Abigail George: A Girl who had a Yearning for Experience

Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay (modified)


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)

About the author

Abigail George

Abigail George’s fiction was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film at Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg. She is the recipient of grants from the National Arts Council, Johannesburg, Centre for the Book in Cape Town, and ECPACC (Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council) in East London. She has been widely published from Australia, to Finland to Nigeria, and New Delhi, India to Istanbul, Turkey and Wales.
Her blog African Renaissance can be found online in Modern Diplomacy under Topics.
She contributed for a year to a symposium on Ovi Magazine: Finland’s English Online Magazine. She is a poet, fiction writer, feminist thinker, essayist, and a blogger at Goodreads.

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