Do poems about dogs qualify as mystical poetry? Mary Oliver’s certainly do. My definition of mystical poetry is any poem “that describes or evokes an experience of the sacred.”

I also like to pay special attention to poetry that expresses the sacred in nature, in relationships, and in the wild and messy world we live in. This is because various patriarchal religions have told us the sacred doesn’t exist there – that it is only to be found in the transcendent, in “heaven above.”

We all know in our bones that that’s nonsense. But it helps to be reminded sometimes.

Mary Oliver’s dog poems from her collection, “Dog Songs” stray (like a curious dachshund) into mystical territory. And they do this precisely by describing the ordinary. They bring our attention to the ordinary holiness in the wild, in love between creatures, in the simple beingness of a dog.

The Poetry Teacher

The university gave me a new, elegant
classroom to teach in. Only one thing,
they said. You can’t bring your dog.
It’s in my contract, I said. (I had
made sure of that.)

We bargained and I moved to an old
classroom in an old building. Propped
the door open. Kept a bowl of water
in the room. I could hear Ben among
other voices barking, howling in the
distance. Then they would all arrive—
Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog
or two, all of them thirsty and happy.
They drank, they flung themselves down
among the students. The students loved
it. They all wrote thirsty, happy poems.

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

Notes

Mary Oliver says a lot in this simple poem.

Mostly, it is about a dog. It is also about choices. About what we value, as a society and as individuals. And about education. And materialism. About wildness, about love.

She chooses an “old classroom in an old building” instead of a “new, elegant classroom” so that her dog can be with her. She “Propped the door open,” allowing not just dogs, but the wild air of the outdoors in as well.

She values the wild, the simple. She does not need a fancy new classroom. She already has everything.

The Storm (Bear)

Now through the white orchard my little dog
romps, breaking the new snow
with wild feet.
Running here, running there, excited,
hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
the pleasures of the body in this world.

Oh, I could not have said it better
myself.

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

Notes

The old Taoist masters would have loved this poem.

It would be a mistake to think that the words we write are any more meaningful than the “large, exuberant letters” Bear wrote in the snow. In fact, some might argue they are less so. For when we write, we so often do so to express abstract concepts, interpretations of reality, opinions, and ideas.

Whereas Bear was simply “expressing/ the pleasures of the body in this world” – not by describing, but by being.

Little Dog’s Rhapsody In The Night

He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

“Tell me again.”

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

How It Begins

A puppy is a puppy is a puppy.
He’s probably in a basket with a bunch
of other puppies.
Then he’s a little older and he’s nothing
but a bundle of longing.
He doesn’t even understand it.

Then someone picks him up and says,
“I want this one.”

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

Percy, Waiting for Ricky

Your friend is coming, I say
to Percy and name a name

and he runs to the door, his
wide mouth in its laugh-shape,

and waves, since he has one, his tail.
Emerson, I am trying to live,

as you said we must, the examined life.
But there are days I wish

there was less in my head to examine,
not to speak of the busy heart. How

would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not
thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

A Bad Day

Ricky, why are you barking and trying
to rip up the couch? Can’t you settle
down? It’s been a long day.

“It sure has. First you forgot to take
me out. Then you went to the market
and heaven knows where else. And my
dinner was late. And our walk was
short. And now you’re supposed to
be on the floor playing with me but,
no, you’re doing something else. So I
thought I’d give this couch a little
distress.”

Well, don’t. Be a good boy.

“Honestly, what do you expect? Like
you I’m not perfect, I’m only human.”

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

Notes

I love the last line of this poem. It reminds us of the humanity not only of dogs, but of all of nature.

It is easy to become distant from the personhood of nature. Our society encourages it in every way possible. The exception is our pets, on whom we lavish special attention, meanwhile participating in the systematic destruction of the nature and the world’s last wild places.

But our pets invite us to care not only for them, but for all animals. Their call, and Mary Oliver’s, are clear. We are invited to join the world of life again, to take our “place in the family of things.”

To do so requires a terrifying look at what we have done to nature, and what we continue to do. Yet in facing things as they are, we are liberated to chart a different path.

Her Grave

She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile–
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming
perfect arch of her neck.

It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but, anyway, it began to rain
slowly.

Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.

Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.

A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know
almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?

She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait for me, or be somewhere.

Now she is buried under the pines.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.

Through the trees is the sound of the wind, palavering

The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body!

How apt is her grave place.

How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.

Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.

-Mary Oliver in Dog Songs