[786] Postcard

I'm thinking of 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, mosquitos
& their tracks; birds, blue & elusive.

Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, its 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 a 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 and pounding, a kicked ear.

 	-- Margaret Atwood

A vivid poem that takes the cheery, cliched, 'wish you were here' image of a
postcard and turns it inside out. One of the things that makes Atwood's work
a pleasure to read is her keen eye for detail, a trait very much in evidence
in 'Postcard'. The appeal to several senses (sight, smell, hearing) gives
the scene a visceral edge that contrasts with the static image of the Other
- and highlights the point that the glossy image on the postcard is, to the
sender, far more real than the person on the other side.

The whole poem is threaded through with images of decay and sickness, an
unsettling harmony that ties the "I'm thinking of you" in the beginning to
the "Love comes in waves ... a sickness which goes on/ & on ..." in the last
four lines. And though I'm not usually too fond of free verse, it works
well here, the uneven rhythms of the verse carrying the poem along at
precisely the right pace.

What I like most about Atwood, though, is her brilliant use of language.
This, combined with the aforementioned eye for detail, shows up most
strongly in her prose ('Good Bones' is one of the best collections of short
pieces I've read), but it is very much in evidence in today's poem, with
phrases like

    A universe that includes you
    can't be all that bad, but
    does it?

and "time comes in waves here, a sickness, one day after the other rolling
on" (I know the feeling <g>).

Biography:

http://www.web.net/owtoad/biog.html

And a quote from Atwood on her two unauthorized biographies:

  I don't think biographies of living people should be written. I am not
  dead yet. Oddly enough, you can't stop anyone from writing a biography of
  you."

Links:

  http://www.web.net/owtoad/toc.html is an excellent resource for all things
  Atwood. Don't miss "On writing poetry (recent lecture)"

  http://www.pc-works.net/nascitur/atwood.html is another nice Atwood page

  Atwood's novel "The Blind Assassin" won the 2000 Booker:
    http://publishing.about.com/arts/publishing/library/weekly/aa110700a.htm

m.

From: AUSTINJRE@

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