It seems the older we get, the faster time flies. Weren’t we kids playing in the school yard just yesterday? In the blink of an eye, we became adults.
It’s a common complaint: Where has the time gone?
Aging doesn’t create a rift in space-time, so fret not— it isn’t a scientific issue. It’s our perception of time. So why does this notion vex so many of us?
In the early 1960s, this phenomenon was studied in groups through the use of metaphors. Young people were more likely to select static metaphors to describe the passage of time (such as “time is a quiet, motionless ocean”). Older folks, on the other hand, described time with swift metaphors (“time is a speeding train”).
Yet, when it came to metaphors, folks between ages 20-59 were more likely to select statements referring to “time pressure, ” or the notion that time is speeding by and that one can’t finish all they want to do in the time allotted.
There’s also an old theory that many of us measure time by “firsts.” Youth is full of firsts (first day of school, first kiss, first vacation). As we age, time seems to speed up because adulthood is accompanied by fewer and fewer memorable events. The amount of time passed relative to one’s age also varies. For a 5-year-old, one year is 20% of their entire life. For a 50-year-old, however, one year is only 2% of their life. This “ratio theory, ” proposed by a psychologist in 1877, suggests that we are constantly comparing time intervals with the total amount of time we’ve already lived.
Interestingly, in a recent study, researchers found a weak association between age and the individuals’ perception of time; in other words, everybody, regardless of age, thought that time was passing quickly.
While the feeling may be inescapable, appease yourself by knowing that time is not literally getting faster as you age. Take a moment to slow down and enjoy spending time with loved ones. Time is on your side.
Try It
Write a poem about the passage of time. Write about your life, about sitting in the dentist’s chair, the speed at which your children/grandchildren grow, or waiting in line at the DMV. Whatever you decide, create a rhythm that reflects how fast or slow time passes.
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Glynn, celebrating the legendary funny lady, Lucille Ball:
Monday night: sitting in front
of the electronic box, enraptured
as any kid in front of any video game.
But not a game, an entertainment,
on those Monday nights when
a country knew itself, believed
itself, believed in itself, believed
the legend. And we laughed,
The genius was in the face,
the expressions, a raised eyebrow,
a focused frown, a slight tilt of the head
to indicate a feeling, a reaction,
an emotion, an entire story told
without a word uttered.
And grapes, this one was about grapes,
feet smashing them into juice and pulp,
the juice to be siphoned off into casks
and bottles. It didn’t matter how she
got herself into the vat, not really,
because she was there, in the moment,
and we stomped the black-red grapes
with her, and we laughed as she wrestled
and rolled in the grapes, drenched
in the juice, caked with the pulp, wearing
them like black-red diamonds.
Photo by John Linwood. 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
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Glynn says
Heather, thanks for featuring the grape stomp!
Donna says
I love that, Glynn… and when I get to the grapes part I laugh out loud remembering her face with that mouth wide open with that expression only she could make.
Heather Eure says
Thank you Glynn for such a fun poem!
Samuel Smith says
Congratulations, Glenn!
A terrific poem. In reading it, I really appreciated the conflict in the comedy of Lucy against your more serious nostalgia. There was something sober and thoughtful to be had behind the laughs.
Donna says
Sam, that’s it… I couldn’t quite put my finger on that… but there it is. .. the comedy of Lucy against your more serious nostalgia. 🙂 Well said. I felt that too.
Glynn says
Sam – thank you! You got exactly what I was aiming for!
Michael says
Time Relinquished
I’m blank and I just can’t
though I wish I could,
even when I try I can’t think;
sometimes it just happens
in a matter of a blink.
I know what I want to say
it’s at the tip of my tongue;
I can taste it though it’s faint,
they say it’s because I’m older now
but I did this even when I was young.
Oh how I wish I could
and I just might;
I need to get up
and I know I should
but it’s such a fight.
As the electronic rooster crows
it tells me what I already know;
it’s getting harder to tell
this reason for my struggle;
I’m too tired or either I can’t hear very well.
I need to, but I don’t have the strength;
extracurricular is harder than you think.
My arch enemy makes it harder each day
if I only could do what I say;
I changed my habits, but it’s not quite enough.
Take my vitamins and supplements
but this loosing weight is tough;
no matter what my regiment
time is an inevitable fate;
it’s catching up and will soon overtake.
I’m reminded time and time again
with each morning that I arise;
every glance of my reflection
the lines become more defined.
Realizing I’m further away from perfection
and farther away from the prize;
how in youth we were eagerly inclined
looking forward to another year in time
but as time passes and we get closer to our end;
we realize that time is no longer our friend.
Heather Eure says
Thank you for sharing your poem, Michael. Your words are a familiar sentiment. You’re in good company here. 🙂
Michael says
Heather thank you. I feel like that because of my fibromyalgia. I read the article it talked about time not in a literal way since time is constant, but metaphorically how people feel about time. I see how with the age differences the different perspectives of how they feel about time. But seeing other people’s poems here and people’s response as opposed to my poem and the responses here,I think I’m misunderstanding what L.L. Barkat is truly looking for.
L. L. Barkat says
🙂
Looking for… for?
(and we’re glad you’re writing with us, Michael)
Rick Maxson says
I especially was drawn back to the beginning of your poem, where you write:
“they say it’s because I’m older now
but I did this even when I was young.”
You capture the frustrations of the spirit and the flesh as we age, but also that some things don’t change from childhood. I’m reminded of Rilke’s poem “Childhood,” where he writes:
“Oh childhood, what was us going away,
going where? Where?
Andrew H says
I really liked this, in particular the last stanza. Time is, unfortunately, seldom kind.
Christina Hubbard says
Hi, Michael, I enjoyed your perspective. You captured the frustration of aging for sure.
Michael says
Thank you Christine; it’s like an invisible wall we all of a sudden hit. Accepting it initially is hard but we finally relinquish when we realize we just can’t do what we did when we were young; no matter what our minds tell us.
Glynn says
Time and its verbs http://faithfictionfriends.blogspot.com/2016/03/time-and-its-verbs.html
Time oozes with a slight squeeze,
a new tube of toothpaste
Time meanders, lazing in the sun,
a fat garter snake on a warm rock
Time screams, a hawk pouncing
on a field mouse, or a rabbit
Time trots, a muscled marathon runner
chugging her way to a finish line
Time ages, a collection of liver spots
on the back of an old man’s hand
Time hurtles, a roller coaster headed
downward into a dark tunnel
Time stains, a broken pen spilling
its blood on my hands
Time rises, and tans, and burns, a sun
in the noon sky, heating to afternoon
Time freezes, a pond kissing winter
as snow and ice begin to fall
Time stops, a casket closing
at the end of the funeral service
Time ends, as the sky gates open,
bursting into the radiance of no-time.
Samuel Smith says
Incredible, Glenn. I don’t believe I can describe it; no word seems out of place, every thought comments on another thought. It’s a series of sharp moments, be they lovely, cruel or final, strung together like beads. Beautiful!
Samuel Smith says
My days have anymore become a slip
From any quivering semblance of the grip
That held me to a limb above a field.
At once I am too cumbersome to wield,
And like a gathering pearl of dew
Protracting toward the ground below
Until the limb recedes,
I slowly gather speed.
I feel the wind —
I’m falling, and
I will
Until
I
Die.
Samuel Smith says
Oh, I’m sorry — I forgot the title!
It’s “Loosing Any Sense of Longevity.”
Bethany R. says
Samuel, I like your image “like a gathering pearl of dew.” And I enjoyed the structure of the poem too. I definitely get that sense of hanging on until that last second – and then the slip. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Samuel Smith says
Thank you, Bethany.
Heather Eure says
I really like this poem, Glynn. Lush words. Although it was hard to pick, this is my favorite line: “Time stains, a broken pen spilling/ its blood on my hands…”
Rick Maxson says
Glynn, this poem highlights time’s association to the world of things, even the sun and seasons. It is provocative to me ultimately in its ending “bursting into the radiance of no-time.” It leaves me with many questions as all good poems do.
Monica Sharman says
Normal Life calibrates the clock. You awake,
prepare strong coffee, check off to-dos, come home
to a dinner of leftovers, and whether thinned hours
whooshed in a storm of stress or minutes ambled,
Normal is the standard of the speed of time. But
a glitch, a tilt
of life over a pivot,
a fault line shocked
to magnitude
seven point nine
splitting a fissure through now
and an hour before,
cancels the calibration.
Quantities of measurement shaken,
the observer, moving or not, changes
frames of reference—stretching, blurring,
curving the line from yesterday to forever.
L. L. Barkat says
Monica, I find the form of this poem intriguing. The run-together feel of the opening, which then does actually pivot in both sound and visual effect right at the point of the “glitch…tilt…pivot.”
Also, I love that your math-science side is shining through after the pivot (and I also love the sounds associated with the changes of the second half of the poem. Almost machine-like. Until there is eventually a feeling of infinitude in the final sounds—three “ings” in a row).
Really nice 🙂
Bethany R. says
“splitting a fissure through now
and an hour before,
cancels the calibration.”
Love the smart way you cut the lines and stanzas in your piece, Monica. I could feel the effect of that split.
Heather Eure says
L.L. put it perfectly. This is an intriguing poem, Monica. Change as an earthquake. Well done.
Christina Hubbard says
Monica, I love the breaks in this poem. Really jilts the pace and shifts my attention. Love the visual of the blurred curve at the end. Very nice.
Rick Maxson says
Monica this is that moment before, during and after, when “time stands still” from some force on our lives. We have a poem coming up on EDP that you will like, called “The Phone Call.”
Monica Sharman says
Wow, thanks for all the insightful feedback. It’s definitely worth mentioning that this is only the second poem I wrote after reading Tania Runyan’s How to Write a Poem! Rick, I look forward to seeing “The Phone Call” in my inbox!
Heather Eure says
Love it!
Christina Hubbard says
Telling Time, Tough and Tender
I tried to teach you to tell time
With paper-handed clock bound with gold brads.
We turned those hands together, your small fingers under mine,
Frustrated and outstretched for a second.
Then clenched fist…
http://www.creativeandfree.com/time/
Bethany says
Christina, thank you for sharing this. I love the physical details here – the paper hands, the gold brads, and the “small fingers under mine” line.
Rick Maxson says
Glynn, it is the grape episode and the chocolate episode I remember best. It was a different time when willing suspension of belief was easier. You captured many things in your wonderful poem. And yes, it was the face and eyes that communicated. Her words were almost a mere commentary on her facial expressions. I saw very few shows of I Love Lucy, but the few I saw left an indelible laugh line on my face.
Thanks for sharing this.
Maureen says
A little silly something in honor of kids. . .
Time never flies
if little bro pouts
and you make mom shout
and you’re in time-out
alone in your room
sitting deep in gloom
hear the voice of doom
dad’s home for the day
he’s happy to say
but his knock no doubt
spells trouble about
so you’re quick to share
how you broke the chair
no, it’s not the spare
by the stair, you swear
Bethany R. says
That was fun, Maureen. 🙂 Thanks for sharing it here.
Heather Eure says
Your poem made me smile, Maureen.
Lynne Cole says
Maureen, this was fun to read. I’m often putting my kids in time out!
Lynne Cole says
I got a bit bored one night and thought I would time myself to try and write something in a minute. It’s quite good fun. Time seems to go really slowly at first, until you get towards the end and then it feels like it’s speeding up. Well, here is my poem in a minute believe it or not…
The Minute Poem
This is the minute poem,
A minute I will spend.
Not more than sixty seconds,
Or else I’ll go round the bend.
A minute lasts for ages.
Forever and a day.
Ok, I might be exaggerating,
But it does seem that way.
The minute’s nearly up now,
So I’d better end this rhyme.
I can’t write any more,
As I’ve just run out of time.
Andrew H says
Where oft the Dionysian sits
And sups his cup of wine
In maddened thought of older days –
When gods controlled the heavens
And all the careful, rule-led ways
Of man were charted as the stars,
Each in his own allotted time –
There fills a pool made of eternity.
Here the fair drinker sighs into his cup
And thinks that pool is nestled in his glass,
Never aware that as he dreams, he drains
Into the stillness of the water, drop by drop.
Andrew H says
You Must Grow Up
You sit, and think of little much of matter
For you are young. You have just started books,
A bit late but you do enjoy to read of Harry Potter
And all of his adventures. Life is such a journey,
But less friendly. There is not one Dark Lord,
But many. All of them will name you friend
And not betray you ’til the end. But you must beware
Of falseness, hidden though it is in frown and stare.
You must grow up, alas, and face the world.
The times to come will not be hard, not in the measure
Of true sorrow or of pain, but they will be a trial for you
If not to others. Soon, you will know what is death
And see the coffin walk the long black mile,
The people trailing through in double file.
They’ll weep, and shower on the dark-stained soil
But in the end they’ll talk and laugh, for they
Have walked that road a thousand times and know
You must grow up, alas, and face the world.
Then comfort comes upon you like a wave
And drags you down. You study for a time,
And live the life you wanted. But what end
Was there to reach for? Nothing but the endless dark,
The grasping of the years. But you are just a child,
And so you can not understand. That rests in front,
That wondering on why and where. Because of this,
I beg of you to pity those who whisper in your ear that
You must grow up, alas, and face the world.
Andrew H says
Ah….oops. Wrong week.
Andrew Sparkes says
E.T.A.
TIME
IS
MY
EDEN
The garden
In which
My dreams
Earn interest
Tell me
I’m
Making too big a deal of
Everything
That
I
Might have
Ended
This verse
In haste
Maybe but
Eh
That
Is the
Meaning behind my
Early departure
This
Is for
Me my
E.T.O.D.
TIME
IS
MY
EDEN
Rory Fry says
A piece I wrote about time…quite some time ago
“Hours and Ariels”
Time is such a bitter thing
Like an enemy one cannot resist
Undaunted advance
It capsizes the robust walls of awful stone
Inebriating all defenses
Helplessly we submit to the pendulums recoil
Though I’d scream my throat is limp and mute
My tongue a knot of string caught between the floorboards
The discords have been muffled
The riddles have been stumped
The protesters are all silenced by aging’s clammy hands
Cupped across the lips
This is our sure thing
To wither like everything imagined
All joins in one song
A rusted symphony
A thread worn waltz
Baffled lines of mirth devoured by times vast expanse
I say
Burn the clock
Turn them off
Awaken the dead
Stand upon the grave
Twist the numbered days
Shift the photographs
Shift the photographs
Break a smile through
Shift the photographs
Change the limited view
Shift the photographs
Stand another year
Shift the photographs
Photographs capture ever hour we have lost
Photographs remind us of decay
Pictures freeze the party’s outcome
Pictures resist the clammy hands of the grandfather clock
Photos plug the time’s oratory
Photos never rest
Pictures never fade
Time knows no bounds but we are bound by time
Plug the stopwatch
Shift the photographs
Pictures defy decay
Change our sure thing
I’ll camp out on a memory
And remain in the painting
To never die I’ll shift the photographs
Keep me in the past