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

[hiemal]

2 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

Ha ha -- 'expansion' was indeed the operative word!  (I'll confess I was gently reprimanded at the time by @LmL, who rather ironically referred to my brazen and voluble outpouring as 'pulling an LmL...'!  )

/giggle

[hiemal]

Oh, and the Melisandre bit was even more silly: The Wasteland

...Only
There is shadow under this red rock,	25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust...   and later: I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs   Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—   I too awaited the expected guest.

[YOVMO]

I really want to begin contributing here. My first entry is something that I mentally connect on several levels

 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

[hiemal]

Can't bring up Carroll without the Hunting of the Snark:

...He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court,

   Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye,

Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig

   On the charge of deserting its sty.

 

The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw,

   That the sty was deserted when found:

And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law

   In a soft under-current of sound.

 

The indictment had never been clearly expressed,

   And it seemed that the Snark had begun,

And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed

   What the pig was supposed to have done.

 

The Jury had each formed a different view

   (Long before the indictment was read),

And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew

   One word that the others had said.

 

"You must know—" said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed "Fudge!"

   That statute is obsolete quite!

Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends

   On an ancient manorial right.

 

"In the matter of Treason the pig would appear

   To have aided, but scarcely abetted:

While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear,

   If you grant the plea 'never indebted.'

 

"The fact of Desertion I will not dispute;

   But its guilt, as I trust, is removed

(So far as relates to the costs of this suit)

   By the Alibi which has been proved...

 

No grumpkins, though.

 

 

 

[YOVMO]

32 minutes ago, hiemal said:

No grumpkins, though.

 

just because you don't see them doesn't mean they aren't there.......

 

 

[hiemal]

16 minutes ago, YOVMO said:

just because you don't see them doesn't mean they aren't there.......

 

 

Good point!

Back to Melisandre:

The Spanish Dancer

Ranier Maria Rilke

As on all its sides a kitchen-match darts white
flickering tongues before it bursts into flame:
with the audience around her, quickened, hot,
her dance begins to flicker in the dark room.

And all at once it is completely fire.

One upward glance and she ignites her hair
and, whirling faster and faster, fans her dress
into passionate flames, till it becomes a furnace
from which, like startled rattlesnakes, the long
naked arms uncoil, aroused and clicking.

And then: as if the fire were too tight
around her body, she takes and flings it out
haughtily, with an imperious gesture,
and watches: it lies raging on the floor,
still blazing up, and the flames refuse to die -
Till, moving with total confidence and a sweet
exultant smile, she looks up finally
and stamps it out with powerful small feet.

Rainer Maria Rilke

[YOVMO]

22 minutes ago, hiemal said:

 

Rainer Maria Rilke

Excellent job bringing the Rilke. I counter with some Heinrich Heine

Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep. 

Also, and I think I have mentioned this before and no one seemed to follow me at all, but I cannot listen to Bob Dylan's Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall without thinking about asoiaf. I know it takes some license and manipulation, acrobatics even, but it is in there if you look hard enough....the hard rain that will fall i take to be the long night. I have gone line by line and have an asoiaf connection to nearly all of them

 

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

[hiemal]

15 minutes ago, YOVMO said:

Excellent job bringing the Rilke. I counter with some Heinrich Heine

Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep. 

Also, and I think I have mentioned this before and no one seemed to follow me at all, but I cannot listen to Bob Dylan's Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall without thinking about asoiaf. I know it takes some license and manipulation, acrobatics even, but it is in there if you look hard enough....the hard rain that will fall i take to be the long night. I have gone line by line and have an asoiaf connection to nearly all of them

 

 

That's a whole 'nother kettle of worms...

 

It seems pretty good to me. All the right mythic notes have been hit.

 

[ravenous reader]

@YOVMO and @hiemal -- hi guys, sorry I'm late to the party; however, I really enjoyed watching your thrilling 'poetry duel' unfold, and will have more to say shortly.  Thanks for entertaining us with that scintillating poetry 'dance-off' display!  

[ravenous reader]

15 hours ago, Cowboy Dan said:

cool poetry thread, RR! Can't say it's in my wheelhouse but I'm certainly liking what I've read so far. I actually have collections of Frost and Poe, I'll have to start reading some of that now.

I feel like some guy from off the street that stumbled into a party mid-stream. I can't say I completely "get it" but I certainly like what I see 

You can also leave song lyrics, or video clips of songs, if you like -- e.g. choice clips of the Pink Floyd or Grateful Dead you've been mentioning has some bearing on ASOIAF (oh noooo, I shouldn't have said that; what have I unleashed..?!)  

[ravenous reader]

ABOUT BERRIES AND THE BROKEN WORLD

On another thread, this quote came up, in which Ned and the girls overnight in the Kings Landing godswood in order to give thanks for the news that the broken boy Bran is going to live, after all:

Quote

A Game of Thrones - Eddard V

Arya bit her lip. "What will Bran do when he's of age?"

Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."

"He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?"

Then we talked about the symbolism of 'smokeberry vines'...

5 hours ago, Blue Tiger said:

Since @ravenous reader posted this quote, I'll just mention that 'smokeberry' contains 'berry' suffix, which is a form of 'berg', often found it toponymy. It means 'hill'. So mayhaps 'smokeberry' = smoky hill (Winterfell).

I tried to search for 'smokeberry' -- from what I gather, I don't think smokeberries exist in nature -- apparently, that's another one of GRRM's coined words, though more accessible perhaps than 'nennymoan'!  (It might be interesting to compile a list of all GRRM's neologisms).

Quote

By the way, I really like that in English nearly all berries have something+berry structure... (blackberry, blueberry, mulberry, raspberry, smokeberry, strawberry, yew berry, sloe berry, lindenberry, cranberry, gooseberry, cloudberry, bilberry, bearberry, wolfsberry, seaberry, chokeberry, barberry, dewberry, elderberry, hackberry, huckleberry, jostaberry, cowberry, loganberry, marionberry, sheepberry, nannyberry, wineberry and so on...). In Polish these names are a complete mess, each berry fruit with different roots and origins... When I see some obscure name, regional and rarely used, even I sometimes don't know what's that market stall selling... 

it makes creating plants or my own world much easier... ravenberry sounds nice, don't you think? And tigerberry even better... 

Quote

Of all those English names I like 'mulberry' the most, and from Polish it'd be 'malina' = raspberry. And 'borówka' - the closest thing to 'berry' we have - it can be used to describe craneberry, blueberry and bilberry (but they still have their own names as well). It comes from 'bór' = conifer forest, and is often used in literature as archaism for 'woods'.

'Malina' and 'borówka' -- what beautiful names!

4 hours ago, Isobel Harper said:

So, remember my idea about the "dawn dragon people" who were ancestors of the Daynes?  The ones who "ran away with dragons?"  The idea behind the "proto-Valyrian" race in the forums is that they originated in Westeros, then spread east.  It seems to me (gods, I need to start my own thread on this) that this is not the case and (as I stated previously) that they actually sought refuge in Westeros.  The breaking up of the comet symbolizes their disagreement.  They refused to cooperate on working with dark magic, so they "broke away" from their tribe(s).  And the broken comet doesn't just symbolize a broken people, but also a broken world: the Hammer of the Waters, which divided the world into east and west. 

Well said, Isobel!

And so -- allow me to present the following two poems about the broken world, and berries too, inspired by and celebrating the lyrical turns of phrase from my fellow-posters @Blue Tiger and @Isobel Harper...

 

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

 

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

 

ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI

Translation:  Clare Cavanagh

 

In the original Polish:

Zagajewski Adam
Spróbuj opiewać okaleczony świat

Spróbuj opiewać okaleczony świat.
Pamiętaj o długich dniach czerwca
i o poziomkach, kroplach wina rosé.
O pokrzywach, które metodycznie zarastały
opuszczone domostwa wygnanych.
Musisz opiewać okaleczony świat.
Patrzyłeś na eleganckie jachty i okręty;
jeden z nich miał przed sobą długą podróż,
na inny czekała tylko słona nicość.
Widziałeś uchodźców, którzy szli donikąd ,
słyszałeś oprawców, którzy radośnie śpiewali.
Powinieneś opiewać okaleczony świat.
Pamiętaj o chwilach, kiedy byliście razem
w białym pokoju i firanka poruszyła się.
Wróć myślą do koncertu, kiedy wybuchła muzyka.
Jesienią zbierałeś żołędzie w parku
a liście wirowały nad bliznami ziemi.
Opiewaj okaleczony świat
i szare piórko, zgubione przez drozda,
i delikatne światło, które błądzi i znika
i powraca.

 

 

Blackberry-Picking

for Philip Hobsbaum

 

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. 

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot 

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. 

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet 

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it 

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for 

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger 

Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots 

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. 

Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills 

We trekked and picked until the cans were full, 

Until the tinkling bottom had been covered 

With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned 

Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered 

With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. 

 

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. 

But when the bath was filled we found a fur, 

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. 

The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush 

The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. 

I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair 

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. 

Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

 

SEAMUS HEANEY

 

[Bluetiger]

1 hour ago, ravenous reader said:

ABOUT BERRIES AND THE BROKEN WORLD

On another thread, this quote came up, in which Ned and the girls overnight in the Kings Landing godswood in order to give thanks for the news that the broken boy Bran is going to live, after all:

Then we talked about the symbolism of 'smokeberry vines'...

I tried to search for 'smokeberry' -- from what I gather, I don't think smokeberries exist in nature -- apparently, that's another one of GRRM's coined words, though more accessible perhaps than 'nennymoan'!  (It might be interesting to compile a list of all GRRM's neologisms).

'Malina' and 'borówka' -- what beautiful names!

Well said, Isobel!

And so -- allow me to present the following two poems about the broken world, and berries too, inspired by and celebrating the lyrical turns of phrase from my fellow-posters @Blue Tiger and @Isobel Harper...

 

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

 

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

 

ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI

Translation:  Clare Cavanagh

 

In the original Polish:

Zagajewski Adam
Spróbuj opiewać okaleczony świat

Spróbuj opiewać okaleczony świat.
Pamiętaj o długich dniach czerwca
i o poziomkach, kroplach wina rosé.
O pokrzywach, które metodycznie zarastały
opuszczone domostwa wygnanych.
Musisz opiewać okaleczony świat.
Patrzyłeś na eleganckie jachty i okręty;
jeden z nich miał przed sobą długą podróż,
na inny czekała tylko słona nicość.
Widziałeś uchodźców, którzy szli donikąd ,
słyszałeś oprawców, którzy radośnie śpiewali.
Powinieneś opiewać okaleczony świat.
Pamiętaj o chwilach, kiedy byliście razem
w białym pokoju i firanka poruszyła się.
Wróć myślą do koncertu, kiedy wybuchła muzyka.
Jesienią zbierałeś żołędzie w parku
a liście wirowały nad bliznami ziemi.
Opiewaj okaleczony świat
i szare piórko, zgubione przez drozda,
i delikatne światło, które błądzi i znika
i powraca.

 

 

Blackberry-Picking

 

for Philip Hobsbaum

 

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. 

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot 

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. 

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet 

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it 

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for 

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger 

Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots 

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. 

Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills 

We trekked and picked until the cans were full, 

Until the tinkling bottom had been covered 

With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned 

Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered 

With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. 

 

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. 

But when the bath was filled we found a fur, 

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. 

The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush 

The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. 

I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair 

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. 

Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

 

SEAMUS HEANEY

 

Thanks

[hiemal]

Ooh, both of those are shiver-worthy, and very reminiscent of GRRMverse. Vivid imagery and stark contrasts.

Very nice.

[hiemal]

Not exactly a poem, but the fist word of James Joyce's impenetrable novel, "Finnegan's Wake" is "Riverrun."

[Pain killer Jane]

On 1/15/2017 at 11:21 AM, hiemal said:

Which brought me back to: The Wasteland

Oh The Wasteland. I haven't seen that poem in years. It still irks me. 

So I have a new poem.  

Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it’s much too small, because she won’t curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.
But you do not wake up a month from then, two months
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,
—mothers and fathers don’t die.

And if you have said, “For heaven’s sake, must you always be kissing a person?”
Or, “I do wish to gracious you’d stop tapping on the window with your thimble!”
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you’re busy having fun,
Is plenty of time to say, “I’m sorry, mother.”

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died,
who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries;
they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake
them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide
back into their chairs.

Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.

 

Quote

That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time . . . until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead.

King Robert sat with his guts spilling out on the table from the great gash in his belly, and Lord Eddard was headless beside him. Corpses lined the benches below, grey-brown flesh sloughing off their bones as they raised their cups to toast, worms crawling in and out of the holes that were their eyes. He knew them, every one; Jory Cassel and Fat Tom, Porther and Cayn and Hullen the master of horse, and all the others who had ridden south to King's Landing never to return. Mikken and Chayle sat together, one dripping blood and the other water. Benfred Tallhart and his Wild Hares filled most of a table. The miller's wife was there as well, and Farlen, even the wildling Theon had killed in the wolfswood the day he had saved Bran's life.

But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna. Her brother Brandon stood beside her, and their father Lord Rickard just behind. Along the walls figures half-seen moved through the shadows, pale shades with long grim faces. The sight of them sent fear shivering through Theon sharp as a knife. And then the tall doors opened with a crash, and a freezing gale blew down the hall, and Robb came walking out of the night. Grey Wind stalked beside, eyes burning, and man and wolf alike bled from half a hundred savage wounds.

-Theon V, aCoK

Quote

My princess," he sobbed. "We've been dishonored, Aenys says. There was a bird from the Twins. My lord father says I'll need to marry someone else, or be a septon."

A stupid princess, she thought, that's nothing to cry over. "My brothers might be dead," she confided.

Elmar gave her a scornful look. "No one cares about a serving girl's brothers."

-Arya X, aCoK

 

 

[hiemal]

2 hours ago, Pain killer Jane said:

Oh The Wasteland. I haven't seen that poem in years. It still irks me. 

So I have a new poem.  

Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950

 

/sniffle

That one's a doozy.

[hiemal]

The Sick Rose

 

By William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

One of my very favorite by Blake, and when I heard this song I immediately fell in love- although pretty much everybody else in the world hates them... "Love's Secret Domain" by Coil
   Oh rose, thou art sick
Seduce...let loose
The vision and the void
Blood sickle...honey suck
In little children's heavy heads
My dreams erupt while in my bed
Innocence is dripping red
In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk with you
In dreams
You're mine
All of the time

Heads on fire and drunken lights
Days devoured by hungry nights
In love's secret domain
This is mad love
This is mad love
In love's secret domain
Sweet tortures fly on mystery wings
Pure evil is when flowers sing
My heart
My heart
My heart is a rose
This is mad love, Oh
This is mad love
In love's secret domain

Give sanity a longer leash, but
Some of us have sharper teeth
In love's secret domain
In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk with you
In dreams
You're mine
All of the time
Oh rose, Thou art sick
The invisible worm
The vision and the void
The blood sickle cuts
And the honey sucks

Oh rose, thou art sick!

 

 

[Pain killer Jane]

31 minutes ago, hiemal said:

The Sick Rose

 

By William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

One of my very favorite by Blake, and when I heard this song I immediately fell in love- although pretty much everybody else in the world hates them... "Love's Secret Domain" by Coil
 

 

Oh look its Rhaegar and Lyanna. I forgot about that Blake poem. I have never heard the song before.

44 minutes ago, hiemal said:

/sniffle

That one's a doozy

It is the despair about how the speaker talks about the death of a parent makes you a grown is absolutely correct. 

 

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

                          1

    She walks in beauty, like the night 
        Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
    And all that's best of dark and bright 
        Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
    Thus mellowed to that tender light 
        Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
                                     2 
    One shade the more, one ray the less, 
        Had half impaired the nameless grace 
    Which waves in every raven tress, 
        Or softly lightens o'er her face; 
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
        How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
                                      3 
    And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
        So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
        But tell of days in goodness spent, 
    A mind at peace with all below, 
        A heart whose love is innocent!

 

Quote

Ygritte had been kissed by fire...

 Ygritte had been pretty in her own way, with her red hair kissed by fire, but it was her smile that made her face come alive. 

She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander's Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. 

....the gleam of fire in her hair, the look on her face when she'd disrobed for him in the grotto, the sound of her voice. 

- Jon during aDwD

 

[ravenous reader]

3 hours ago, hiemal said:

The Sick Rose

 

By William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

One of my very favorite by Blake, and when I heard this song I immediately fell in love- although pretty much everybody else in the world hates them... "Love's Secret Domain" by Coil
   Oh rose, thou art sick
Seduce...let loose
The vision and the void
Blood sickle...honey suck
In little children's heavy heads
My dreams erupt while in my bed
Innocence is dripping red
In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk with you
In dreams
You're mine
All of the time

Heads on fire and drunken lights
Days devoured by hungry nights
In love's secret domain
This is mad love
This is mad love
In love's secret domain
Sweet tortures fly on mystery wings
Pure evil is when flowers sing
My heart
My heart
My heart is a rose
This is mad love, Oh
This is mad love
In love's secret domain

Give sanity a longer leash, but
Some of us have sharper teeth
In love's secret domain
In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk with you
In dreams
You're mine
All of the time
Oh rose, Thou art sick
The invisible worm
The vision and the void
The blood sickle cuts
And the honey sucks

Oh rose, thou art sick!

That's a 'sick' song in more ways than one, lol!

Herewith a video clip for those who missed out on that 'sickle-suckle' immersion of obsessive 'love':

By the way, that album art, though static, is rather dynamically obscene; but far milder on the eye than the other video I had the misfortune to stumble across!

P.S.  @hiemal Of whom or what in ASOIAF did this poem and/or song remind you specifically?

Also, talking of 'Coil', have you read my thoughts on 'Coiling'?

 

If you like 'darkly' erotic poetry, you might like this one by Lionel Johnson.  The poet struggled with his own homosexuality, and freeing himself from the shame he felt regarding the direction of his desires in his time, which he accordingly tried to repress.  In addition, he abused alcohol and died prematurely of a stroke.

 

The Dark Angel

 

DARK Angel, with thine aching lust
To rid the world of penitence:
Malicious Angel, who still dost
My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing,
Abides for me undesecrate:
Dark Angel, ever on the wing,
Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou
Its silvery to a sultry fire:
Nor will thine envious heart allow
Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn,
To Furies, O mine Enemy!
And all the things of beauty burn
With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams
Becomes a gathering place of fears:
Until tormented slumber seems
One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers,
Or ripples down the dancing sea:
Thou, with thy troop of passionate powers,
Beleaguerest, bewilderest, me.

Within the breath of autumn woods,
Within the winter silences:
Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,
O Master of impieties!

The ardour of red flame is thine,
And thine the steely soul of ice:
Thou poisonest the fair design
Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;
Waters of bitterness, how sweet!
O banquet of a foul delight,
Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,
The hinting tone, the haunting laugh:
Thou art the adorner of my tomb,
The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name!
Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith:
Tempter! should I escape thy flame,
Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:

The second Death, that never dies,
That cannot die, when time is dead:
Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,
Eternally uncomforted.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust!
Of two defeats, of two despairs:
Less dread, a change to drifting dust,
Than thine eternity of cares.

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so,
Dark Angel! triumph over me:
Lonely, unto the Lone I go;
Divine, to the Divinity. 

 

        Lionel Johnson

 

[hiemal]

4 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

That's a 'sick' song in more ways than one, lol!

Herewith a video clip for those who missed out on that 'sickle-suckle' immersion of obsessive 'love':

By the way, that album art, though static, is rather dynamically obscene; but far milder on the eye than the other video I had the misfortune to stumble across!

P.S.  @hiemal Of whom or what in ASOIAF did this poem and/or song remind you specifically?

Also, talking of 'Coil', have you read my thoughts on 'Coiling'?

 

If you like 'darkly' erotic poetry, you might like this one by Lionel Johnson.  The poet struggled with his own homosexuality, and freeing himself from the shame he felt regarding the direction of his desires in his time, which he accordingly tried to repress.  In addition, he abused alcohol and died prematurely of a stroke.

 

The Dark Angel

 

...The ardour of red flame is thine,
And thine the steely soul of ice:
Thou poisonest the fair design
Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;
Waters of bitterness, how sweet!
O banquet of a foul delight,
Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,
The hinting tone, the haunting laugh:
Thou art the adorner of my tomb,
The minstrel of mine epitaph...

 

 

        Lionel Johnson

 

I've never actually watched the video- the real one, I mean- I've heard things about it that were... disturbing and which your account may confirm. 'nuff said. I love the evocative nature of Coil's music, but some of their habits are strictly their own,..

As for the particular Westerosi obsession that the Sick Rose and the song it partially inspired I it reminds me of the Tyrell's and Cersei trying to uproot them. Not all obsession is romantic of sexual, even in GRRMverse.

That bit there by Mr. Johnson could be dedicated to GRRM himself!