Poetry Friday: Love Dogs

This week, I have been reading The Essential Rumi: Translations by Coleman Barks.

His poem, "The Gift of Water," is wonderful for writers -- or anyone who is feeling stuck. (See my post on the poem here, and the strange experience I had the following day.)

Today's Rumi poem works on many levels. You might find spirituality here, or you might recognize the connection with a dog you love.

This is Sam (full name: Samwise McBarkBark Shovan).

Sam is my 11-year-old daughter's favorite photographic model.

We adopted Sam from a local Schnauzer rescue nearly three years ago. He truly is my Love Dog, often calling me to sit with him when I'm feeling stressed. When the children are in school, and I have a long, lonely day of writing and editing at home, Sam is my buddy.

Sam found a fledgling robin in our yard this spring. They made friends.

Here is Coleman Barks reading Rumi's "Love Dogs."



So many children find comfort in their animal companions. A sad child might find comfort in this poem, too. Here are the last few stanzas of Rumi's "Love Dogs":


The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.


Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.


Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.


There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.


Give your life
to be one of them.

There is a book of poems for children on this subject, This Place I Know, selected by Georgia Heard.

Today's host is wonderful April Halprin Wayland at Teaching Authors, who knows much about the power of poetry to comfort.

Soon after I finished writing this post, I learned that poet Deborah Edelman passed away yesterday morning. Deborah was a member of our tight literary community here in Maryland and a contributor to Life in Me Like Grass on Fire: Love Poems. "The grief you cry out of draws you toward union."

Knocking at the Door of Reality

"You knock at the door of reality,

shake your thought-wings, loosen

your shoulders,

                        and open."

I shared Rumi's poem, "The Gift of Water," on Saturday. It is the source for the above quote.

I was feeling stuck in my writing. The poem made me feel more trusting, as if I could push through that door and find the open place where poems come from.

So...here's a story that you may find weird, or familiar, about being open.

Last night I had a dream about my favorite NYU professor. Playwright Stuart Browne taught our "Craft" class at Tisch School of the Arts' Dramatic Writing Program. For him, the students at DWP weren't a bus stop on the way to his next screenplay or book deal. He was a real deal educator, as well as being a gifted writer.

About a year ago, I learned that Stuart died young -- just before the publication of his first novel. The novel was a success in his native Britain, where it was made into a movie. I bought and read the book. It is a fictionalized memoir about a film-maker/ long-time alcoholic who, in early middle age, falls in love, struggles to get clean, and winds up with cancer. It's hysterically funny. It's also, whether you knew the author or not, very sad.

The movie poster for Stuart's novel of the same title.

Last night, I had a dream about Stuart Browne. He insisted that he was not dead. Reports of his death -- especially on the sleeve of his book -- were obviously false. I filled him in on my literary life since 1991, when I graduated with a BFA.

As I was waking up, I felt as if this was more than a dream. My old prof was hanging around for a reason. I made a mental bargain with him. This worked for me once before, but that's another story.

I told Stuart, "If it's really you, I need proof. Send me a candy-apple red toy car. If I see that car today, I'll know you're around."

Cut to Sunday afternoon. I have dropped my son off to do volunteer work at his high school. I am heading home after running some errands. I reverse out of a parking lot and see two red cars behind me. No deal. They are not toy cars. Only one of them is the right color red.

Then, something catches my eye. Behind the shopping center, by the dumpsters. Instead of driving through the parking lot, I pull behind the building.

Propped against a dumpster is one of those shopping carts with a red and yellow truck on the front, the kind kids sit in to make grocery shopping fun and keep them contained while the adults shop. The cart is upside down, with the truck pointing to the sky, as if it had been driven into the dumpster and parked nose-up. It's not a red toy car. Not really what I had in mind.

I went back to take pictures/proof.

It wasn't until I got home and started telling my husband this story that it hit me. I started to laugh. I'd momentarily forgotten the title of Stuart's novel, Dangerous Parking.

When I told him the story, my teen asked, "Would it be like your professor to rib you?" Yes.

Strange things happen when you knock at the door of reality and open. It's nice to believe that my old mentor is cheer-leading from beyond. He'd get a kick out of that image -- spiritual pom-poms.