Although it hasn’t yet been achieved, time travel has struck the imagination ever since H.G. Well’s described his first Morlock. Writers have found different ways to re-imagine time travel, each time making it new and interesting for the reader. Since no one has invented a time machine (yet), it can be whatever the writer wants. Isn’t that the best thing about it? Limitless possibilities.
Part of the lure of time travel is the appeal of experiencing other times and places. But it also offers the chance for a cosmic do-over. We’re also fascinated with the past as it’s one place we can’t go in time. People like to talk about the past because the future is always coming, but the past is never coming back.
Try It
Where would you go if you have a time machine? Would you travel to exotic locations or keep it local? Write a poem about the places you would go and the people you would see.
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Rick we enjoyed:
Life is not long.
The trace of down that remains
in the bulk of you will fail, and the curl
will coarsen, the curl will drown you,
and you will lose your footprints
in the moist sand of nostalgia.
This ocean is a memory that has stolen
everything and steals it now.
So walk.
There is only salty water behind you;
love may not come from what you love;
you cannot always choose
the doorway that opens your life.
—by Rick Maxson
Photo by ryuu ji. Creative Commons via Flickr.
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How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.
“How to Write a Poem is a classroom must-have.”
—Callie Feyen, English Teacher, Maryland
Heather Eure
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Andrew H says
II liked your poem Rick, so now I can’t help but wonder if it subconsciously motivated my use of the word “curls.” I particularly liked the mention of nostalgia, and how we lose our footprints in it. Very astute observation.
The softened gasps of muted metal curls
The edge of reason. Standing on the edge
Of life. Looking into the void, its swirls
Become your life. Where will I go?
Shall I once more walk nigh the hedge
That trails with golden heads of daffodils?
Will I stand silent in the shade, and watch
Myself in play before the pond with grim
Remembrance and a casual, saddened smile?
For some, perhaps, there lies the path. Others
Would fly to France and meet the musketeers,
Would walk the street of time with drunken gait
And stop at any place. They know little of tears,
Where I know much. And so I stand with but
One wish. I would walk back in time for but
One thing. A gentle hand I can remember
On my brow. A smile when others frowned, and
Over all the memory of being home.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks, Andrew!
I liked your poem, particularly the last few sentences.
Donna says
Oh, this pulls at my heart…. your one wish. Beautiful words, Andrew. Very meaningful. Thank you for sharing your work here. 🙂
Bethany R. says
Touching ending, Andrew. Makes me miss being with my kids (even though they’re just at school).
Heather Eure says
A lovely poem, Andrew.
Glynn says
Time machine
It’s simple, really:
open the door of the booth,
sit, strap myself in,
set the dial to whatever
year I wish, and travel,
backward or forward,
or backward and forward,
a real Dr. Who,
or a Dr. Whatever.
I consider.
For now,
the only time machine
I have going backward
is memory;
the only time machine
I have going forward
is hope.
It’s likely, I think,
that my memory surpasses
reality, a rose-colored
filter simultaneously
enhancing and obscuring.
And do I replace hope
with reality or its shadow,
like Scrooge who saw
the reality and choose
hope.
I consider the door
once again, the temptation
of the tree, and before
I walk away I padlock it
with a lock I cannot open.
Memory and hope will suffice.
Donna says
Ah…. wonderful. Memory and hope will suffice. 🙂 Terrific, Glynn! Thank you!
Rick Maxson says
Glynn, yes! Our only certain time machine is in our head and heart. Maybe we were never meant to use one without the other. Wonderful poem and hopeful.
Heather Eure says
Such wonderful and wise thoughts, Glynn.
Monica Sharman says
I like this part:
“a rose-colored
filter simultaneously
enhancing and obscuring.”
Samuel Smith says
Beautiful, Glenn. I was interested by your use of the two cultural references from fiction: Scrooge, an icon of the past, and the famously futuristic Dr. Who. To me, they seem to embody the twin focuses of your poem.
Donna says
Rick…
“you cannot always choose
the doorway that opens your life.”
Wow…. that is a wonderful ending, so insightful and true.
I’m not sure if, in your words, I am feeling a sad slipping away or a peaceful surrender to this groundless thing we call time. I suspect my feelings would shift with each reading. Beautiful poem. Thank you.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks for reading and commenting, Donna. Memory is not always truthful and time does eventually make off with a lot of it. This was my attempt to keep on keeping on. To use Glynn’s poem, I think all we can do in life to live is walk forward into the unknown (in spite of best plans the future is full of surprises) with hope.
Donna says
Lots of both… surprises and hope. 🙂
Samuel Smith says
I pace through groves of pears, their flowers
turned to carbon paper by cold —
falling leaf-like —
which yesterday were Easter-white
five-pedaled
parasols, and I ask what kind
of time machine lets God rewind
three weeks of bloom, but not
a
single
acrid
word
of mine.
Samuel Smith says
The title is Rewind.
Donna says
This is striking, Samuel, both in its imagery and it’s question. Thank you for sharing it here.
Bethany R. says
Mmm… I hear that.
Thank you for this, Samuel. Love the parasols turning to paper – nice overlap reference there to “words,” and a vivid image.
Monica Sharman says
Shutter clicks.
Wavelengths
bend and trace a path
through lenses, print
an image onto
silver-halide grains
exposed.
In the dark,
chemistry develops.
Frame of childhood
is recorded. Faded now,
but still, like a time
machine,
it takes me
back.
Donna says
Monica, I love this image of the photo as time machine. Very cool. Beautiful.
Bethany R. says
Beautiful poem, Monica. I like how tight it is. Concentrated, meaningful.
Donna says
Inhale.
Hold.
The time machine Idles
While I absorb it
All.
Bethany R. says
If I could answer the speaker in your poem,
“Yes, hold a moment, before you go.”
Rory Fry says
A time machine experience of my own…
I wrote this song during my first round of sobriety. Now that I have been sober a second time and much longer I like to look back to where I was and see where I am now. This is almost ten years old…
“Blistered Dreams”
I miss my friends and the times we spent in our blistered dreams
Like no one could stop us then
We were young and boldly spun with pockets full of luck
Who’d have known those days were trip wires in our paths
Roll on long
You still own my every thought
I cannot forget those days in our blistered dreams
Now where’d you go?
Is the wicked wind still bitter cold?
Could you sleep last night?
Or were you awaken by her awful blow?
The damage in our hearts fed the hues of despair
Still we never looked to the sky for relief
Were we misled when we sold our essence to the dead?
Innocence was a bliss we never thought we?d miss
So long now
I’ll cherish your broken lives
I cannot forget the days in our blistered dreams
Does the razor breeze cause your blank eyelids to bleed?
Between the shallows and hail
Are your dimensions weak?
Though the wind may mistreat you
I?ll keep you in my prayers
Life was more than drugs and one night stands
There was more outside our poor perceptions
An answer to the call
A face to finally see
A cure to calm the breeze
And raise our blistered dreams
A hand to break the fall
And seal the palm that bleeds
A cure to calm the breeze
And raise our blistered dreams
Stand up tall
I’ll see you on the other side
I cannot forget the days in our blistered dreams
Rory Fry says
I think you were adressing me? I haven’t used this aite much so I’m just guessing (and hoping) you did.
I appreciate the feedback. This piece was very close to me at one time. I almost released it in my first published collection of poems/prayers but it didn’t make the final cut
This piece is dedicated to all the kids I grew up with. It is dedicated to all the people in my home town. It ia dedicated to all the addicts still stuck in the cycle.
Thank tou again!