The selected letters of a poet The hurt has turned into a wound. Please, the woman says to the man, the village elder, stop hurting me. He pours salt into 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.
Debris from Apartheid The man turns into a valley I cannot establish or maintain. My mother does yoga. I stare at her poses drinking her in with my coffee. She...
What a terrible life I lead, she thought to herself. I live in a world where there is no one to come home to, no one to comfort me, to speak nothing of the...
Mangaliso Buzani’s poetry inspired this i I’m figuring out Sadness ii My fingers pull The tough skins off The frozen chicken pieces...
The future of seawater towards immortality, dust singing of sick birds. My sister was the former, and I, the latter. The night air clandestine and spiritual...
Winter studies of the African Renaissance at the diving board (for Virgil, the poet) You came upon me like a graceful neck. The deception of marked winter...
Now when I look at you, my son, I know that earth’s tomb will come for you, like it will come for all of us. Take me into the light. It has a quality that...
Who listens to smoke? Breath pumps through me. You’re a symbol. You’re good and kind folk. Perhaps you’re a Lutheran now or Methodist. There’s a story here. I...
The garden is an ice ruin. Stinking leaves curl at my feet. The ground feels saturated underfoot. Pleasure here is a disease. You taught me that. These are the...
Rebecca knew how to arrange her hair, how to please a man, how to make an entrance, how to win souls during happy hour at the hotel where she sang to make ends...
Risk is a mistake. There’s beautiful thinking in the red wildflowers of my sister’s hair. The ingredients for breakfast grow out of the kitchen table. We work...
I almost inherited the rain when it came Childhood is brief. It is making me grow smaller and smaller. I see the two of us in photographs. Posing, Laughing our...
