Nobody Cares by William Stafford

Nobody cares if you stop here. You can
look for hours, gaze out over the forest.
And the sounds are yours too—take away
how the wind either whispers or begins to
get ambitious. If you let the silence of
afternoon pool around you, that serenity
may last a long time, and you can take it
along. A slant sun, mornings or evenings,
will deepen the canyons, and you can carry away
that purple, how it gathers and fades for hours.
This whole world is yours, you know. You can
breathe it and think about it and dream it after this
wherever you go. It’s all right. Nobody cares.

Nobody Cares

Nobody cares could sound cruel, the kind of adolescent throw-away comment of disregard you may have received at some time or other. But I believe Stafford means this differently, a gentle admonishment to live without fear of others’ opinions or expectations, to just be who you are.

To begin, Nobody cares if you stop here, right here, right now, to gaze at the view around you without limits. And the sounds are yours too he tells us, the wind whispering or becoming ambitious (great word choice) as it does before a storm. Or you can let the silence of / afternoon pool around you, that kind of quiet that fills you with tranquility – you can even take it with you.

As the sun rises or sets, that slanted light of extraordinary colour is yours to carry away with you, that purple, how it gathers and fades for hours. You can remember the soothing effect of those times of day whenever you need them. This whole world is yours, you know. You do know that, don’t you? He is reminding you that you carry all this with you wherever you go. And it’s all right because it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or says, it’s yours to experience. Nobody cares.

It Is Enough by Anne Alexander Bingham

To know that the atoms
of my body
will remain

to think of them rising
through the roots of a great oak
to live in
leaves, branches, twigs

perhaps to feed the
crimson peony
the blue iris
the broccoli

or rest on water
freeze and thaw
with the seasons

some atoms might become a
bit of fluff on the wing
of a chickadee
to feel the breeze
know the support of air

and some might drift
up and up into space
star dust returning from

whence it came
it is enough to know that
as long as there is a universe
I am a part of it.

It Is Enough

With the recent revelation of the Webb Telescope photos giving us access to another world so far beyond our own, this poem caught my attention. I love how Bingham weaves our earthly presence with that of distant stars and concludes that it is enough that our atoms will remain in some form.

It is her belief that the atoms / of my body / will remain, will rise up through the roots of a great oak, to feed the leaves, the flowers, even the common broccoli, or perhaps as water, to freeze and thaw / with the seasons. A life beyond death if you will.

She imagines that some of our atoms might become a bit of fluff on the wing / of a chickadee, carried and supported by a breeze, some even drifting up and up into space. She is asking us to imagine becoming star dust returning from / whence it came.

For the poet, she is satisfied to know that as long as there is a universe, she belongs; as atoms, as star dust, she is part of it. Look again, perhaps you can find yourself in one of those photos.

Watching the Rower by Andrea Potos

Oh to find that still surface,
the glide of silk and silence,
sun lit along the oars,
the mind in the arms, threading
the seams of each moment.

Watching the Rower

How rare and precious to find a poem with so few words, five short lines, that paints such a rich canvas. This, by Andrea Potos, does just that. From the title, I can already envision a rower – perhaps an individual in an old wooden dingy, a Victorian couple in a Thames skiff, or a group of rowers in a dragonboat. Could be, you even feel yourself with those oars in your hands.

I’m imagining a lake, early morning or evening when the water is calm and smooth, that still surface, parted by the prow of the boat. The way it moves, the glide of silk and silence, such delicious alliteration, the repetition, all those ‘s’ sounds. There is sunlight on the oars, concentration in the arms with each pull, threading / the seams of each moment. Each stroke weaving my attention into the present moment, a moving meditation.

May you find that still surface somewhere this summer with great pleasure, whether you are on the water or observing from land.

Petition by K.A. Hays

Here floats the mind on summer’s dock.
The knees loose up, hands dither off,
the eyes have never heard of clocks.
The mind won’t feel the hours, the mind spreads wide
among the hours, wide in sun. Dear sun,
who gives the vision but is not the vision.
Who is the body and the bodies
that speak into the dark below the dock.
Who to the minnows in the sand-sunk tire
seems like love.
Make us the brightness bent through shade.
The thing, or rush of things, that makes
an opening, a way.

Petition

Right from the first line of this poem, I’m floating in the warmth and ease of summer, on summer’s dock. Here we have an appeal to the mind which spreads wide / among the hours, wide in the sun. The poet assures us that time loses its meaning, the eyes have never heard of clocks, a summer phenomenon so delicious to experience.

The body, as knees loose up, hands dither off, opens into a slower way of being, more liquid, pliable. Can you feel this too, even if you are not on an iconic summer lake dock? She takes us deeper to the minnows in the sand-sunk tire in their effortless dance below the surface which seems like love, and is it not?

To me, there is a dreamlike quality of both the tactile dock with the brightness of the sun, and the rush of things, that makes / an opening, a way. Summer, a time out of time, a time to be present in our bodies. Enjoy!