[Susan McLean]

The Nick of Time

Time, to a child, moves smoothly, even slowly,
till, like her first encounter with a razor,
it opens a small gash that leaves a scar.
The blood is startling, but it doesn't faze her.
She sees how stable things around her are.
When people leave, she knows they're never wholly
gone; eventually, they reappear.

And then they don't. Her father's mother dies.
Next, her father's father. There's a blade
shearing away the people she holds dear.
And where they lived goes, also. She's dismayed
as huge swaths of her past are razed. She tries
to pack them into her mind like nested dolls.

Years pass, and flashing scythes fill her with dread:
neighbors, friends, relations, all laid low
at random, with a coolness that appalls.
But other blades are moving that don't show:
an unseen presence glides inside her head,
cutting connections, putting things to bed.

[Yves S L]

Hello Susan,

I really don't think all this dark psycho-drama territory displays your skills in the best light.

To be more specific to the poem in front of me, I feel that you are spinning this conceit out for far too long, which highlights a significant problem to me: the transitions within the conceit feel forced.

Going from razor blades to time scythe to the cutting of emotional connections/memories all feels a bit arbitrary.

I don't think you even need the concept of a cutting edge to go from childhood memories, to losses while growing up, to the resultant emotional damage that adults face after losses.

Yeah, it is all very familiar poetic territory, but you could probably make it work, without making so explicitly a "look at this conceit " poem.

Yeah!

[Max Goodman]

I don't understand the first stanza. People reappear, so the gash, the scar, the blood don't relate to death. The blood makes me think of menstruation, the start of which is a sudden change brought by time, but that's got to be a misreading.

FWIW.

coming back to add: I like the title, a new meaning for a familiar phrase.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Susan—

Several things occurred to me as I read this piece.

First, I agree with Max that the first stanza seems rather detached from the main thrust of the poem: the erosive effects of time on our loved ones and memories.

Second, I wondered if the piece is well-served by the third person narration. It gives it a somewhat impersonal, “textbook” quality. Perhaps you could condense the first stanza into an opening line and continue with S2:

Grownups come and go and come again,
and then they don’t. My father’s mother died.
Next, my father’s father. There’s a blade . . .

Third, I wondered where the N, unless she was a frequent visitor of agricultural museums, might encounter the “flashing scythes” that “fill her with dread.”

Fourth, the last three lines are a bit unexpected, veering into a discussion of dementia. You hint at this in the reference to “nested dolls,” which represent saved memories of loved ones. (I enjoyed this touch.) I wonder if this could be developed a bit more so that the last three lines don’t seem like a P.S.

Lots to like here. The title is clever and the central metaphor of time as a blade is nicely handled.

Hope this is helpful—

Glenn

[Hilary Biehl]

I love it, and it makes perfect sense to me. The movement from razor blade (potentially dangerous, but a common household object that is usually pretty safe when used for mundane purposes) to knives/shears to scythes mirrors the movement from occasional minor childhood losses to an accelerating pattern of loss that is absolutely devastating. Finally, we have the unseen blade inside her head, which might be the emotional and psychological fallout of all that loss, or perhaps the interior losses of dementia as Glenn suggested (not sure, but it works for me either way). I think the whole thing is wonderful.

[Joe Crocker]

Like Hilary, I had no difficulty following the plot. It worked well for me.

One nit. The metre in the last line of S2 felt slightly off to me. I think it would read better if you had "in" rather than "into"

to pack them in her mind like nested dolls.

I especially liked the "putting things to bed" in the last line.

[Roger Slater]

What Hilary said.

[Susan McLean]

Thanks for the responses. I am glad to see that the poem is working for some, if not for others. It started by my noticing that the phrase "the nick of time" could have a more sinister meaning than it usually is given. I was focusing on the damage and losses that time invariably inflicts. The word "nick" invoked for me my first encounter with a razor, when I was around five and exploring a medicine cabinet. The resulting gash and scar made me a bit more cautious later on with things I knew nothing about. But I did not suddenly become fearful, because my world did not feel threatening at the time. Once I started to lose people I cared about, I understood the real damage that time could do. In the last stanza I was evoking also the internal losses of control and memory caused by aging.

Yves, the conceit was part of my development of the idea. I was trying to move from the literal razor to metaphorical blades (the shears of the Fates, the scythe of Time). It works or it doesn't for any individual reader.

Max, the gash was startling but not terrifying. No serious damage was done. I like taking a clichéd phrase and giving it a new twist.

Glenn, as I said to Yves, the scythe is metaphorical. I think I chose third-person narration, even though it was based on personal experience, because what I am describing applies to anyone, not just to me. I wasn't necessarily implying dementia in the last line so much as general forgetfulness, loss of senses, etc., that are normal parts of aging.

Hilary, I am glad you could follow the narrative.

Joe, I am glad that you could also follow it. I was torn about "in" or "into" in S2L6. I used "into" because the memories are moving from outside into her head, but I did originally have "in" because it sounded better with the meter.

Roger, I'm glad it worked for you.

Susan

[Stephen Hampton]

I'm gonna have to read it again, maybe when I'm a little bit more clean and sober? I do like it.
Best,
Stephen,

[Max Goodman]

Originally Posted by Susan McLean

Max, the gash was startling but not terrifying. No serious damage was done.

That's not hard to understand, and apparently others understand the whole thing, but as it seems I haven't been clear about what I fail to understand:

The poem, as I read it, tells me that "Time... , like ... a razor, ... opens a small gash that leaves a scar." (The "it" in L3 is time, I think; at least it is easy to make that assumption.) The poem goes on to describe things (people) that time cuts away later, reinforcing my misunderstanding that the gash, scar, and blood of the first stanza result from Time's cuts.

FWIW.