While the whole world is on pause, let’s take this time as an opportunity to try and travel back to the days before instant messaging. The lost art of sending postcards is worth trying as a form of showing affection to your loved ones. With the expansion of technology and social media, communicating seems so easy, making the effort of writing letters and postcards seem so valuable and personal.
Here we have curated beautiful poems with the theme of postcards.
Postcards Margaret Atwood
I’m thinking about you. What else can I say? The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes & their tracks; birds & elusive.
Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it’s called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates of queasy chicks. Each spring
there’s race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Outside the window
they’re building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone’s
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you can’t be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you’re a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there’s the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on & on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.
A PostCard LANG LEAV To the man I Love, to my future.
The first time I felt your presence , I began joining the dots in the sky, wondering when our stars would align.
I often think of where you are and if you’re happy. Are you in Love ? I hope she is gentle. I know you and I are the same in that way – we bruise a little more easily than most. You see, our souls were made in the same breath.
I know I’m running late – I’m sorry. Things haven’t worked out the way I planned. But believe me when I tell you I am on my way.
Until then, think of me , dream of me and I will do the same.
One day I will learn your name , and I will write it somewhere on this Page. And we will realize that we have known each other all along.
Postcards E. Ethelbert Miller
When was the last time you mailed a postcard?
My mother kept the ones I sent her. My sister mailed them back to me after my mother died. I had forgotten I had written
so many small notes to my mother. The price of stamps
kept changing. I was always mentioning on the back of cards
I was having a good time. I can remember the first time
I lied to my mother. It was something small maybe the size
of a postcard. I went somewhere I was not supposed to go.
I told my mother I was at the library but I was with Judy
that afternoon. Her small hand inside my hand.
I was beginning to feel something I knew I would never write home about