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Abigail George: A Girl who had a Yearning for Experience


When we were young we were beautiful.
She tells herself as
she makes coffee.
I’m away from you
only in a few places.
She was in a minority.
Found herself in the
shape of an angel. Before September
she stepped into the
spotlight. Pure writing
became her. Thank goodness
for rituals. Fragments.
Tea and breadcrumbs.
She found herself eating chicken
with the best of them.
Although she worshiped
being on her own.

There is always
a season of waiting.
When we cannot withstand
the pressure of
innermost depression.
And so she lights

Up the room. Even silence.
I wanted to remember
her the way the world
remembered her.
The landscape that inspired
her exit. She could
never be just dust.
Ashen. For all of my
life she was a bright
star. I would worship
her. Her world washed
away my sins. Did she
ever find peace, I
asked her reflection.

There was it again. The
lamentation found in age,
mountain and reality.



Today I find myself in a forest.
I walk in circles
always coming to the river’s edge.
Found the mountain.
Everything was cold.
The day was cold.
It felt to me as if the world
wash awash in snow.
With every footstep I took.
Branches slick. Wet.
I can see the segmentation
in the bare branches.

His name is a sacred contract.
Salt and light out.
The day’s mistress.
Cool propaganda.
The sky is on fire.
Flames licking the nape of my neck.
The sand is warm
at first under my feet.
Then wet where the
ocean has washed it clean.
Inside I feel raw, set free.

I love you. I loved you.
Then and now this is my song.
A stone boat on a shelf
exploding into view. Can you
hear my voice? My heart is open.
When I was a child I did
what I liked. My thoughts
were those of a child.
The blue skies are bright. Paradise.
The warm sun on my skin.
The light blinding. Exploding into view.
This is life. Once I loved you.

Now there is only the
exchange between
the exits of uninspired pain
and sorrow. Now there,
there is only paradise.

There it was. The metamorphosis
stuck halfway between
a prayer and a cocoon.
Telling her to let him be.
Telling her to let him go.

Poem: Abigail George
Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay (modified)

Abigail George
Abigail George
South African Abigail George is a blogger, essayist, short story writer, screenwriter, novelist, and poet. She briefly studied film in Johannesburg. She has two film projects in development and is the recipient of two grants from the National Arts Council, one from the Centre for the Book and another from ECPACC. Her publishers are Tendai Rinos Mwanaka (Zimbabwe, Mwanaka Media and Publishing or Mmap), Xavier Hennekinne (Australia/New Zealand, Gazebo Books), and Thanos Kalamidas (Finland, Ovi). Her literary representative is Morten Rand. She is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net nominated, and European Union Poetry Prize longlisted poet. Her poem “The Accident” was Identity Theory's Editor's Choice for Spring. Ink Sweat and Tears chose her poem “When light poured into me at the swimming pool” as a September Pick of the Month, and she recently made the shortlist of the Writing Ukraine Prize 2023. She is a poet/writer who believes in the transformative, restorative and healing powers of words. Her latest book is Letter To Petya Dubarova (Australia/New Zealand, Gazebo Books). Young Galaxies (a poetry book) was released in 2023 from Mmap and a memoir When Bad Mothers Happen is forthcoming. “Clarissa, Hector and Septimus Redefined” was recently published by Novelty Fiction in Kindle format.

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