Rebirth/ (The Other Me Who Sent a Man to War) I am the young woman in the photograph with mousy brown hair and spectacles. I am the owl found in the...
Author - 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.
The Mental Hospital Castle on a hill. Dust. Dust (dust). Doors that could be locked from (I could not get out, why?/locked in) the outside. Now I hold a baby...
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...
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...
