Goethe, Rilke, Tolstoy, Woolf: Poems by Abigail George

Image: Pixabay.com

Image: Pixabay.com


Alanis Morissette playing inside
my head. UFO in her eyes. A drum
made out of her mannequin limbs.
There is a desert in angelic
Poetry. I never forget these truths.
I am here on earth for a little
while where we flirt with the
Temptations of the world. Everything
is useless if it is not conquered
by love in the end. Humanity is
the unseen. The world is not my
Home. I have left the radiance of
the sunset and stars of childhood
far behind me. In my dreams I
return to the swings. The park but now
it is all gold. On golden pond.
Gone are the passages. Goethe. Rilke.
Instead, what remains is the heart
of worship. Church. Hymns. Tithing.
Us, humanity desiring the same thing.
Long-term misery no longer making
Forward progress.



There was a near death
Experience in the family.
We are at the game reserve.
Amongst mountain lions.
Blank strangers came.
They came with disorder.
Writing disorder.
Once spooked swans in a dream
I found myself on their lake.
Drowning in fields of black water.
Our eyes are made of fire.
She is the baby of the family.
Competition started at the swings.
Their lungs must be a mansion
covering the sharp milk estate of
the ghetto moon’s craters.

All named after Jesuit priests.
To do lists unfolding.
I am online. Repair.
That is where you will find me.
The magic of celebrity.
Of fame on earth planting itself there
Like Sherlock Holmes.
I drink in the lines of her face.
In the corners of her eyes.
Her mouth. I have lost her for good now.
Every season from childhood.
My spiteful humanity.
My shadow. I cannot catch
up to her. To our shared lessons
from our educationalist father
In the old fashioned wild.



The English blood in the Khoi
Girl. The portrait of a young
Girl and handsome boy in
a giant sandpit. Both as hungry
as tigers, wolves, and lions.
My sister was my educationalist.
She refused to accept my myrrh.
My gold. Frankincense. My face of love.
The lines of her face shimmer with
glitter like the stars. Her genius is sexy.

Everyone, man, woman,
is in love with him.
She is a celestial being. Navigates
the world as an independent
Woman. She is a feminist.
A doer. A thinker. An intellectual.
She smells like a pineapple. Wood.
Who knows why we do what we do.
Once we used to dance
on the sea of grass of our
childhood. Once we were
puppets. Our doll mouths pulled open.

The world as humanity knows it
Miles away. Cracks showing in the system.
Coo. Coo. Cooing like babies.
Cooing like birds. Ostriches
With their heads in the sand.
This is a love song for a sister.
After all these years of feeling small
In her presence. It is Christmas
On the land. There is glitter
In her blood, on her skin, in her hair.
Life sails away from beyond
My reach at her kitchen table.



The divine strings of strategy.
Every year we had a new puppy.
Losing those animals does not matter
to me half as much as losing her.
A dense pain-body moved within me.
I imagined my parents
putting up house opposite
the hospital where I was born.
I imagine them moving furniture.
They guided my soul. She did too.
What she wants is a novel me.
What she wants is for me to grow up.
I am thirty-six and still left
out in the cold. Still living it “up” to her.
My rival’s expectations.
You will never find her in
an encyclopaedia. She will not
accept flowers. Tears for rain.
Rain for tears. Driftwood like the surgeon’s
Glove is temporary.


Poems: © Abigail George
Image: Pixabay.com


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