fashion)

May thy light be fair to me!

May thy course be smooth to me!

If good to me is thy beginning,

Seven times better be thine end,

Thou fair moon of the seasons,

Thou great lamp of grace!

 

He Who created thee

Created me likewise;

He Who gave thee weight and light

Gave to me life and death,

And the joy of the seven satisfactions,

Thou great lamp of grace,

Thou fair moon of the seasons.

 

Those two examples have no author, but they can found on the 'ancient poems and prayers - Nancy Doyle fine art website.  However, we do have a poet attributed to this next poem.  ‘The Mystery’, is according to oral tradition written by the ancient Milesian poet Amergin.  The Irish myths tell of how the Milesians defeated the Tuatha de Dannan and sent them into the world below, or Otherworld.  And as you know I have posted about the Sidhe and Tuatha de Dannan, so the potential for a real life example from a Milesian poet was something I had to share.   

THE MYSTERY

I am the wind that breathes upon the sea

I am the wave of the ocean

I am the murmur of the billows

I am the ox of the seven combats

I am the vulture upon the rocks

I am the beam of the sun

I am the fairest of plants

I am a wild boar in valour

I am a salmon in the water

I am a lake in plain

I am a word of science

I am the point of the lance of battle

I am the God who created in the head the fire

Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?

Who announces the ages of the moon?

Who teaches the place where couches the sun? (If not I?)

 

My amateur researching of Celtic mythology has led me to believe that to a certain degree it is like researching poetry anyway.  A lot of what we know was taken or translated from ancient Gaelic poems/songs, and there is a lot of influence to be found from nature which is very reminiscent of all our searches into Bran's arc.

It being Christmas I thought I'd post a few of these Celtic poems for you to sink your ravening teeth into, I hope you enjoy them.  :D

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
On ‎15‎/‎12‎/‎2016 at 4:37 AM, ravenous reader said:

@Tijgy said........... As a little intermezzo I also want to refer quickly to a ballade by Goethe, which was used by Schubert as the text of one of his songs: the Erlkönig. 

 

Thank you again for sharing this ballad with us @Tijgy:)  In fact I was listening again the other day and noticed a different version which I enjoyed very much.  The powerful voice in particular really resonates with me, and the artwork in the video is awesome as well.  I thought I'd post that version here to accompany yours.  Here's the link.........   

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
6 hours ago, Wizz-The-Smith said:
On 12/14/2016 at 11:37 PM, ravenous reader said:

@Tijgy said........... As a little intermezzo I also want to refer quickly to a ballade by Goethe, which was used by Schubert as the text of one of his songs: the Erlkönig. 

 

Thank you again for sharing this ballad with us @Tijgy:)  In fact I was listening again the other day and noticed a different version which I enjoyed very much.  The powerful voice in particular really resonates with me, and the artwork in the video is awesome as well.  I thought I'd post that version here to accompany yours.  Here's the link.........   

 

Thanks @Wizz-The-Smith and @Tijgy -- both those versions are beautiful and remind me of Bran's arc as well as many happy hours tossing ideas back and forth with all of you on @evita mgfs's classic and pioneering 'Bran's growing powers after his last chapter in ADWD' thread!

Talking of music:

On 12/21/2016 at 1:32 PM, ravenous reader said:
On 12/21/2016 at 0:49 PM, King Merrett I Frey said:

@King Merrett I Frey:  You guys go serious.

Here's my 2 cent. Martin is apparently a fan of these guys. Meet what I think it's Bran's song.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dare
Disturb the sound of silence

“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”

Hi there, welcome to our thread -- where no contribution is too long or too short, too simple or too complex, too serious or too silly -- and which I declare cannot be derailed!  :)

You might be interested that @LynnS had a similar idea.  She left a wonderful rendition of the song as performed by 'Disturbed' here which you might enjoy.

Someone -- I think it may have been @Seams or @Pain killer Jane, I'm not sure -- also pointed out the wordplay with Symeon Star-Eyes...which is an amalgamation of Paul Simon's and Art Garfunkel's last names ('funkel' means 'twinkle' in German, like 'twinkle twinkle, little star'!) ***

There's also a singer called Simon, isn't there -- the one Tyrion had killed:

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Tyrion X

"Sweetling," he called her. "And who is this?"

The singer raised his eyes. "I am called Symon Silver Tongue, my lord. A player, a singer, a taleteller—"

 

***ETA: I was also thinking that perhaps since 'Art' is short for 'Arthur' and in ASOIAF the most important character named Arthur is also known as the 'Sword of the morning' which is a star...that could be an extra reason for Arthur Garfunkel being associated with 'Star-Eyes'.

The allusions surrounding 'Symeon Star-Eyes' with his sapphires for eyes got me thinking about:

'Diamonds on the soles of her shoes..'!

-- Paul Simon, Joseph Shabalala and Ladysmith Black Mambazo

(As an aside, I also like how he introduces Art Garfunkel at the end as 'my dear friend and partner in arguments,' considering the equivocal meaning of making an argument with someone in the sense of harmony, as one might do when one writes music and lyrics and sings together, in addition to the more conventional use of the word 'argument' as a feud, and just how bitter those 'arguments' were in their case).

 

If you liked that, you may like this -- I'm not sure it has any relation to GRRM, apart perhaps for his love of starry skies; it just makes me happy.  If I had to justify it, then I'd say it's because she reminds me of a grand old sad sun banished to the heart of winter for 31 years -- but then she returned; and beamed; and overshadowed even Simon with his starry eyes, voice and feet:

'Under African skies'

-- Paul Simon and Miriam Makeba ('Mama Afrika')

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

This poem reminds me of the 'salt of the earth,' of  Davos, of White Harbor, of poets like GRRM and JRRT who like to describe the landscape in intimate detail, perhaps more detailed even than for my particular taste, and last-but-not-least, my inscrutable element the sea/see.

I also like the communion between human and the seal, 'a believer in total immersion', who seems to enjoy music -- it reminds me of the 'song of the earth,' the Farwynds and the skinchanging of seals; and the momentary redemption afforded us by humor.

The description of the hand 'burn[ing] as if the water were a transmutation of fire 

that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. 

If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, 

then briny, then surely burn your tongue. 

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be' is an expression of  how I understand the union of ice and fire.

 

AT THE FISHHOUSES

 

Although it is a cold evening, 

down by one of the fishhouses 

an old man sits netting, 

his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, 

a dark purple-brown, 

and his shuttle worn and polished. 

The air smells so strong of codfish 

it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water. 

The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs 

and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up 

to storerooms in the gables 

for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. 

All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, 

swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, 

is opaque, but the silver of the benches, 

the lobster pots, and masts, scattered 

among the wild jagged rocks, 

is of an apparent translucence 

like the small old buildings with an emerald moss 

growing on their shoreward walls. 

The big fish tubs are completely lined 

with layers of beautiful herring scales 

and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered 

with creamy iridescent coats of mail, 

with small iridescent flies crawling on them. 

Up on the little slope behind the houses, 

set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, 

is an ancient wooden capstan, 

cracked, with two long bleached handles 

and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, 

where the ironwork has rusted. 

The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. 

He was a friend of my grandfather. 

We talk of the decline in the population 

and of codfish and herring 

while he waits for a herring boat to come in. 

There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb. 

He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, 

from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, 

the blade of which is almost worn away. 

 

Down at the water’s edge, at the place 

where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp 

descending into the water, thin silver 

tree trunks are laid horizontally 

across the gray stones, down and down 

at intervals of four or five feet. 

 

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, 

element bearable to no mortal, 

to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly 

I have seen here evening after evening. 

He was curious about me. He was interested in music; 

like me a believer in total immersion, 

so I used to sing him Baptist hymns. 

I also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” 

He stood up in the water and regarded me 

steadily, moving his head a little. 

Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge 

almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug 

as if it were against his better judgment. 

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, 

the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us, 

the dignified tall firs begin. 

Bluish, associating with their shadows, 

a million Christmas trees stand 

waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended 

above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. 

I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, 

slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, 

icily free above the stones, 

above the stones and then the world. 

If you should dip your hand in, 

your wrist would ache immediately, 

your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn 

as if the water were a transmutation of fire 

that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. 

If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, 

then briny, then surely burn your tongue. 

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: 

dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, 

drawn from the cold hard mouth 

of the world, derived from the rocky breasts 

forever, flowing and drawn, and since 

our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.   

 

ELIZABETH BISHOP

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I love this quote, this play and playwright.  It reminds me of the burning of the Winterfell library after the burning of the one at Alexandria; and of how we always imagine we're so original, when we're just burning a path others have burnt before us, and will after:

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Quote

“THOMASINA: ....the enemy who burned the great library of Alexandria without so much as a fine for all that is overdue. Oh, Septimus! -- can you bear it? All the lost plays of the Athenians! Two hundred at least by Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides -- thousands of poems -- Aristotle's own library!....How can we sleep for grief?

SEPTIMUS: By counting our stock. Seven plays from Aeschylus, seven from Sophocles, nineteen from Euripides, my lady! You should no more grieve for the rest than for a buckle lost from your first shoe, or for your lesson book which will be lost when you are old. We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it. The missing plays of Sophocles will turn up piece by piece, or be written again in another language. Ancient cures for diseases will reveal themselves once more. Mathematical discoveries glimpsed and lost to view will have their time again. You do not suppose, my lady, that if all of Archimedes had been hiding in the great library of Alexandria, we would be at a loss for a corkscrew?”


 Tom Stoppard, Arcadia

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
On 15-12-2016 at 5:37 AM, ravenous reader said:

Talking of songs, I thought I'd take the liberty of re-quoting one of my favorite posters, whom I have dubbed the honorary 'Princess of the Green,' @Tijgy who a while ago posted this delightful Schubert clip based on Goethe's poem 'The Elfking' on the 'Bran's Growing Powers after his last POV in ADWD' re-read thread:

The lyrics in German-English:

 

Thank you for the mentioning, RR :D A great thread you made, like you always! And thank you too, for another version of the balled, @Wizz-The-Smith.

I will admit though poetry isn't really my thing ;) But I still would like to contribute to this thread by referring to my favorite special form of poetry and classical music, meaning a symphonic poem (it calls a poem! :P). I chose the following one because it does make me think of the drowned god and our Patchface - who visited the 'kingdom' at the bottom of the sea. 

The Water Goblin by Dvorak 

Story told by the music : "A mother warns her daughter to stay away from the nearby lake because of a dream she has had about the water goblin. The daughter ignores the warning, goes to the lake and just as she begins to do her laundry she falls in. The goblin claims her as his wife. Her existence is sorrowful in his watery kingdom, but they have a child that is the only light in her life.  She begs the Goblin to let her go see her mother one more time.  The Goblin thinks it over and reluctantly agrees but on three conditions; She mustn't kiss or embrace anyone; she must return after one day as soon as the bells ring out for Vespers; and lastly she must leave the child with him as a hostage to guarantee her return.  The woman leaves and after a sad meeting between her and her mother the evening bell tolls, but her mother holds her back and prevents he leaving, which enrages the Goblin. He knocks on the door, saying the child must be fed. The mother refuses to open the door and demands the child be left with them. The Goblin is blinded by rage, and after awhile he returns to the lake. After a violent crash during a storm, the mother and daughter open the door and find the headless body of the child on the doorstep."

Dvorak based the music upon a poem written by the Czech writer, Karl Erben.

I did find some experts of a translation of the poem: 

On a poplar by the pool
The Goblin sat at twilight cool:
'Glow, moon, glow,
That my thread may sew.

For myself new boots I'm sewing, 

On dry land and water going:
Glow, moon, glow,
That my thread may sew.

'Thursday now—tomorrow's Friday—
sew a coat all trim and tidy:
Glow, moon, glow,
That my thread may sew.

Coat of green and boots of red, 

For tomorrow I'll be wed:
Glow, moon, glow,
That my thread may sew.'

On the lake the storm is shrieking;
In the storm the child screams shrill;
Screams that pierce the soul with anguish,
Then they suddenly fall still.
'Oh, my mother, please, oh, please!
At those cries my blood will freeze—
Mother mine, oh, dearest mother,
Fear of him my heart does fill!'

Something fell—beneath the doorway
Moisture trickles—tinged with red.
When the old one went to open,
What she saw filled her with dread.
In their blood, two objects lying
Sent cold terror through her flying:
Baby's head—without a body;
Tiny body—with no head.

(translation by Susan Reynolds)

Very sinister... 

And also a happy new year!

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I really love this thread. I'll just drop this here for now and may follow up on it later.

J.W. Goethe from Willhelm Meister's Apprenticeship Chapter I, Book III.

 

" Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom,

And oranges like gold in leafy gloom;

A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows,

The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows?

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there,

O my belov’d one, I with thee would go!

  

  Know’st thou the house, its porch with pillars tall?

The rooms do glitter, glitters bright the hall,

And marble statues stand, and look me on:

What’s this, poor child, to thee they’ve done?

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there,

O my protector, I with thee would go!

  

Know’st thou the mountain bridge that hangs on cloud?

The mules in mist grope o’er the torrent loud,

In caves lie coil’d the dragon’s ancient brood,

The crag leaps down and over it the flood:

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there

Our way runs; O my father, wilt thou go?"

As a song by Franz Schubert sung by Janet Baker

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
7 hours ago, Lykos said:

I really love this thread. I'll just drop this here for now and may follow up on it later.

J.W. Goethe from Willhelm Meister's Apprenticeship Chapter I, Book III.

 

" Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom,

And oranges like gold in leafy gloom;

A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows,

The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows?

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there,

O my belov’d one, I with thee would go!

  

  Know’st thou the house, its porch with pillars tall?

The rooms do glitter, glitters bright the hall,

And marble statues stand, and look me on:

What’s this, poor child, to thee they’ve done?

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there,

O my protector, I with thee would go!

  

Know’st thou the mountain bridge that hangs on cloud?

The mules in mist grope o’er the torrent loud,

In caves lie coil’d the dragon’s ancient brood,

The crag leaps down and over it the flood:

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there

Our way runs; O my father, wilt thou go?"

As a song by Franz Schubert sung by Janet Baker

 

Hi @Lykos -- A warm welcome to our thread and happy new year!  Thank you for your kind compliments; I very much appreciate it.  Sometimes I think the poetry I'm sending out there is falling on deaf ears, so it's nice to know someone out there is listening and enjoying along!  :)

For contributions of poems and songs translated into English, you may have noticed I try as far as possible to include the poem in the original language, out of respect to the writer and any of the readers who may be able to speak that language.  So I found this reference to the song in question 'Kennst Du das Land?' by Goethe in the original German, for those who are interested.

Inspired by your musical link, I also found this alternative version with Hugo Wolf and Elisabeth Schwarzkopf as composer and singer respectively:

 I also liked that as you listen to the song you can follow along on the screen simultaneously with both the German and English-translated lyrics (although I don't particularly like the English translation of the German, which is clumsy and 'off' at times; to which the translation you gave above is superior).  Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it -- and there are also some nice accompanying pictures of Italian scenes, which is of course Mignon's homeland for which she longs.

The you tube link includes a brief synopsis of the background behind the song:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZMe22tHvG4c

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Hey, first time poster here...happy new year everyone.

Not really a poetry kinda guy but every time I listen to Leonard Cohen's "The Partisan", I can't help but think of Arya and her struggle since leaving Kings Landing.

Quote

When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender
This I could not do
I took my gun and vanished.

I have changed my name so often
I've lost my wife and children
But I have many friends
And some of them are with me

An old woman gave us shelter
Kept us hidden in the garret
Then the soldiers came
She died without a whisper

There were three of us this morning
I'm the only one this evening
But I must go on
The frontiers are my prison

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing
Through the graves the wind is blowing
Freedom soon will come
Then we'll come from the shadows

I think it was written about the French Resistance but pretty much everything about it screams Arya to me. "I took my needle and vanished".

Anyways, cool thread ^_^

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
3 hours ago, dannicus said:

Hey, first time poster here...happy new year everyone.

Not really a poetry kinda guy but every time I listen to Leonard Cohen's "The Partisan", I can't help but think of Arya and her struggle since leaving Kings Landing.

Quote

When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender
This I could not do
I took my gun and vanished.

I have changed my name so often
I've lost my wife and children
But I have many friends
And some of them are with me

An old woman gave us shelter
Kept us hidden in the garret
Then the soldiers came
She died without a whisper

There were three of us this morning
I'm the only one this evening
But I must go on
The frontiers are my prison

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing
Through the graves the wind is blowing
Freedom soon will come
Then we'll come from the shadows

I think it was written about the French Resistance but pretty much everything about it screams Arya to me. "I took my needle and vanished".

Anyways, cool thread ^_^

Hi @dannicus -- Welcome to our thread and to the forum, and happy new year!  I'm honoured you chose my thread to begin your journey (beware it's a bottomless rabbit-hole, and you may never leave -- I mean the forum in general, not this thread in particular --  so enter with caution...:)).

Your statement that you're 'not really a poetry guy' taken in conjunction with your obvious love of Leonard Cohen -- the quintessential 'poetry guy' -- makes me smile.  I don't think it's possible to appreciate Leonard Cohen without having an affinity for poetry yourself!   One thing we're exploring over here is how poetry comes in many different forms, so I'm pleased you found a way to contribute.

What a beautiful song!  Indeed, it reminds me of Arya disappearing with Needle, 'changing her name so often,' losing so many people, but nevertheless making friends -- her saving grace amidst the carnage.  Listening to Leonard Cohen's raspy voice chiming his lone refusal to surrender, I'm moved anew by Arya's bravery, her unwillingness to compromise her integrity, her fierce desire to do right (even though she doesn't always get it right), and the poignancy of the line 'I must go on...the frontiers are my prison' -- will Arya be running forever, 'sewing all Winter long' till she's frozen, as Jon cautioned her against?  And the 'wind blowing through the graves' reminds me that Winter is coming, and with it a greenseer renaissance (Bran, in particular)...'Then we'll come from the shadows' -- what a great closing line -- reminds me of the greenseers, the direwolves, the Others, the Children of the Forest, the Kingsguard, the Faceless Men, Jaime and Arya who are all described as shadows.  One man's Winter is another man's (or girl's) Summer.

Quote

A Game of Thrones - Arya IV

She plunged through the kitchens and buttery, blind with panic, weaving between cooks and potboys. A baker's helper stepped in front of her, holding a wooden tray. Arya bowled her over, scattering fragrant loaves of fresh-baked bread on the floor. She heard shouting behind her as she spun around a portly butcher who stood gaping at her with a cleaver in his hands. His arms were red to the elbow.

All that Syrio Forel had taught her went racing through her head. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The grip of her wooden sword was slick with sweat, and Arya was breathing hard when she reached the turret stair. For an instant she froze. Up or down? Up would take her to the covered bridge that spanned the small court to the Tower of the Hand, but that would be the way they'd expect her to go, for certain. Never do what they expect, Syrio once said. Arya went down, around and around, leaping over the narrow stone steps two and three at a time. She emerged in a cavernous vaulted cellar, surrounded by casks of ale stacked twenty feet tall. The only light came through narrow slanting windows high in the wall.

...

Arya closed her eyes. For a moment she was too frightened to move. They had killed Jory and Wyl and Heward, and that guardsman on the step, whoever he had been. They could kill her father too, and her if they caught her. "Fear cuts deeper than swords," she said aloud, but it was no good pretending to be a water dancer, Syrio had been a water dancer and the white knight had probably killed him, and anyhow she was only a little girl with a wooden stick, alone and afraid.

She squirmed out into the yard, glancing around warily as she climbed to her feet. The castle seemed deserted. The Red Keep was never deserted. All the people must be hiding inside, their doors barred. Arya glanced up longingly at her bedchamber, then moved away from the Tower of the Hand, keeping close to the wall as she slid from shadow to shadow. She pretended she was chasing cats … except she was the cat now, and if they caught her, they would kill her.

Moving between buildings and over walls, keeping stone to her back wherever possible so no one could surprise her, Arya reached the stables almost without incident. A dozen gold cloaks in mail and plate ran past as she was edging across the inner bailey, but without knowing whose side they were on, she hunched down low in the shadows and let them pass.

To augment the lyrics as provided by you above, I was looking online for a you tube clip of 'The Partisan' as performed by Leonard and his band...Do you have a favorite version, the link of which you might add for those who are not familiar with the song?

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

To accompany the previous post, I found this version of Leonard Cohen and his band performing the song 'The Partisan' live in Ghent 2012:

 

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
Guest
This topic is now closed to further replies.

×