CONNECTIONS
‘Island of Dreams’,
‘The Ring of Bright Water’,
‘The Marriage of Psyche’
For a long while I have had an edition of ‘The Collected Poems of Kathleen Raine’ sitting in the poetry section of my bookshelf. A pristine edition which from time to time has beckoned me to dip in and read. But always with the same result. I have found her poems too morose, depressing even, and I failed to understand or make a connection.
A few Christmases ago, following shared holidays in Scotland, I was given a hardback copy of Dan Boothby’s book, ‘Island of Dreams’. At the time of receiving it, I didn’t open the book, and it sat in the ‘travel section’ of my bookshelf unread. In those days, I was more interested to read books about the Outer Hebrides, Harris, Lewis, Eriskay, Mingulay, The Uists, and life higher up the West Coast of Scotland. The Isle of Skye didn’t feature in my interest zone. That is, until the other day, when looking for something to read that would engage me, I picked up Dan Boothby’s ‘Island of Dreams’. Immediately, I was hooked.
Dan Boothby’s book tells of his time spent on Eilean Ban seeking to find out more about the life and lifestyle of Gavin Maxwell, author of the bestselling 1960s book, ‘Ring of Bright Water’. Gavin Maxwell and Kathleen Raine were friends, though her love for him was unrequited, and caused her much unhappiness. On picking up a copy of the trilology based around Gavin Maxwell’s life at Sandaig, it is prefaced with a poem by Kathleen Raine. It is, however, with some trepidation that I turn to the pages of ‘The Ring of Bright Water’, as Dan Boothby’s book has revealed that the idyllic world described has been lost in the passing of time. Friendships became soured, Gavin Maxwell died an early and tragic death, and the construction of the Skye Bridge destroyed the remoteness of the islands that feature in account of Maxwell’s time around Sandaig, and latterly the opening of the NC 500 Route is destroying the very unspoilt haven of almost inaccessible tranquility for which people travelled to the Highlands of Scotland to escape the madness of the modern age.
The Marriage of Psyche
Kathleen Raine
1. The House
In my love’s house
There are hills and pastures carpeted with flowers,
His roof is the blue sky, his lamp the evening star,
The doors of his house are the winds, and the rain his curtains.
In his house are many mountains, each alone,
And islands where the sea-birds home.
In my love’s house
There is a waterfall that flows all night
Down from the mountain summit where the snow lies
White in the shimmering blue of everlasting summer,
Down from the high crag where the eagle flies.
At his threshold the tides of ocean rise,
And the porpoise follows the shoals into still bays
Where starfish gleam on brown weed under still water.
In sleep I was born here
And waking found rivers and waves my servants,
Sun and cloud and winds, bird-messengers,
And all the flocks of his hills and shoals of his seas.
I rest, in the heat of day, in the light shadow of leaves
And voices of air and water speak to me.
All this he has given me, whose face I have never seen,
But into whose all-enfolding arms I sink in sleep.
2. The Ring
He has married me with a ring, a ring of bright water
Whose ripples travel from the heart of the sea,
He has married me with a ring of light, the glitter
Broadcast on the swift river.
He has married me with the sun’s circle
Too dazzling to see, traced in summer sky.
He has crowned me with the wreath of white cloud
That gathers on the snowy summit of the mountain,
Ringed me round with the world-circling wind,
Bound me to the whirlwind’s centre.
He has married me with the orbit of the moon
And with the boundless circle of the stars,
With the orbits that measure years, months, days and nights,
Set the tides flowing,
Command the winds to travel or be at rest.
At the ring’s centre,
Spirit or angel troubling the still pool,
Causality not in nature,
Finger’s touch that summons at a point, a moment
Stars and planets, life and light
Or gathers cloud about an apex of cold,
Transcendent touch of love summons world to being.
Rectory Ramblings 