Missing a thing of beauty - Poems by Abigail George
- By Abigail George
- Published October 14, 2009
- Poetry
-
Rating:
Abigail George
I have had poetry published in poetry magazines in South Africa. Upbeat, Tribute, Sun Belly Press, New Contrast, Echoes Literary Journal and Carapace have published my work. I have had work published in the following ezines: Too Write, The Beat, three short stories in The Cerebral Catalyst and BeWrite.net. Poems in Tamafyhr Mountain Press, Identity Theory and recently a short story and poems in Indite Circle. I've had some of my poetry published on Unlikely 2.0 in January 2006.
In 2005 I was awarded a grant from the National Arts Council in Johannesburg for a poetry anthology entitled Africa, where art thou? I am not purely devoted to poetry but to pursuing writing fulltime. Storytelling for me has always been a phenomenal way of communicating and making a connection with other people.
Closed spaces
This is life -
There are no children on the playground
Only empty bullets and gang warfare.
- (c) By Abigail George
I am an African
I am an African
A jewel in the dust
Oceans apart from
The east and the west.
I am a nomad and a traveller
Of the world –
A writer, a poet
My soul never at rest.
We all have God-shaped space within
It is a heavenly place; like all the mountains
And the lakes, the blessings and the blessed,
The herdsman and his ox, rituals and the
Rites of passage of calling up the ancestors -
This is Africa, my Africa -
My refuge, my healing and my joy.
- (c) By Abigail George
From memory in my childhood shoes
Erase the habitat
The missing threads
Piece by piece
Willing my memories
As distant as the sun
Out of time.
Erase reminiscences
In desperation
For a revolution
The imprint of the origin
Burned on my brain,
Of missing the war.
Erase cold and easy habits
The detailed text
Striking, stirring, uncompromising –
That gripped the house before
The raised voices
Of mother and father.
That sickening feeling
The smell is cold in my room
The challenge of escape is demanding and aloof,
Forgetting lies in survival
Under the blankets
The noise of the radio.
- (c) By Abigail George
The Sudan
The Sudan is a hell I can no longer bear alone
Here humanity has no colour
It cannot deceive or lie only penetrate
The heart of a nation
It is only simply a demonstration
Of an invisible people
That will leave you weak
At the knees; like something beautiful,
Or dust clouds or the decay of rubbish in the streets.
The light, energy from the sun
Is all consuming and criminal today
What will finally give meaning
To the children’s lives?
The disabled steal hope,
Happiness and loveliness away.
Their feet are no longer on the ground
As are mine because of the pain
That did succeed in hanging me.
- (c) By Abigail George
In the age of machines
Do you still have the will to fight?
Do not ordain war.
Although it shows the shape of life
It lacks knowledge of the future
That is why our hearts and our minds
Must remain pure.
- (c) By Abigail George
Stillborn or Childhood or Missing a thing of beauty
When I was born coloured in African time
When the world was filled with wild and lonely souls
The soles of my feet pink, my eyes brown
The world was still, silent, hushed as I cried
And kicked my tiny feet up into the air;
All was not lost, inspired by my first love
Like an electric doll I cooed when pressed.
I dreamed she left and I screamed.
Behind these eyes full of sky are new
Melodies – listen. Are you listening?
I stick out like a blister – the surface like fire.
Darkness was trapped inside my mouth
Lost in the meantime in a world full of reaching
Like the elementary particles of nature
Behind these eyes, angel eyes, a strangling cry –
Darkness invisible – the air is clean.
The wrinkle on my forehead vanishes
My mother was more superior to me
I found pure fury dangerous – I was reduced
To flesh, bone, flushed skin, radiant glow
My birth was like a drowning – a twist of fate
Like poison, chocolate, morphine – bittersweet
Animals lick their young
But stripped of that substitute; of touch, we die.
In the beginning powered by a cold heart,
Cold air, cold hands smelt like revenge.
The light is shrinking magnificently
It is almost angelic – like a vampire
It has a will of its own.
As endings go this is the perfect circumstance:
The doctor is a black spot –
Stay but you are already fading away.
- (c) By Abigail George
This is life -
There are no children on the playground
Only empty bullets and gang warfare.
- (c) By Abigail George
I am an African
I am an African
A jewel in the dust
Oceans apart from
The east and the west.
I am a nomad and a traveller
Of the world –
A writer, a poet
My soul never at rest.
We all have God-shaped space within
It is a heavenly place; like all the mountains
And the lakes, the blessings and the blessed,
The herdsman and his ox, rituals and the
Rites of passage of calling up the ancestors -
This is Africa, my Africa -
My refuge, my healing and my joy.
- (c) By Abigail George
From memory in my childhood shoes
Erase the habitat
The missing threads
Piece by piece
Willing my memories
As distant as the sun
Out of time.
Erase reminiscences
In desperation
For a revolution
The imprint of the origin
Burned on my brain,
Of missing the war.
Erase cold and easy habits
The detailed text
Striking, stirring, uncompromising –
That gripped the house before
The raised voices
Of mother and father.
That sickening feeling
The smell is cold in my room
The challenge of escape is demanding and aloof,
Forgetting lies in survival
Under the blankets
The noise of the radio.
- (c) By Abigail George
The Sudan
The Sudan is a hell I can no longer bear alone
Here humanity has no colour
It cannot deceive or lie only penetrate
The heart of a nation
It is only simply a demonstration
Of an invisible people
That will leave you weak
At the knees; like something beautiful,
Or dust clouds or the decay of rubbish in the streets.
The light, energy from the sun
Is all consuming and criminal today
What will finally give meaning
To the children’s lives?
The disabled steal hope,
Happiness and loveliness away.
Their feet are no longer on the ground
As are mine because of the pain
That did succeed in hanging me.
- (c) By Abigail George
In the age of machines
Do you still have the will to fight?
Do not ordain war.
Although it shows the shape of life
It lacks knowledge of the future
That is why our hearts and our minds
Must remain pure.
- (c) By Abigail George
Stillborn or Childhood or Missing a thing of beauty
When I was born coloured in African time
When the world was filled with wild and lonely souls
The soles of my feet pink, my eyes brown
The world was still, silent, hushed as I cried
And kicked my tiny feet up into the air;
All was not lost, inspired by my first love
Like an electric doll I cooed when pressed.
I dreamed she left and I screamed.
Behind these eyes full of sky are new
Melodies – listen. Are you listening?
I stick out like a blister – the surface like fire.
Darkness was trapped inside my mouth
Lost in the meantime in a world full of reaching
Like the elementary particles of nature
Behind these eyes, angel eyes, a strangling cry –
Darkness invisible – the air is clean.
The wrinkle on my forehead vanishes
My mother was more superior to me
I found pure fury dangerous – I was reduced
To flesh, bone, flushed skin, radiant glow
My birth was like a drowning – a twist of fate
Like poison, chocolate, morphine – bittersweet
Animals lick their young
But stripped of that substitute; of touch, we die.
In the beginning powered by a cold heart,
Cold air, cold hands smelt like revenge.
The light is shrinking magnificently
It is almost angelic – like a vampire
It has a will of its own.
As endings go this is the perfect circumstance:
The doctor is a black spot –
Stay but you are already fading away.
- (c) By Abigail George