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

[Frey family reunion]

Excellent thread.  Here is an ode to my favorite bat shit crazy red priestess warming the boys up on the Wall. Keep up the good fight Mel.

Rudyard Kipling

A Song to Mithras

Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa A.D. 350
"On the Great Wall" - Puck of Pook's Hill 

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
“Rome is above the Nations, but thou art over all!”
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat.
Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour – now lest we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main –
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great Bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh, take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned – all of them lead to Light!
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright.

[ravenous reader]

2 hours ago, Frey family reunion said:

Excellent thread.  Here is an ode to my favorite bat shit crazy red priestess warming the boys up on the Wall. Keep up the good fight Mel.

Rudyard Kipling

A Song to Mithras

Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa A.D. 350
"On the Great Wall" - Puck of Pook's Hill 

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
“Rome is above the Nations, but thou art over all!”
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat.
Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour – now lest we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main –
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great Bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh, take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned – all of them lead to Light!
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright.

Hi @Frey family reunion-- welcome and thanks for gracing this thread with your learned and well-spoken presence, and this perfect poem!     'Warming the boys up on the wall' ...LOL.  What is the 'Great Wall' in question mentioned at the top of the poem?

[Pain killer Jane]

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

   Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

   For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! 

   And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

   And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

   And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

- The Destruction of Sennacherib, Lord Byron

 

Many people know Lord Byron from the poem She Walks in Beauty. Sennacherib was an Assyrian king whose name means "Sin has replaced the brothers", Sin is the Semitic name for the Sumerian God of the Moon, Nanna. He is credited with the creation of the prototype of the Hanging Gardens, the enrichment of Nineveh, military campaigns against Bablyon and Judah, was not the first born son of his father and then subsequently assassinated by his son. Very BSE/AA-esque. 

My favorite line is "the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea" it reminds me of 

A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the sunburst of Karstark.

- Tyrion VIII, aGoT

[Frey family reunion]

1 hour ago, ravenous reader said:

Hi @Frey family reunion-- welcome and thanks for gracing this thread with your learned and well-spoken presence, and this perfect poem!     'Warming the boys up on the wall' ...LOL.  What is the 'Great Wall' in question mentioned at the top of the poem?

The same Wall that inspired Martin's, Hadrian's.  The poem was lifted from Kipling's Puck of Pook's Hill, the entirety of which must have been a huge influence in ASOIAF.

[ravenous reader]

14 hours ago, Pain killer Jane said:

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

   Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

   For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! 

   And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

   And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

   And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

- The Destruction of Sennacherib, Lord Byron

 

Many people know Lord Byron from the poem She Walks in Beauty. Sennacherib was an Assyrian king whose name means "Sin has replaced the brothers", Sin is the Semitic name for the Sumerian God of the Moon, Nanna. He is credited with the creation of the prototype of the Hanging Gardens, the enrichment of Nineveh, military campaigns against Bablyon and Judah, was not the first born son of his father and then subsequently assassinated by his son. Very BSE/AA-esque. 

My favorite line is "the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea" it reminds me of 

A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the sunburst of Karstark.

- Tyrion VIII, aGoT

Hi @Pain killer Jane, thanks for your further contributions.    What a powerful poem!  I also like that line 'the sheen on their spears was like stars on the sea' -- it reminds me of that line from that scene in the Whispering Wood we've been returning to frequently of late:

Quote

A Game of Thrones - Catelyn X

Catelyn sat on her horse, unmoving, with Hal Mollen and her guard around her, and she waited as she had waited before, for Brandon and Ned and her father. She was high on the ridge, and the trees hid most of what was going on beneath her. A heartbeat, two, four, and suddenly it was as if she and her protectors were alone in the wood. The rest were melted away into the green.

Yet when she looked across the valley to the far ridge, she saw the Greatjon's riders emerge from the darkness beneath the trees. They were in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst from the wood there was an instant, the smallest part of a heartbeat, when all Catelyn saw was the moonlight on the points of their lances, as if a thousand willowisps were coming down the ridge, wreathed in silver flame.

Then she blinked, and they were only men, rushing down to kill or die.

Also, the lines about 'the Angel of Death spreading his wings on the blast, and breathing in the face of the foe as he passed' and of how the foe 'hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord' reminds me of Dany's fantasies of melting away her enemies at the Trident with her superior dragonfire from above!

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Daenerys III

Ser Jorah had no answer. He only smiled, and touched her hair, so lightly. It was enough.

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened.

She woke suddenly in the darkness of her cabin, still flush with triumph

 

[Pain killer Jane]

1 hour ago, ravenous reader said:

it reminds me of that line from that scene in the Whispering Wood we've been returning to frequently of late:

Quote

A Game of Thrones - Catelyn X

Catelyn sat on her horse, unmoving, with Hal Mollen and her guard around her, and she waited as she had waited before, for Brandon and Ned and her father. She was high on the ridge, and the trees hid most of what was going on beneath her. A heartbeat, two, four, and suddenly it was as if she and her protectors were alone in the wood. The rest were melted away into the green.

Yet when she looked across the valley to the far ridge, she saw the Greatjon's riders emerge from the darkness beneath the trees. They were in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst from the wood there was an instant, the smallest part of a heartbeat, when all Catelyn saw was the moonlight on the points of their lances, as if a thousand willowisps were coming down the ridge, wreathed in silver flame.

Then she blinked, and they were only men, rushing down to kill or die.

You're welcome. That is a fantastic find. I don't think we will ever get away from the Whispering Woods. They all seem to be referring back to the meteor shower of the broken moon. The stars and sea part reminds me of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. 

1 hour ago, ravenous reader said:

Also, the lines about 'the Angel of Death spreading his wings on the blast, and breathing in the face of the foe as he passed' and of how the foe 'hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord' reminds me of Dany's fantasies of melting away her enemies at the Trident with her superior dragonfire from above!

Yes that does fit. It also reminds me of the Shrouded Lord and his grey kiss spreading Greyscale. 

[ravenous reader]

Some of us have recognised Norse mythological figures reworked in GRRM's vision, particularly in the figure of Bran the skinchanger/greenseer who recapitulates the Norse god Odin riding, or in GRRM's parlance 'skinchanging,' the horse 'Sleipneir' -- which means ’slipper’ or ‘sliding’ one -- up and down the length of the world-tree Yggdrasil (a weirwood analog).

See Sleipnir -- Slipper -- Sliding one

Odin's horse 'Sleipner' had 8 legs like a spider, perhaps representing the eight compass and wind directions, with which to navigate the web/fabric of time and space: 'web of Urdr' spun by the Norns/Fates.  The horse was a kind of psychopomp capable of 'mounting the world' and facilitating the passage to the Underworld.

The whole dirty velvet business of skinchanging got me thinking about slipping into a pair of slippers, as a metaphor for slipping ones skin!  Climbing into someone else’s shoes, as it were – which is basically what skinchanging is.  Slippers were traditionally made of fur and leather, so slipping into a pair of slippers is literally slipping into someone else’s skin.

Similarly, GRRM compares Bran’s experience of skinchanging Hodor with slipping into a pair of boots:  

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Bran IV

. . . he slipped his skin, and reached for Hodor.

It was not like sliding into Summer. That was so easy now that Bran hardly thought about it. This was harder, like trying to pull a left boot on your right foot. It fit all wrong, and the boot was scared too, the boot didn't know what was happening, the boot was pushing the foot away. He tasted vomit in the back of Hodor's throat, and that was almost enough to make him flee. Instead he squirmed and shoved, sat up, gathered his legs under him—his huge strong legs—and rose. I'm standing. He took a step. I'm walking. It was such a strange feeling that he almost fell. He could see himself on the cold stone floor, a little broken thing, but he wasn't broken now. He grabbed Hodor's longsword. The breathing was as loud as a blacksmith's bellows.

Hodor is a stableboy who works with horses, so when we meet him there’s an immediate association with horses -- he even smells of horses, is said to 'trot' (hardly coincidental), and his 'Hodor' is even directly compared to neighing on one occasion -- evoking 'Sleipnir'.  His mysterious name also reminds one of ‘Odin’ or ‘Other', 'odor,' or 'Hodr’?

After Bran has lost the use of his legs, he thinks of using Hodor as a horse – which of course is what he later does, first travelling via the wicker basket, which essentially represents a saddle, on Hodor’s back; and later by committing the abomination of skinchanging him in secret. 

In the poem to follow, namely 'Ode to my Socks,' the socks into which the poet slips are similarly personified as magical craft – which thrill the poet wearing them, but also leave him feeling somewhat remorseful for using the socks as vehicles for his graceless feat (pun unintended!)  Presumably, it’s also because the toes and toenails are dirty, sharp things which submit the socks to wear and tear and a certain ignominy, always being in contact with the feet and the ground, eventually ruining the socks.  The narrator even compares the act of putting on the socks to reluctantly sacrificing a rare green deer, and himself to an 'explorer in the jungle'.  With Hodor, Bran is undoubtedly poking holes into him, and similarly there is a certain disturbing sacrifice involved, although Bran's also relishing the joyride…

 

ODE TO MY SOCKS

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted with her own
sheepherder hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as if they were
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and the pelt of sheep

Outrageous socks,
my feet became
two fish
made of wool,
two long sharks
of ultramarine blue
crossed
by one golden hair,
two gigantic blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
that for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
of those luminous
socks.

Nevertheless,
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as scholars
collect
sacred documents,
I resisted
the wild impulse
to put them
in a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and chunks of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle
who hand over the rare
green deer
to the roasting spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the
magnificent
socks
and
then my shoes.

And the moral of my ode
is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it’s a matter of two
woolen socks
in winter.

Pablo Neruda

-- translated by Stephen Mitchell

 

Oda a los Calcetines

Me trajo Mara Mori
un par de calcetines,
que tejió con sus manos de pastora,
dos calcetines suaves como liebres.
En ellos metí los pies
como en dos estuches
tejidos con hebras del
crepúsculo y pellejos de ovejas.

Violentos calcetines,
mis pies fueron dos pescados de lana,
dos largos tiburones
de ázul ultramarino
atravesados por una trenza de oro,
dos gigantescos mirlos,
dos cañones;
mis pies fueron honrados de este modo
por estos celestiales calcetines.

Eran tan hermosos que por primera vez
mis pies me parecieron inaceptables,
como dos decrépitos bomberos,
bomberos indignos de aquél fuego bordado,
de aquellos luminosos calcetines.

Sin embargo, resistí la tentación
aguda de guardarlos como los colegiales
preservan las luciernagas,
como los heruditos coleccionan
documentos sagrados,
resisti el impulso furioso de ponerlas
en una jaula de oro y darle cada
día alpiste y pulpa de melón rosado.

Como descubridores que en la selva
entragan el rarísimo venado verde
al asador y se lo comen con remordimiento,
estire los pies y me enfunde
los bellos calcetines, y luego los zapatos.
Y es esta la moral de mi Oda:
Dos veces es belleza la belleza,
y lo que es bueno es doblemente bueno,
cuando se trata de dos calcetines
de lana en el invierno.
 

(Somehow, I don't think that's the 'moral' of GRRM's 'ode' -- 'beauty is twice beauty'...!)

**P.S. @Blue Tiger my oracle in all things Norse -- Niebieski, anything to add on Sleipnir-Odin-Hodr, etc. as it relates to Hodor and/or Bran?

[Jon's Queen Consort]

I can actually see many parents from GRRTH sing it for their sons who have died in the war. Rhaenyra,  Alannys and  Cat, if she had survived are just some of them.

Quote

Iroh’s song about Lu Ten  "Leaves from the Vine" from Avatar; the last airbender

Leaves from the vine
falling so slow,
like fragile, tiny shells
drifting in the foam.

Little soldier boy
come marching home
brave soldier boy
comes marching home

 

Furthermore there were some poems and songs, some of them were inspired by real word’s songs and poems, created by posters of this forum.

[ravenous reader]

4 hours ago, Jon's Queen Consort said:

I can actually see many parents from GRRTH sing it for their sons who have died in the war. Rhaenyra,  Alannys and  Cat, if she had survived are just some of them.

Quote

Iroh’s song about Lu Ten  "Leaves from the Vine" from Avatar; the last airbender

Leaves from the vine
falling so slow,
like fragile, tiny shells
drifting in the foam.

Little soldier boy
come marching home
brave soldier boy
comes marching home

 

Furthermore there were some poems and songs, some of them were inspired by real word’s songs and poems, created by posters of this forum.

Hi @Jon's Queen Consort -- welcome to our poetry thread and thanks for your contribution.  Original poems and songs created by posters of this forum are also welcome over here!  

[Bluetiger]

12 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

Some of us have recognised Norse mythological figures reworked in GRRM's vision, particularly in the figure of Bran the skinchanger/greenseer who recapitulates the Norse god Odin riding, or in GRRM's parlance 'skinchanging,' the horse 'Sleipneir' -- which means ’slipper’ or ‘sliding’ one -- up and down the length of the world-tree Yggdrasil (a weirwood analog).

See Sleipnir -- Slipper -- Sliding one

Odin's horse 'Sleipner' had 8 legs like a spider, perhaps representing the eight compass and wind directions, with which to navigate the web/fabric of time and space: 'web of Urdr' spun by the Norns/Fates.  The horse was a kind of psychopomp capable of 'mounting the world' and facilitating the passage to the Underworld.

The whole dirty velvet business of skinchanging got me thinking about slipping into a pair of slippers, as a metaphor for slipping ones skin!  Climbing into someone else’s shoes, as it were – which is basically what skinchanging is.  Slippers were traditionally made of fur and leather, so slipping into a pair of slippers is literally slipping into someone else’s skin.

Similarly, GRRM compares Bran’s experience of skinchanging Hodor with slipping into a pair of boots:  

Hodor is a stableboy who works with horses, so when we meet him there’s an immediate association with horses -- he even smells of horses and his 'Hodor' is compared to neighing on one occasion -- evoking 'Sleipnir'.  His mysterious name also reminds one of ‘Odin’ or ‘Other', 'odor,' or 'Hodr’?

After Bran has lost the use of his legs, he thinks of using Hodor as a horse – which of course is what he later does, first travelling via the wicker basket, which essentially represents a saddle, on Hodor’s back; and later by committing the abomination of skinchanging him in secret. 

In the poem to follow, namely 'Ode to my Socks,' the socks into which the poet slips are similarly personified as magical craft – which thrill the poet wearing them, but also leave him feeling somewhat remorseful for using the socks as vehicles for his graceless feat (pun unintended!)  Presumably, it’s also because the toes and toenails are dirty, sharp things which submit the socks to wear and tear and a certain ignominy, always being in contact with the feet and the ground, eventually ruining the socks.  The narrator even compares the act of putting on the socks to reluctantly sacrificing a rare green deer, and himself to an 'explorer in the jungle'.  With Hodor, Bran is undoubtedly poking holes into him, and similarly there is a certain disturbing sacrifice involved, although Bran's also relishing the joyride…

 

ODE TO MY SOCKS

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted with her own
sheepherder hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as if they were
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and the pelt of sheep

Outrageous socks,
my feet became
two fish
made of wool,
two long sharks
of ultramarine blue
crossed
by one golden hair,
two gigantic blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
that for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
of those luminous
socks.

Nevertheless,
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as scholars
collect
sacred documents,
I resisted
the wild impulse
to put them
in a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and chunks of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle
who hand over the rare
green deer
to the roasting spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the
magnificent
socks
and
then my shoes.

And the moral of my ode
is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it’s a matter of two
woolen socks
in winter.

Pablo Neruda

-- translated by Stephen Mitchell

 

Oda a los Calcetines

Me trajo Mara Mori
un par de calcetines,
que tejió con sus manos de pastora,
dos calcetines suaves como liebres.
En ellos metí los pies
como en dos estuches
tejidos con hebras del
crepúsculo y pellejos de ovejas.

Violentos calcetines,
mis pies fueron dos pescados de lana,
dos largos tiburones
de ázul ultramarino
atravesados por una trenza de oro,
dos gigantescos mirlos,
dos cañones;
mis pies fueron honrados de este modo
por estos celestiales calcetines.

Eran tan hermosos que por primera vez
mis pies me parecieron inaceptables,
como dos decrépitos bomberos,
bomberos indignos de aquél fuego bordado,
de aquellos luminosos calcetines.

Sin embargo, resistí la tentación
aguda de guardarlos como los colegiales
preservan las luciernagas,
como los heruditos coleccionan
documentos sagrados,
resisti el impulso furioso de ponerlas
en una jaula de oro y darle cada
día alpiste y pulpa de melón rosado.

Como descubridores que en la selva
entragan el rarísimo venado verde
al asador y se lo comen con remordimiento,
estire los pies y me enfunde
los bellos calcetines, y luego los zapatos.
Y es esta la moral de mi Oda:
Dos veces es belleza la belleza,
y lo que es bueno es doblemente bueno,
cuando se trata de dos calcetines
de lana en el invierno.
 

(Somehow, I don't think that's the 'moral' of GRRM's 'ode' -- 'beauty is twice beauty'...!)

**P.S. @Blue Tiger my oracle in all things Norse -- Niebieski, anything to add on Sleipnir-Odin-Hodr, etc. as it relates to Hodor and/or Bran?

I don't see anything else, but I'll just show this - http://norse-mythology.org/gods-and-creatures/others/sleipnir/
 

Quote

Sleipnir (pronounced “SLAYP-neer”; Old Norse Sleipnir, “The Sliding One”) is the eight-legged horse of the god Odin. Sleipnir is one of Odin’s many shamanic helping spirits, ranks that also include the valkyries and Hugin and Munin, and he can probably be classified as a fylgja. Odin rides Sleipnir on his frequent journeys throughout the Nine Worlds, which are held in the branches and roots of the world-tree Yggdrasil.

The eight-legged horse as a means of transportation used by shamans in their ecstatic travels throughout the cosmos is a motif that can be found in a staggering number of indigenous traditions from all over the world. Sleipnir is “the shamanic horse par excellence,”just as Odin is the shamanic god par excellence.

Sleipnir was born when the god Loki shape-shifted into a mare and became pregnant by the stallion of a giant, as is recounted in the tale of The Fortification of Asgard."

 

[Jon's Queen Consort]

4 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

Hi @Jon's Queen Consort -- welcome to our poetry thread and thanks for your contribution.  Original poems and songs created by posters of this forum are also welcome over here!  

Great! This is the tumblr http://shardsofbards.tumblr.com/ where someone can read some of them.

One of them, just for fun, is this one. (Please don't be harsh, English isn't the first language)

The Starks of Winterfell

Ned’s face is plain and long

and he won a battle that was lost.

But now his head is on King’s Landing’s wall

when he died the war was on.

 

Robb was brave and strong

and he had his crown on

But he married the wrong maiden fair

and now he has wolf’s hair.

 

Sansa was a maiden fair.

Sewing and singing and brushing her hair.

A wolf, a lion thought that was a lie

but she will make the bad man fly.

 

Arya’s face was long and horsey

and she always preferred to be outdoorsy.

Valar morghulis she just said

and brought her own certain end.

 

Bran always enjoyed climbing,

but the knight was a monster and made him flying.

Don’t despair he is alive

and he will be there after everyone die.

 

Rickon the younger grew angry and alone,

left with Osha and got lost.

But now that this mummer’s farce is done,

the Onion Knight will bring him home.

 

Though he is a Snow Jon is here,

having a white wolf near.

He felt in a trap without seeing

and then he found his red sword to save the Realm to save his kin!

Because he is the once and future King!

 

Those are the Starks we love seeing.

Because they are special and honorable beings.

Though they are scattered they are not lost

because winter is coming to Westeros.

[Wizz-The-Smith]

Now Hear the Hollow Hills:  by Ken Taylor.   

Now hear the hollow hills,

now walk on shards,

hear the depth of colour,

watch white birds hawk the

blackened plains.

 

Sit amongst stones,

sing summer songs of dust

and ashes,

and let the lessons begin.

 

Tears or death?

...then let your tears

form floods within the dark

divisions of a moon-mad sea.

 

Winds shall stamp

their will

on such a sea

and shriek

and blow great mountains

into mist and

spiral drifts

of time

at the edge

of all the worlds.

 

And time can lose its way,

dilate and drift in

the sweep and suck of

space and search for shape

in wedges, cockles, spiral

cones and cowries,

become a wave and leave this

shoreline trace where you

have brought me.

 

The only gift

is time,

early seas,

the flutter of

land birds and that

particular silence as

colour seeps into the

edges of a washed out

world.

 

Hunger-smash

gannets

prick the surface

of an indigo

sea

and flying fish,

bright as your tears,

thrown up from the sea as

handfuls of silver

dollars,

click against a clear

blue sky.

 

Clocks start again.

There will be seasons,

the smell of earth,

so many flowers to

beguile the world.

 

I couldn't resist. 

[ravenous reader]

On 1/11/2017 at 1:56 PM, Jon's Queen Consort said:

Though they are scattered they are not lost

because winter is coming to Westeros.

Nice line!  It reminds me of this classic:

 

'All that is gold does not glitter' ('The riddle of Strider')

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

-- J.R.R. Tolkien

 

[ravenous reader]

2 hours ago, Wizz-The-Smith said:

Now Hear the Hollow Hills:  by Ken Taylor.   

Now hear the hollow hills,

now walk on shards,

hear the depth of colour,

watch white birds hawk the

blackened plains.

 

Sit amongst stones,

sing summer songs of dust

and ashes,

and let the lessons begin.

 

Tears or death?

...then let your tears

form floods within the dark

divisions of a moon-mad sea.

 

Winds shall stamp

their will

on such a sea

and shriek

and blow great mountains

into mist and

spiral drifts

of time

at the edge

of all the worlds.

 

And time can lose its way,

dilate and drift in

the sweep and suck of

space and search for shape

in wedges, cockles, spiral

cones and cowries,

become a wave and leave this

shoreline trace where you

have brought me.

 

The only gift

is time,

early seas,

the flutter of

land birds and that

particular silence as

colour seeps into the

edges of a washed out

world.

 

Hunger-smash

gannets

prick the surface

of an indigo

sea

and flying fish,

bright as your tears,

thrown up from the sea as

handfuls of silver

dollars,

click against a clear

blue sky.

 

Clocks start again.

There will be seasons,

the smell of earth,

so many flowers to

beguile the world.

 

I couldn't resist. 

'Now Hear the Hollow Hills' ...haven't I heard enough of them already?    No, just kidding -- we can never get enough of those hollow hills...they are EVERYWHERE!  For those of you who still aren't familiar with what we're referencing, here is the link to Wizz's classic thread:

What a gorgeous poem; and thanks for introducing me to this notable Aussie poet.  

'Sit amongst stones, sing summer songs of dust and ashes, and let the lessons begin' reminds me of Brandon learning the 'song of stones' which is the song of the earth and the other celestial bodies.

Quote

The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Dawn Age

Their song and music was said to be as beautiful as they were, but what they sang of is not remembered save in small fragments handed down from ancient days. Maester Childer's Winter's Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell contains a part of a ballad alleged to tell of the time Brandon the Builder sought the aid of the children while raising the Wall. He was taken to a secret place to meet with them, but could not at first understand their speech, which was described as sounding like the song of stones in a brook, or the wind through leaves, or the rain upon the water. The manner in which Brandon learned to comprehend the speech of the children is a tale in itself, and not worth repeating here. But it seems clear that their speech originated, or drew inspiration from, the sounds they heard every day

I know it's 'not worth repeating here,' but somehow I can't help repeating this quote whenever I get the opportunity!  Ha ha.

The same poet also wrote the following poem entitled 'Things' which similarly reminds me of Brandon learning his lessons, in order to ultimately 'see the truth that lies beneath the world':

Quote

A Storm of Swords - Bran I

"Then you teach me." Bran still feared the three-eyed crow who haunted his dreams sometimes, pecking endlessly at the skin between his eyes and telling him to fly. "You're a greenseer."

"No," said Jojen, "only a boy who dreams. The greenseers were more than that. They were wargs as well, as you are, and the greatest of them could wear the skins of any beast that flies or swims or crawls, and could look through the eyes of the weirwoods as well, and see the truth that lies beneath the world.

 

Things

Like
grass,
clouds,
sails,
salt &
every morning flower,

Like
bone &
belly &
melons,
like the blind circle
of secret desire,
like the dance
of broken oceans,

like rain,

you teach me
about
things.

-- Ken Taylor

 

[Jon's Queen Consort]

11 hours ago, ravenous reader said:

Nice line!  It reminds me of this classic:

 

'All that is gold does not glitter' ('The riddle of Strider')

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

-- J.R.R. Tolkien

 

As I have said before: I think that it goes like this for Jon:

All that is gold does not glitter, 
Jon is the King but he doen't have the royal "glitter"

Not all those who wander are lost; 
Jon has wondered but he will find his way to his home/throne

The old that is strong does not wither, 
Jon after all things that have happen to him in his heart is still Ned's son

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
Although he had many reasons and opportunities Jon's roots (honor, ideals) haven't "wither" from "bad influences"

From the ashes a fire shall be woken, 
Jon's ressuraction as AAR

A light from the shadows shall spring; 
Jon as AAR fighting the Others

Renewed shall be blade that was broken, 
LB (I believe that NW is LB) & the Realm

The crownless again shall be king.
Jon
 

[Seams]

I haven't kept up with this thread so I apologize if this poem has already been discussed. Someone started a thread a few days ago, asking who was the most Gothic character in the books and this opened a whole new (and fruitful, I think) line of thinking about Gothic literary influences on GRRM's characters and plots. I had already been pondering the idea of "sword death," which is closely related but not exactly the same thing as the "Let's Find the Swords" discussion that has already been so interesting. So Gothic + sword death suddenly reminded me of this classic:

So We'll Go No More a Roving

By Lord Byron (George Gordon)

 

So, we'll go no more a roving

   So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

   And the moon be still as bright.

 

For the sword outwears its sheath,

   And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

   And love itself have rest.

 

Though the night was made for loving,

   And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

   By the light of the moon.

Now I see that you have just cited the Tolkien poem about renewing the broken blade! This all has to be related.

Byron's sword outwearing the sheath recalls a discussion a few months back where the idea was introduced that maybe Ned's soul went into his sword when he was beheaded - the body (sheath) dies but the sword and soul haven't yet worn out.

 

[ravenous reader]

2 hours ago, Seams said:

I haven't kept up with this thread so I apologize if this poem has already been discussed. Someone started a thread a few days ago, asking who was the most Gothic character in the books and this opened a whole new (and fruitful, I think) line of thinking about Gothic literary influences on GRRM's characters and plots. I had already been pondering the idea of "sword death," which is closely related but not exactly the same thing as the "Let's Find the Swords" discussion that has already been so interesting. So Gothic + sword death suddenly reminded me of this classic:

So We'll Go No More a Roving

By Lord Byron (George Gordon)

 

So, we'll go no more a roving

   So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

   And the moon be still as bright.

 

For the sword outwears its sheath,

   And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

   And love itself have rest.

 

Though the night was made for loving,

   And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

   By the light of the moon.

Now I see that you have just cited the Tolkien poem about renewing the broken blade! This all has to be related.

Byron's sword outwearing the sheath recalls a discussion a few months back where the idea was introduced that maybe Ned's soul went into his sword when he was beheaded - the body (sheath) dies but the sword and soul haven't yet worn out.

 

Indeed -- for the rogue he was, Byron was an incurable romantic -- he is still tugging on my heartstrings after centuries have run their course!  

 @YOVMO's idea (is it?) of 'skinchanging' a sword is not that silly.  I believe for instance that Bran could end up skinchanging Drogon, as 'sword' analog (LmL has christened my fanciful theory, 'Deep Impact Drogon'...and he has his own version thereof where Bran skinchanges the comet itself, lol).  

Here's a poem for a warrior like Ned who never gave up.  It also reminds me of @sweetsunray's impressive and heartbreaking account of Ned's bones undergoing their peripatetic 'viciously recirculating' journey around Westeros, having no rest, yet possibly imbued with the unlimited power and resources of the resurging 'Underworld' -- as detailed with bravado and compassion in her essay 'Them Bones'.

 

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades 

For ever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

 

         This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— 

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

 

         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

 

 

[YOVMO]

2 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

 @YOVMO's idea (is it?) of 'skinchanging' a sword is not that silly.  I believe for instance that Bran could end up skinchanging Drogon, as 'sword' analog (LmL has christened my fanciful theory, 'Deep Impact Drogon'...and he has his own version thereof where Bran skinchanges the comet itself, lol).  

Why on planetos would anyone think it was silly?!? I have further refined that idea. I don't think just any sword can be skin changed into. I think that something about the blood magic which makes certain swords (Valyrian Steel for sure, whatever Dawn was yeah, lightbringer for sure,  but also, I think, the swords on the laps of the King's of Winter) imbues the sword with a kind of life.

After all, Dawn was "alive with light" Robb was warned that "live steel is too dangerous" I believe oath keeper is at some point referred to as being alive. The point is, only things that are alive can be skinchanged into. So far we see trees, people and animals. But there is no reason to assume that anything which is alive can't be skinchanged into and if the blood magic which is responsible for these legendary blades somehow makes them alive there is no reason to think that a skin changer couldn't go into it. I still am of the feeling that the souls of the kings of winter were not just held back by those swords but were actually in them.

If Bran skin changed into Drogon and if Drogon's experience were similar to that of Hodors where Drogon kind of recedes into a corner of his own mind while Bran takes the drivers seat, would this make Drogon an Ice Dragon?

[ravenous reader]

10 hours ago, YOVMO said:

Why on planetos would anyone think it was silly?!? I have further refined that idea. I don't think just any sword can be skin changed into. I think that something about the blood magic which makes certain swords (Valyrian Steel for sure, whatever Dawn was yeah, lightbringer for sure,  but also, I think, the swords on the laps of the King's of Winter) imbues the sword with a kind of life.

After all, Dawn was "alive with light" Robb was warned that "live steel is too dangerous" I believe oath keeper is at some point referred to as being alive. The point is, only things that are alive can be skinchanged into. So far we see trees, people and animals. But there is no reason to assume that anything which is alive can't be skinchanged into and if the blood magic which is responsible for these legendary blades somehow makes them alive there is no reason to think that a skin changer couldn't go into it. I still am of the feeling that the souls of the kings of winter were not just held back by those swords but were actually in them.

 

I like that!  Let's examine your hypothesis via the text, using 'Oathkeeper' or as it's otherwise known 'Just Ice'='justice' (wordplay courtesy GRRM and @Seams):

Quote

A Clash of Kings - Daenerys IV

Long and low, without towers or windows, it coiled like a stone serpent through a grove of black-barked trees whose inky blue leaves made the stuff of the sorcerous drink the Qartheen called shade of the evening. No other buildings stood near. Black tiles covered the palace roof, many fallen or broken; the mortar between the stones was dry and crumbling. She understood now why Xaro Xhoan Daxos called it the Palace of Dust. Even Drogon seemed disquieted by the sight of it. The black dragon hissed, smoke seeping out between his sharp teeth.

"Blood of my blood," Jhogo said in Dothraki, "this is an evil place, a haunt of ghosts and maegi. See how it drinks the morning sun? Let us go before it drinks us as well."

Ser Jorah Mormont came up beside them. "What power can they have if they live in that?"

 

Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV

Tyrion wondered where the metal for this one had come from. A few master armorers could rework old Valyrian steel, but the secrets of its making had been lost when the Doom came to old Valyria. "The colors are strange," he commented as he turned the blade in the sunlight. Most Valyrian steel was a grey so dark it looked almost black, as was true here as well. But blended into the folds was a red as deep as the grey. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and blood upon some steely shore. "How did you get this patterning? I've never seen anything like it."

"Nor I, my lord," said the armorer. "I confess, these colors were not what I intended, and I do not know that I could duplicate them. Your lord father had asked for the crimson of your House, and it was that color I set out to infuse into the metal. But Valyrian steel is stubborn. These old swords remember, it is said, and they do not change easily. I worked half a hundred spells and brightened the red time and time again, but always the color would darken, as if the blade was drinking the sun from it. And some folds would not take the red at all, as you can see. If my lords of Lannister are displeased, I will of course try again, as many times as you should require, but—"

"No need," Lord Tywin said. "This will serve."

 

A Feast for Crows - The Soiled Knight

An ornate snake coiled around her right forearm, its copper and gold scales glimmering when she moved. It was all she wore.

No, he meant to tell her, I only came to tell you I must go, but when he saw her shining in the candlelight he seemed to lose the power of speech. His throat felt as dry as the Dornish sands. Silent he stood, drinking in the glories of her body, the hollow of her throat, the round ripe breasts with their huge dark nipples, the lush curves at waist and hip. And then somehow he was holding her, and she was pulling off his robes. When she reached his undertunic she seized it by the shoulders and ripped the silk down to his navel, but Arys was past caring. Her skin was smooth beneath his fingers, as warm to the touch as sand baked by the Dornish sun. He raised her head and found her lips. Her mouth opened under his, and her breasts filled his hands. He felt her nipples stiffen as his thumbs brushed over them. Her hair was black and thick and smelled of orchids, a dark and earthy smell that made him so hard it almost hurt.

"Touch me, ser," the woman whispered in his ear. His hand slipped down her rounded belly to find the sweet wet place beneath the thicket of black hair. "Yes, there," she murmured as he slipped a finger up inside her. She made a whimpering sound, drew him to the bed, and pushed him down. "More, oh more, yes, sweet, my knight, my knight, my sweet white knight, yes you, you, I want you." Her hands guided him inside her, then slipped around his back to pull him closer. "Deeper," she whispered. "Yes, oh." When she wrapped her legs around him, they felt as strong as steel. Her nails raked his back as he drove into her, again and again and again, until she screamed and arched her back beneath him. As she did, her fingers found his nipples, pinching till he spent his seed within her. I could die now, happy, the knight thought, and for a dozen heartbeats at least he was at peace.

Yup -- at least from the associations of the figurative language alone -- the sword is definitely alive!

Quote

If Bran skin changed into Drogon and if Drogon's experience were similar to that of Hodors where Drogon kind of recedes into a corner of his own mind while Bran takes the drivers seat, would this make Drogon an Ice Dragon?

I don't think Drogon would recede.  It would be a marriage of equals -- Bran would have to endure being burnt alive, a truly heroic feat, since dragons are 'fire made flesh' and this is the worst thing imaginable to a greenseer.  But perhaps Drogon will be wighted?  I don't like that as much symbolically, as Bran is more frequently associated with burning in the text.  This is an interesting thought; could Drogon be the 'big dipper' -- the ice wayn -- taking Bran to the stars?...

On 1/14/2017 at 0:45 AM, LmL said:

Other-rides-wayn. In another Martin story the Ice Dragon constellation is called the Ice Wagon, and it carries souls to the afterlife. Same deal with the blue star that is the eye of the rider - that hasn't changed. So House Wayn's sigil is four wagon wheels, white on blue and blue on white countercharged - that's ice wagon symbolism. And dude's name is "Otherides Wayn" - Other rides wayn.

A steward is something of a custodian, kind of like the ferryman perhaps. Riverrun is an interesting place in terms of symbolism, and one we haven't talked about much on my threads actually. It's got an ice / fire thing going on and obvious a ton of water symbolism... it's described as an island of fire though when Thoros sees a vision of the Lannisters attacking it, which makes it akin to the Isle of Faces and the fire moon. 

 

[YOVMO]

4 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

I like that!  Let's examine your hypothesis via the text, using 'Oathkeeper' or as it's otherwise known 'Just Ice'='justice' (wordplay courtesy GRRM and @Seams):

Yup -- at least from the associations of the figurative language alone -- the sword is definitely alive!

wrt ice I think it is more than just alive. I think Ned's soul is in it in the same way that the old kings of winter had their souls in their burial swords. I feel that the magic which put it there was used accidentally when Ned's head was removed with his own sword a lot like the way that Voldemort unknowingly makes harry into a Horcrux.

4 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

I don't think Drogon would recede.  It would be a marriage of equals --

This is a tough one. In every case where there has been a conscious being that is skinchanged the selfhood of that being recedes for the skin changer. This happens most clearly in Hodor and in Summer but also with the eagle. I suppose that a dragon is a magical creature so the rules may work differently, but aren't direwolves also magical and only recently returned to the world?

4 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

Bran would have to endure being burnt alive, a truly heroic feat, since dragons are 'fire made flesh' and this is the worst thing imaginable to a greenseer.

If Bran skinchanges Drogon I think it would result in the eventual annihilation of both Bran and Drogon. I am on record often enough here as saying I don't think that Dragons have a role to play in the battles of the seven kingdoms and feel that they have to die once their purpose in the magical war is spent. Throwing dragons into the mix of the mortal struggles of the 7K would make for a thoroughly uninteresting story.  If the dragons have to die I would think it would be in a pretty stellar way. This would be one option I could be happy about.

4 minutes ago, ravenous reader said:

 But perhaps Drogon will be wighted?  I don't like that as much symbolically, as Bran is more frequently associated with burning in the text.  This is an interesting thought; could Drogon be the 'big dipper' -- the ice wayne -- taking Bran to the stars?...

 

Undrogon would be way too much for me. George so reluctantly uses the dragons in the first place. An undead dragon would be just a step too far. A good thought about bringing bran to the stars and would fit in with him flying but I have the feeling that the stars have more to do with Dawn and Starfall than actual stars.