Kathleen Raine Quotes

And see the peaceful trees extend their myriad leaves in leisured dance— they bear the weight of sky and cloud upon the fountain of their veins.

Whiteness of moonlight builds a house that is not there

The sky is postcard dreamy now, the clouds less full of rain, the sun a little stronger every day.

Life moved, as inconstant and fickle as Wind Baby, frolicking, sleeping, weeping, but never truly still. Never solid or finished. Always like water flowing from one place to the next. Seed and fruit. Rain and drought, everything traveled in a gigantic circle, an eternal process of becoming something new. But we rarely saw it. Humans tended to see only frozen moments, not the flow of things.

The icon is transparent as a representation of the special reality it depicts; an idol replaces and obscures that reality ... but the difference between icon and idol is purely subjective.

For [W. B.] Yeats magic was not so much a kind of poetry as poetry a kind of magic, and the object of both alike was evocation of energies and knowledge from beyond normal consciousness.

Anything you want to be, you can come be that with us. Rain or shine, no problem

She inhaled again. 'You made it rain,' she said softly, delighted. 'Everyone needs a respite from the sun.

Kathleen Raine, a Scottish poet, says that unless you see a thing in the light of love, you do not see it at all. Love is the light in which we see light.

Within the ring there lies an O, Within the O there looks an eye, In the eye there swims a sea, And in the sea reflected sky, And in the sky there shines the sun, Within the sun a bird of gold.

I think that the poet and scholar Kathleen Raine was correct in reminding us that life, like holiness, can be known only by being experienced. To experience it is not to "figure it out" or even to understand it, but to suffer it and rejoice in it as it is. In suffering it and rejoicing it as it is, we know that we do not and cannot understand it completely. We know, moreover, that we do not wish to have it appropriated by somebody's claim to have understood it. Though we have life, it is beyond us. We do not know how we have it, or why. We do not know what is going to happen to it, or to us. It is not predictable; though we can destroy it, we cannot make it. It cannot, except by reduction and the grave risk of damage, be controlled. It is, as Blake said, holy. To think otherwise is to enslave life, and to make, not humanity, but a few humans its predictably inept masters.

Because I see these mountains they are brought low, because I drink these waters they are bitter, because I tread these black rocks they are barren, because I have found these islands they are lost; Upon seal and seabird dreaming their innocent world my shadow has fallen.

The politeness was unbearable. They avoided touching each other, careful as strangers on a train. . . A family can go on for years without the love that once bound it together, like a lovely old wall that stays standing long after rain has crumbled the mortar.

I like to think that while ADROCK was shouting about gratitude in the desert, his future wife, Kathleen Hanna, was singing "Suck My Left One" in a small club many miles away. And then their vocal particles travelled across land and sea until it became a giant love cloud ready to rain awesomeness on them for years to come." - Amy Poehler

Acedia is not a relic of the fourth century or a hang-up of some weird Christian monks, but a force we ignore at our peril. Whenever we focus on the foibles of celebrities to the detriment of learning more about the real world- the emergence of fundamentalist religious and nationalist movements, the economic factors endangering our reefs and rain forests, the social and ecological damage caused by factory farming - acedia is at work. Wherever we run to escape it, acedia is there, propelling us to 'the next best thing,' another paradise to revel in and wantonly destroy. It also sends us backward, prettying the past with the gloss of nostalgia. Acedia has come so far with us that it easily attached to our hectic and overburdened schedules. We appear to be anything but slothful, yet that is exactly what we are, as we do more and care less, and feel pressured to do still more.

Oh, my love,” Erienne breathed as he pressed his lips to her brow, “I was afraid you would come, and yet I hoped you would.” Light kisses rained upon her cheek and brow as he held her close, savoring the nearness of her while he could. “I would have come sooner had I known where they had taken you. I had not expected this of your father, but he will answer. I promise you that.” Erienne shook her head and replied in the same muted tone. “He is not my real father.” Christopher held her away, looking down at her wonderingly. “What is this?” “My mother married an Irish rebel and got with child before he was hanged. Avery married her, knowing the facts, but he never told her that it was he who had given the final orders to hang my father.” Christopher gently brushed a tumbled curl from off her cheek. “I knew you were too beautiful to be kin to him.” -Erienne & Christopher

Please tell me it's going to rain today, Francois.' 'Ah!' he smiled. (This was obviously familiar territory.) 'I regret to inform you that the forecast calls for nothing but sunshine.' 'Relentless sunshine,' she corrected him.

An old farmer once asked my husband and me how long we'd been in the country. "Five years," we answered. "Well, then," he said, "you've seen rain.

The literature of apocalypse is scary stuff, the kind of thing that can give religion a bad name, because people so often use it as a means of controlling others, instilling dread by invoking a boogeyman God. ... [Apocalyptic literature] is not a detailed prediction of the future, or an invitation to withdraw from the concerns of this world. It is a wake-up call, one that uses intensely poetic language and imagery to sharpen our awareness of God's presence in and promise for the world. The word "apocalypse" comes from the Greek for "uncovering" or "revealing," which makes it a word about possibilities. And while uncovering something we'd just as soon keep hidden is a frightening prospect, the point of apocalypse is not to frighten us into submission. Although it is often criticized as "pie-in-the-sky" fantasizing, I believe its purpose is to teach us to think about "next-year-country" in a way that sanctifies our lives here and now. "Next-year-country" is a treasured idiom of the western Dakotas, an accurate description of the landscape that farmers and ranchers dwell in - next year rains will come at the right time; next year I won't get hailed out; next year winter won't set in before I have my hay hauled in for winter feeding. I don't know a single person on the land who uses the idea of "next year" as an excuse not to keep on reading the earth, not to look for the signs that mean you've got to get out and do the field work when the time is right. Maybe we're meant to use apocaly[tic literature in the same way: not as an allowance to indulge in an otherworldly fixation but as an injunction to pay closer attention to the world around us. When I am disturbed by the images of apocalypse, I find it helpful to remember the words of a fourth-centry monk about the task of reading scripture as "working the earth of the heart," for it is only in a disturbed, ploughted0up ground that the seeds we plant for grain can grow.

When the time comes, I want to be the woman ...who was a regular old plaid-jacketed Alaskan until she began losing her capacities. She lost the ability to balance. She lost access to her memories. One by one, the capacities that we think are essential dropped away, until she was stripped of all conscious thought and intention, leaving only the transparency of her inner mind. But what she had stored there, through all a lifetime, was radiant. Hank says that when they sat together, watching rain roll down the window, what ballooned from her was glass-clear gladness. That's what she had left. That's what she had become.

Here is what I believe: that the natural world- the stuff of our lives, the world we plod through, hardly hearing, the world we burn and poke and stuff and conquer and irradiate- that THIS WORLD (not another world on another plane) is irreplaceable, astonishing, contingent, eternal and changing, beautiful and fearsome, beyond human understanding, worthy of reverence and awe, worthy of celebration and protection. If the good English word for this combination of qualities is "sacred," then so be it. Even if we don't believe in God, we walk out the door on a sacred morning and lift our eyes to the sacred rain and are called to remember our sacred obligations of care and celebration. And what's more, if the natural world is sacred, and "sacred" describes the natural world; if there are not two worlds but one, and it is magnificent and mysterious enough to shake us to the core; if this is so, then we-you and I and the man on the beach- are called to live our lives gladly. We are called to live lives of gratitude, joy, and caring, profoundly moved by the bare fact that we live in the time of the singing of birds.

I think I will teach about mystery today, this bright ocean that surrounds the small island of our understanding, the rain that rises from that sea. I don't know why we live or die, whether that's necessary or contingent. But I will tell my students this: life and death are all nothing. When you die, it's done, the chance is gone. So when you live? When you live, make it all. Don't wait for the rain to stop. Climb out of your tent with your mind engaged and your senses ablaze and let rain pour into you. Remember: you are not who you think you are. You are what you do. Be the kindness of soft rain. Be the beauty of light behind a tall fir. Be gratitude. Be gladness.

There was nothing in the world that Devon would love more than the sight of Kathleen rain-soaked and bedraggled. He had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in villainous glee.

One of the most striking - and to the novice surprising - features of magic is its meticulous precision.

air, and even the rain could not wash the

Anything you want to be, you can come be that with me. Rain or shine, no problem.

I've read all the books but One only remains sacred: this volume of wonders, open always before my eyes

Gavin Faulkner looked out the back door of his kitchen and flipped on the light switch. Through the howling wind, rain, and darkness he saw the light at the end of the dock flicker. It was hard to make out, but he could see the boat he used for fishing, slamming into the dock through the narrow halo of light

You Did it begin with the sky holding back its rain like a fist stopping just short of your face, the slight rush of air on your jaw? You’d rather a thunderhead’s anvil stalking as you back into a room with a lock, because that actual fist clenched round a storm could let loose, break down the door. Now you’re stuck in the bathroom trying to retrace the map that got you here. You lean on the wall, slide to the floor as the shouting grows stronger, loud bang on the door. If you climbed out the window where would you go? How could you run carrying that heavy sky on your shoulders? —Kathleen Aguero

Woman of Mother Earth Oh, what is this I’m feeling, Mother Earth beneath my feet . . . Endless roots journey, through fresh rich soil, grounded and strong. Forever reaching, forever pulsing out the beat. A voice of a thousand mothers in synchronicity. Let yourself be seeded in the womb, belly of heart and soul, And all that is grown, the richest gift ever known. Wisdom of the land, nurtured by hand, Are the women who give birth, to the children of the Earth. Plants and trees and flowers and seeds Breathe life with energy from the sun and rain. As in me, I remain, a woman of the Earth. That is this feeling . . . I am woman of Mother Earth.

Let my body sweat Let snakes torment my breast My eyes be blind, ears deaf, hands distraught Mouth parched, uterus cut out, Belly slashed, back lashed, Tongue slivered into thongs of leather Rain stones inserted in my breasts, Head severed, If only the lips may speak, If only the god will come.

Those fields of childhood, tall Meadow-grass and flowers small, The elm whose dusky leaves Patterned the sky with dreams innumerable And labyrinthine vein and vine And wandering tendrils green, Have grown a seed so small A single thought contains them all

Not this or that But all is amiss, That I have done, And I have seen Sin and sorrow Befoul the world - Release me, death, Forgive, remove From place and time The trace of all That I have been.

I do not know Whether I spoke or heard The word That fills all silence.

There was a low growl of thunder, a flash of lightning and the skies erupted in a sudden downpour, emptying the streets of people; sending them scattering. Beyond the shelter of the awning, pedestrians rushed past, heads bowed, ducking into doorways and crowding onto the front steps of buildings for refuge. Most of the café customers moved to tables inside. They alone remained. Grace leaned forward, resting her chin in her elbow, watching the rain pour from the red awning in a sheer, translucent veil. On the other side, Paris became a distant, muted place.

What I wanted was that walk: slate and windy, the sky overcast but not threatening rain. I

What makes the western plains seem most like the ocean to me is not great sweeps of land cut into swells and hollows, or the grass rippling like waves (what the Lakota call greasy grass), or the sheets of rain that one sees moving in the distance like storms at sea. It is the sound. Many mornings, when the wind has come up during the night, the trees around my house thunder like high surf that swells and ebbs without cease. In open country, far from any trees, the wind beats against you, as insistent as an ocean current. You tire from walking against it just as you would from swimming against an undertow. Working outdoors on such a day leaves you dizzy, and your ears will still be ringing at night, long after you have drawn the shelter of four walls around you. The wind can be a welcome companion on a hot day, but even die-hard Dakotans grow tired when the sky howls and roars at forty miles an hour for a day or more. The wind is so loud you have to shout at the person next to you, and you can’t hear yourself think at all. You begin to wonder if you have a self.

I should have felt a loneliness close to despair, there, in the night, in the rain, a thousand miles from home. What I felt instead was uncommon joy. What was there to long for, where all I wanted was what I suddenly had?—to be fully part of the night, joined by a song, by a simple shared song, to the loon, to the wolf, to the keening of all humankind, all of us together in this one infinite night, all of us floating in the same darkness, each of us, as we howl our loneliness, finding that we are not alone after all.

She should have returned by now, but the weather has come in so quickly that I fear she might be caught out in it.” There was nothing in the world that Devon would love more than the sight of Kathleen rain-soaked and bedraggled. He had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in villainous glee. “There’s no need to send a footman,” he said casually. “I’m certain that Lady Trenear will have the sense to stay at the tenant farm until the rain passes.” “Yes, but the downs will have turned to mud.” Better and better. Kathleen, wading through mud and clay. Devon fought to keep his expression grave, when inside all was joy and exploding Roman candles. He went to the window. No rain yet, but dark clouds seeped through the sky like ink on wet parchment. “We’ll wait a bit longer. She could return momentarily.” Lightning bolts pierced the firmament, a trio of brilliant jagged streaks accompanied by a series of cracks that sounded like shattering glass. Helen drew closer. “My lord, I am aware that you and my sister-in-law exchanged words earlier--” “‘Exchanged words’ would imply that we had a civilized debate,” he said. “Had it lasted any longer, we would have torn each other to shreds.

She should have returned by now, but the weather has come in so quickly that I fear she might be caught out in it.” There was nothing in the world that Devon would love more than the sight of Kathleen rain-soaked and bedraggled. He had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in villainous glee.

She should have returned by now, but the weather has come in so quickly that I fear she might be caught out in it.” There was nothing in the world that Devon would love more than the sight of Kathleen rain-soaked and bedraggled. He had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in villainous glee. “There’s no need to send a footman,” he said casually. “I’m certain that Lady Trenear will have the sense to stay at the tenant farm until the rain passes.” “Yes, but the downs will have turned to mud.” Better and better. Kathleen, wading through mud and clay. Devon fought to keep his expression grave, when inside all was joy and exploding Roman candles.

A huge shape loomed beside her…a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding--he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste. “Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter--it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.” Kathleen stared at him with stunned confusion. In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with Devon back to the estate. The dray, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching…his arms around her… No. She couldn’t bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought. “I…I can’t ride with you.” Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth. Devon’s lips parted as if he were about to deliver a scathing reply. As his gaze traveled over her drenched form, however, his expression softened. “Then you take the horse, and I’ll walk back.” Dumbstruck by the offer, Kathleen could only stare at him. “No,” she eventually managed to say. “But…thank you. Please, you must return to the house.” “We’ll both walk,” he said impatiently, “or we’ll both ride. But I won’t leave you.” “I’ll be perfectly--” She broke off and flinched at a bone-rattling peal of thunder. “Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her.

What I said in the study earlier was unkind, and untrue, and I’m s-sorry for it. It was very wrong of me. I shall make that very clear to Mr. Totthill and Mr. Fogg. And your brother.” His expression changed, one corner of his mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile that sent her heartbeat into chaos. “You needn’t bother mentioning it to them. All three will be calling me far worse before all is said and done.” “Nevertheless, it wasn’t fair of me--” “It’s forgotten. Come, the rain is worsening.” “I must fetch my shawl.” Devon followed her glance to the dark heap in the distance. “Is that it? Good God, leave it there.” “I can’t--” “It’s ruined by now. I’ll buy you another.” “I couldn’t accept something so personal from you. Besides…you can’t afford extra expenses, now that you have Eversby Priory.” She saw the flash of his grin. “I’ll replace it,” he said. “From what I gather, people at my level of debt never concern themselves with economizing.” Sliding back against the cantle of the saddle, he extended a hand down. His form was large and lean against the rioting sky, the hard lines of his face cast in shadow. Kathleen gave him a doubtful glance; it would require considerable strength for him to lift her while he was mounted. “You won’t drop me?” she asked uneasily. Devon sounded insulted. “I’m hardly some limp-wristed fop, madam.” “My skirts are heavy and wet--” “Give me your hand.” She approached him, and his hand took hers in a strong clasp. A nervous shiver went through her.

An icy runnel of rain ran down Kathleen’s sleeve, contrasting sharply with the heat of Devon’s grip, and she shivered. The dray waited patiently in the thrashing wind and rain. “I want you to spring up,” she heard Devon say, “and I’ll lift you until you can find the stirrup with your left foot. Don’t try to swing a leg over. Just mount as if it were a sidesaddle.” “When should I jump?” “Now would be convenient,” he said dryly. Gathering her strength, Kathleen leaped from the ground with as much force as her legs could produce. Devon caught the momentum and lifted her with shocking ease. She didn’t even have to find the stirrup; she landed neatly on the saddle with her right leg folded. Gasping, she fought for her balance, but Devon had already adjusted, his left arm enclosing her in a secure hold. “I have you. Settle…easy.” She stiffened at the feel of being clasped firmly, his muscles working around her, his breath at her ear. “This will teach you to bring baskets to ailing neighbors,” he said. “I hope you realize that all the selfish people are safe and dry at home.